I stop pacing and flop onto my couch.
“And then there’s Bryce. My coworker. The player I told you I hadtotally normalprofessional boundaries with. Except those boundaries are currently in a shallow grave behind a hotel.”
I cover my face with both hands.
“Anyway. Bryce is mad. Or hurt. Or jealous. Or all three. He left the room like he was walking away from a burning building, except I was the building.”
Deep inhale.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. At all. My chest feels weird. Not heart-attack weird. More like oh-no-this-is-feelings weird. Which is worse.”
I groan.
“If you have any open appointments tomorrow, please call me back. Preferably early. Before I do something deranged like… texting him. Or Googling ‘how to date someone you definitely shouldn’t.’”
I hesitate.
Then I whisper:
“Okay. That’s it. Ending message now before I confess actual hotel details.”
I jab the screen to hang up.
Then collapse backward, staring at the ceiling like it might offer life guidance.
It does not.
I whisper into the empty room:
“I am so, so screwed.”
And the terrifying part?
A tiny part of me doesn’t even mind.
Chapter sixteen
Bryce
Ihit the blue line with the puck on my stick and way too much in my head.
I should be thinking about edges and angles, that smooth drag and release Coach Hale drills into us every practice. Instead I’m fucked up from this whole thing with Annabelle.
I snap my wrists. The shot sails high and rings off the glass behind Eli Vargas.
“Appreciate the breeze, Blackhorn,” Eli calls from the crease. “My mask was getting hot.”
“Hit the net, Bryce,” Coach's whistle cuts through the rink. “We are not playing the glass in the playoffs.”
I circle back to the line, cheeks hot under my helmet. “Got it, Coach.”
Dex Miller glides past and taps my shin pad with his stick. “You aiming for Eli or the rafters, lover boy?”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
Colby coasts to a stop beside me, leaning on his stick like this is a casual skate in the park and not drills. “He’s in his feelings,” he announces. “I respect it. Terrible timing, though.”
“Less talking, more scoring,” Coach says. His tone is all business, but there is a glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly why I am off today. “Reset the drill. Bryce, brain on the ice, not up your ass.”
