I’ve been picking at my cuticles for the past hour then chastising myself for doing so. But I’m back at it now, thanks to the penalty he just took. It was so unlike him I actually flinched. Emmitt doesn’t lose his cool. Ever.
He’s the steady one, the captain who keeps everyone grounded when the pressure gets intense. The pass he missed to Petrov earlier? He could make that blindfolded. The breakaway he botched in the first period? That’s the kind of shot he buries ninety percent of the time.
But that check just now? That was pure frustration boiling over.
The camera catches him in the penalty box, slamming his stick against the boards, and my chest feels as if it’s filled with shards of glass. Through the TV speakers, the crowd’s angry roar fills Whitney’s living room. The announcer’s voice cuts through it. “Another uncharacteristic mistake from Buckley tonight. The Freeze captain seems completely off his game.”
You can say that again. And chances are good it’s my fault. Well, notallmy fault, since it took two to tango last night. But my radio silence is affecting his game. His focus. Everything he’s worked for.
“Jesus,” I mutter, setting down my mug. The chamomile tea has gone cold anyway. The cup joins the others abandoned on the coffee table, evidence of the hours I’ve hidden here like a fugitive.
My phone sits silently beside me, face down. There have been twenty-four missed calls and texts from Emmitt since this afternoon. Each notification made my stomach drop further, but I couldn’t risk responding. Not when Linda made it clear I’d be better off lying low, until she determines if there’s any chance of finding another way.
If there even is another way.
The announcer continues his play-by-play. “Derek Burke is having to cover more ice tonight to compensate for his captain’s struggles. You can see the frustration on the bench…”
I grab my phone, and click through to my message thread with Emmitt. The texts today started with desperate concern andended in frustration that I wasn’t responding. The last thing I sent him was when I textedThank youwith a red heart after he sent me that book and hot sauce. The emoji stares up at me now like evidence of my professional downfall.
I scroll up through our messages, all the way toWho’s this Emmitt asshole? Send me his address and I’ll handle the rest.How in the world did we gow from that playful protection to this nightmare in a matter of days? I couldn’t tell you, but we did. So here I am.
The game ends with Emmitt benched in the final minute. Benched. The franchise player who led them to the Stanley Cup semi-finals last year, sitting on the bench during crunch time because he couldn’t keep it together.
I turn off the TV and bury my face in my hands, trying not to think about how he’s feeling right now. How all of this—thanks to my wrong number voice memos—is turning his world upside down right before playoffs.
I must have dozed off because the sound of Whitney’s key in the lock wakes me with a start, my neck stiff from sleeping curled against the arm of her couch.
“Okay,” Whitney says, dropping her bag and keys on the counter and kicking off her shoes as she eyes the collection of mugs then plops next to me. “Spill. Everything. Now.”
She’s still in her team polo, hair falling out of what was a neat bun when I saw her earlier, and there’s exhaustion written all over her face. Of course, there is. She just spent hours dealing with post-game recovery for a team that’s probably buzzing with speculation about their captain’s meltdown.
“How bad was it after the game?” I ask instead of answering her question, my voice hoarse.
Her head dips from side to side as she considers the question. “Worse than when Conner shot the puck into our own netagainst Vegas last month. Not as bad as when Burke went ballistic on that defender from Seattle.”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “because everyone expects that from Derek. It’s nothing new.”
“Coach pulled Emmitt aside after the game. I saw them heading down the hallway to his office, and let me tell you, it didn’t look good.”
Shit.
She pauses, her face scrunching. “But that’s not even the worst part. When I was wrapping Connor tonight, he asked me if I knew why you left early today.”
“Really?”
“And Petrov mentioned you seemed ‘off’ when you talked to him this morning about hydration—”
“I saw him right after I came out of Linda’s office. I told him to down at least twenty ounces of electrolytes.”
She shakes her head, dismissing the details of my recommendation. “Derek flat out asked me where you were.”
My stomach plummets. “What did you tell him?”
“That you had a family thing come up, which of course he didn’t buy.”
I suck in a shaky breath, guilt washing over me for dragging my best friend into this mess. Whitney doesn’t deserve to be put in the position of covering for my poor judgment. “They didn’t?”
“Of course not. You’re never MIA. Then with Emmitt’s disaster of a performance tonight… Let’s just say, there’s speculation the events aren’t exactly a coincidence.”
