“Yeah.” Sooner, if he could manage it.
“Okay. She’ll probably be asleep by then.”
She wouldn’t.
“Oh, and I can’t babysit Monday night. I have a math test on Tuesday.”
Shit. He had a team meeting Monday night about the playoffs, which he couldn’t skip. “No problem. I’ll think of something else.”
Chapter Seven
Seventh encounter
“Oh my God, that’s my brother!” she hissed, panicking as the front door slammed shut.
“What?!”
“He has a key, Lucas. He brings me groceries once a week! Shit, hide.”
“What?!”
“In the closet. Just get in the closet!”
By Monday afternoon, he still hadn’t thought of anything else — just as he hadn’t forgotten Anna’s disparaging look.
He’d like to claim that the anxiety both these things caused wasn’t affecting his training…except his teammates looks and Fox’s screams of “Moreau, where the hell is your head? Tell me so I can punch it and focus it again!” spoke volumes.
Shit. There were only two places where he was completely focused and calm: at dinner with Melody when she told him, her face lighting up, which letters she knew. Then, and betweenhis goalposts. No matter how much drama had existed in his previous life with his family, on the ice, every thought was wiped from his mind. His outward calm reflected a deep inner calm, and all he could see was the puck.
Now, however, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anna arguing with Dax at the edge of the ice, her eyebrows furrowed, her hands gesticulating wildly…while the puck sailed past his left ear and into the net.
Fuck.
“Moreau!” Coach Gray snapped, skating toward him, shaking his head. “The first playoff game is tomorrow and you’re making more mistakes than Leon does in an entire weekend! Do I have to put Ford in for you, or what?”
Lucas glared at him.
“Well, prove it to me,” Gray said, annoyed. “And Temple! What the hell could be so important that you’re not in your damn position?”
Dax skated over to them, disgruntled. “Who uses Tinder these days? Can someone please tell me?”
Gray stared at him in disbelief. “What the hell does that have to do with hockey?”
“Well, Tinder is also about sinking the puck,” Alvarez said with a grin, skating circles around the goal. “So, who’s on Tinder? Anna? Fuck, I should sign up too.”
“I’m going to punch you in the face, Leon,” Dax said, his tone deliberately friendly.
“Hey!” the coach yelled. “Get a grip. I don’t want to hear any of this crap. And nobody’s getting into a fight before we get the damn Stanley Cup — got it?” He glanced angrily between Alvarez and Temple. “Good God. I’ll give you five minutes to sort out your personal shit, and Fox!” he barked at the captain. “Get your team’s shit together!” He skated to the exit, leaving Fox sighing audibly.
“Okay. Leon, you’re coming with me,” Fox announced. “I’ll explain the rules of the silent game again, which you really should practice more often. Dax, stay here and find out why Moreau is playing so badly.”
Dax snorted and flipped Fox’s receding back the middle finger.
“Ditto, Dax!” the captain shouted. “I’d rather you could communicate your emotions with words than rude gestures.”
Dax grimaced and scratched the back of his neck. “God, how does he do it? Eyes in the back of his head. Now I feel guilty for giving him the damn bird.”
Yep. Fox had a shitty grandfatherly way about him that made you want to not to disappoint him. It was awful.
