...Christ, I sound like a lunatic. A really determined, sleep-deprived lunatic.
*****
"Zaaachhh. Zaaachyyyy. Wakeey up."
A soft voice cuts through the fog, and then I feel a weight drop on the bed beside me. My ribs groan in protest.
I bury my face deeper into the pillow I'm hugging, lying flat on my stomach like a dead man. My whole body feels like it's been steamrolled — every muscle stiff, eyelids too damn heavy to even consider opening.
"Go away," I mumble, voice muffled into cotton. "Let me die in peace."
"Wakeey up... it's late." She whispers it all sweet, dragging the words out like she's singing me out of a coma. Then her small hands grab my shoulders and start shaking.
A guttural grunt rips out of me. Everything aches — like every tendon, every joint, every overworked muscle just staged a collective protest. "Angel, for the love of God, stop shaking me. I'm sore everywhere. I just got back from our yoga session an hour ago, and my body officially hates me."
"Yoga session?" she giggles, still poking at me. "Big bad hockey guys do yoga now?"
"Recovery yoga," I correct, cracking one eye open to glare at her. "Team workout. Helps keep us from breaking in half. Not that it worked."
She laughs, shaking me again just to piss me off. "You sound like an old man."
"Feels like it," I mutter. "Ugh, I should've just picked tennis... or golf. Or... I don't know, chess."
"You? Please. You'd be terrible at tennis, and chess would have you flipping the board in five minutes." Her voice is all smug, and even with my eyes too heavy to open, I can picture the smirk plastered on her face.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
If I had a choice, I'd never move again. Not today. Not ever. Just stay here, starfished on this bed, dead to the world. But hockey doesn't give you that choice. Being a player means living by the schedule — strict, relentless, no excuses.
Even on days when you can barely lift a muscle, when every hit from practice feels like it left a bruise in your bones, you still drag yourself out of bed.
That's thebeautyof hockey.
And yeah, sometimes I wonder why the hell I chose this sport out of all the others. Could've picked something less brutal, less competitive. A sport where your body doesn't get slammed intoglass every game night. Definitely regretting my life choices right now. Well... I only regret it when I feel shit like this.
Thankfully, today's one of the lighter days. Thursday. Team workout from six to seven a.m. — recovery yoga this time — then just two classes, one at eleven and another at one. After that, regular practice from three to five-thirty. Manageable. Doable.
And since yoga ended an hour ago, that gives me, what — two more hours? Two glorious, precious hours of sleep before class.
I close my eyes again, muttering into the pillow, "Two more hours, Angel. That's all I ask. Two. Little. Hours."
I feel her shift beside me, the mattress dipping, then her chin rests on my back. "Well, if you wanna be late for class, I can definitely leave you alone."
My brows knit together. What the hell's she talking about? It should still be just past eight. I've got time. I set my alarm.
"What time is it?"
"Uh... it's ten... thirty-three."
That rips me out of my coma. My eyes snap open, brain lagging behind like it needs a minute to catch up. No way. No fucking way.
I jerk back, squinting as she shoves her phone right in my face, the screen glowing so bright it blinds me. She even shakes it, just to rub it in. Big fat numbers read 10:33. Nope—10:34 now.
"Shit!" I explode, rolling off the bed like I've been shot with a cattle prod. "I'm gonna be late for Econ! Fuck!"
Adrenaline slams through me, burning out every ache. I'm moving at light speed, grabbing for my bag, patting my pockets, checking for keys I know are already in there.
Sam's cackling behind me, absolutely loving the show, but I don't even look at her. I can't. I've got bigger problems.
