Matt: You escaped just in time. Burns and Costy just started karaoke.
Oh God, ha-ha. Send me videos, please.
Matt: For sure. I might send them to Charlotte too.
Charlotte Larinski is the wife of my defense partner, Reed Larinski, and she’s the marketing director for our team. He knows sending them straight to her will get them blasted all over our socials. As long as they’re semi-behaving themselves.
Dirtyyyy.
Matt: You know damn well they’d do it to us.
Yeah, fair, but we would kick their asses. They’re too nice now that they’re all loved up and happy.
He doesn’t answer for a few minutes, and I wonder if he got dragged up on stage for the next number, or maybe he found someone to distract him. Matt puts on a front that he doesn’t want anything serious, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The only problem is, he also doesn’t want anything fleeting, so instead, a lot like me, he isolates himself.
Matt and I are the only two singles left in our tight-knit friend group, which consists of Alec Kostelecky, Cam Costello, Reed Larinski, Brett Burns, Matt MacArthur, and me.
I might not have room in my life for someone else. But that’s never seemed to stop me from swiping on dating apps. It’s become more of a form of entertainment than reality, mostly because I never swipe right. I may use the apps for fun, but I’m not a complete dick who wants to fuck with anyone’s emotions.
After a little perusing of single ladies, I close the app and sigh, dragging my hand down my face before opening Instagram and scrolling through the feed.
I watch a video of a nasty shootout goal, made by a player on the San Jose Badgers against the Seattle Sharks. He psychs the goalie out before pulling the puck back between his legs and shooting it over the goalie’s shoulder into the net. I watch it again before scrolling on, and my stomach sinks through the floor as a picture crosses my screen.
Lainey and Cole are arm in arm, posing for some team charity event. He’s dressed in a plain tux, and she’s in a shimmering blue gown that looks like it was made to be worn by her. Her smile is stretched across her face, her eyes tipped up at the corners, but I don’t miss the heaviness in her gaze, one I’ve been seeing increasingly as of late in her photos. But I know that reaching out and checking in with her would probably only fuel the fire between us.
Lainey, Luca, and I remained best friends after he and I left for the AHL and even after Lainey left for college. We stayed intouch as much as possible, not letting the distance between us get in the way. But when she started dating that rat Cole Wilder, our FaceTimes and constant messaging fell off, more and more as time went on. She chalked it up to being too busy, but I know the truth—that boyfriend of hers didn’t like us being so close.
Cole Wilder, the biggest joke I’ve ever known, somehow convinced Lainey, the most brilliant and beautiful woman in the world, to love him. He’s an asshole who spent our younger years targeting me every chance he got on the ice. He’s a dirty player and an even dirtier person. I’ll never understand why or what the hell she sees in him. But Luca and I are stuck with the consequences.
The caption of her post readsLife lately. It’s a carousel of photos, each one making me want to crawl into a cave and rot. Cole’s grubby hands are all over her in almost every photo, and in half of them, it doesn’t even look like Lainey’s happy to be there. Other people probably don’t notice the subtleties, but I certainly do. I’ve memorized her face over the years, and I can probably tell when a single muscle twitches, which is how I know that paradise can’t be as great as she’s trying to make it seem.
I know damn well that she isn’t the problem in that relationship. I may be biased, having a deep hatred for her partner, but I know Lainey and know that she would sacrifice anything for the people she loves. Sometimes, she’s empathetic and selfless to a fault.
Which proved true when I took Cole’s knee out a season ago, making damn sure he was leaving the ice for more than a shift. I succeeded, and he ended up on the bench for a few months. The next time we faced one another, he chirped to me about Lainey—about how good she was in bed, about how he owned her. I beat his ass into the ice after that. Fuck, I practically blacked out when my gloves fell, multiple players and refs having to pull meoff of him. The game after that, he was quiet as a mouse—fucking pussy.
Maybe I should reach out to Lainey and check in. Even if she hates me, like she claims for my hurtinginnocent Cole, I want to know she’s okay.
When I open our old messages, my heart clenches at the date of our last text—almost an entire year ago. We were never supposed to go this long without contact. But since I injured Cole, she’s been giving me the silent treatment.
The whale shark tattoo on the side of my wrist catches my eye, tightening the twist in my chest, a reminder of who we once were to one another and who we are now.
Locking my phone, I toss it on the bed and exhale obnoxiously, trying to force my frustration out of my body, but to no avail.
I stare up at the ceiling, the ache in my knee throbbing, somehow increasing the constant gnawing black hole in my chest that’s been there since I was a kid. I’ve come to terms with the fact that no matter what, this feeling isn’t going anywhere. It’s part of my DNA, even more so since Lainey walked out of my life.
CHAPTER 7
LAINEY
Honestly,it’s surprising how little packing I had to do to uproot my entire life and move across the country. It proves how much of Cole’s and my home is full of his things and not mine. I’ve never really been a materialistic girl, and he’s got, like, a thousand ongoing collections.
Four large suitcases later, and I’m in New York, nervous for all of the changes coming my way as I head toward my new apartment. To be fair, the place comes fully furnished in every room, so it’s not like I had to bringeverything.
Aside from following Cole around to his different NHL teams over the last couple of years, this is the biggest shift in my life. But this feels different becauseImade this choice. I wasn’t just following someone else’s path; I’m carving my own, as scary as that may be.
Thankfully, the apartment I found is only a mile from the arena, so I’ll be close to work. Besides sporadic errands, the only two places I imagine I’ll be is at the rink or home. I get to avoid a gym altogether because my building has a massive one available for residents.
Since my work is only a mile away, I plan on walking or jogging to and from the arena every day, unless the weather is bad—those days, I’ll take a cab.
