Okay, he’s not stupid. Sure, I’ve got natural talent, but Rinne’s made me better. And we’re continuing to work on that dumb habit I have of overcommitting to the right.
But Beckett-fucking-Harper’s a damn brick wall. He barely glances my way. It's like I'm invisible, just another cog in the machine.
And it's starting to piss me off.
I mean, come on. I'm Viktor Novotny. Goalies like me don't grow on trees. I'm a once-in-a-generation talent, a force to be reckoned with. Would it kill him to throw a little attention my way? A nod of approval? A ‘Nice save, Novotny’?
Hell, I'd settle for a grunt of acknowledgement at this point.
But no. He's too busy focusing on the other players, especially the rookies.
What do I have to do to get his attention? Strip naked and do a fucking dance at center ice?
Actually . . .
“Novotny!” Coach Nieminen's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. “Pay attention. We've got a big match coming up and I need you sharp.”
I toss the puck I’m holding, then kick it like it's a soccer ball. Since when have I become easy to ignore?
As the scrimmage continues, I put in all my effort as if it was a real game, showcasing my work ethic. Maybe that will get my new assistant coach’s attention. I continue defending my crease,each save more impressive than the last, each one a silent plea for Beckett to just fucking notice me.
But he’s focusing on the rookie who’s taken over Alexei’s spot, his mouth moving as he gives him pointers and advice.
I bang my stick against the ice and snarl.
Eventually, practice ends, and by the time we hit the showers, my mood has me feeling like a wilted lettuce leaf in a forgotten corner of the fridge, slowly turning into a slimy, unappetizing blob of sadness and despair.
“What the fuck are you moping about again. Seriously, you’re making me want to call Eli.” Jackson eyes me as I drop onto the bench after my shower.
Already in my boxers—always put them on in the shower so no one sees the scars all over my ass— I sulk my way through getting dressed, only half-listening to the locker room chatter around me.
Zach pulls his sweatshirt on, then quirks a brow at me. “Take it your latest obsession is still ignoring you.”
I shoot him the finger. “He’s just playing hard to get. He’ll fall in love with me sooner or later.”
Connor eyes me, brow quirked. “Ever consider you’re barking up the wrong tree? You know . . . that he might be straight.”
Jackson snickers and I roll my eyes. “Not sure what he is, but the whole interaction at the harbor did confirm one thing—he’s attracted to me. And that’s all that matters.”
He bumps me with his shoulder. “We still on for that movie with Eli later?”
“You would know if you belonged to our group chat. Can’t believe you assholes are vers.”
He whacks me in the chest. “Told you to just add us both.”
I palm his face and push him away. “Not how it works. Only one person per couple, and neither of you want to choose. Bunch of losers.”
Jackson groans and turns to finish getting dressed as the locker room empties out, leaving just the two of us because he's taking his sweet time, as usual, fiddling with his hair in the mirror like he's about to walk a fucking runway instead of return to our dorm room.
Just as I’m about to tell him to hurry the fuck up, Beckett walks by. Jackson stiffens, his hand frozen mid-primp, and I instinctively walk to him, placing myself between him and Beckett.
I know my friend’s still fucked up over what happened last year, no matter how much he tries to play it off. That piece of shit did a number on him, and it kills me that I wasn't there to stop it.
Never again, though.
Not when I've got eyes on him 24/7. And by “eyes,” I mean, the tracker I implanted between his neck and shoulder. He’s been impossible to tag. But then the fucker asked me to come by one day to freeze a bunch of paintballs—God knows why—and he eventually passed out from pain meds.
It's just . . . a precaution. The safety of those I care about is an obsession of mine, one that can’t be helped, especially not after what happened with my twin sister.
