I don’t look at the bench. I don’t look up toward the press box. I keep my head down, staring at the ice as I skate to the tunnel. The guilt is a physical weight, heavier than the soaked gear clinging to my body.
The locker room is like a morgue. No music. Conversation is minimal. It’s brutal.
I peel off my chest protector, feeling exposed. Rylan sits down next to me and leans over to untie his skates.
“Rough night,” he says quietly.
“I wasn’t good enough,” I grind out.
“Nope,” Rylan agrees, and the honesty stings, even though it’s better than a lie. “You weren’t. But you’re not the first guy to choke on his first start, and you won’t be the last.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I shouldn’t be here. It should be Tremblay.”
Rylan stops. He leans toward me, dropping his voice so the rest of the room can’t hear. “Louis isn’t here, Tanner. You are.So go ahead and feel sorry for yourself tonight. Wallow in it if you want. But tomorrow, it’s gone, and you get back to work. Because we fuckin' need you.”
He slaps my knee and stands up.
I sit there, half-dressed, staring at the floor. He’s right. But when I look down at my hands, they’re still shaking.
Chapter 9
Louis
The hotel room is dim, lit only by the light from a single sconce between the beds. My pain, which had been manageable at the game’s start, came back with a vengeance partway through, and by the time the final horn sounded, I’m not sure which pain was worse: the physical pain from my shredded muscle or the mental agony of watching Tanner completely fall apart in goal.
I’m propped up in my fortress of pillows, a bag of melting ice draped awkwardly over my shoulder. My pec feels like someone took a blowtorch to the muscle and then tried to shred it with a cheese grater. The pain meds I downed as soon as I got back have shaved off the sharpest edges of reality, leaving me a little floaty.
Unfortunately, the memory of the score is still crystal clear. 5-0.
I know what a goalie looks like when his brain disconnects from his body. Watching it happen to Tanner was almost worse than experiencing it myself.
The lock beeps, and the door flies open, banging against the stopper. Tanner stalks in, looking like a thundercloud.
He doesn’t say a word or even look in my direction. He rips his suit jacket off his shoulders like it’s burning his skin, the fabric hitting the floor with a softwhump.
Usually, Tanner Sinclair is a machine. The guy folds his socks, for god’s sake. He lines up his toiletries in alphabetical order and treats his clothes like they’re ecclesiastical vestments. Right now? There’s a glitch in the machine.
He tears at his tie, but the knot refuses to give. A low, frustrated sound—half growl, half sob—tears from his throat. He yanks the silk loop over his head and flings it toward the desk, but he misses, the tie sliding into the trash can.
He keeps pacing, his energy wild and uncontrolled. Very unlike the Tanner Sinclair I’ve gotten to know over the last few months.
“Fucking useless,” he mutters as he kicks off his dress shoes without untying them, sending one skidding into the wall with a thud.
I stay quiet. I know this dance. The shame that radiates off him like heat waves off hot asphalt.
“Five goals,” Tanner snaps. He’s talking to the demons in his head, not to me. “Five. Fucking. Goals. On twenty-two shots. I’m a motherfucking sieve.”
He runs both hands through his hair, gripping the short strands tight enough to hurt. “They should’ve yanked me. McWhittier would have been better.” He chokes on a breath. “I’m nothing but dead weight to this team.To you.”
Shit.He’s so deep down the hole of shame and self-loathing he can’t see the light. His chest heaves under his crisp white dress shirt. The poor guy looks about ten seconds away from a panic attack.
“Sinclair.” I drop my voice to its deepest register, my tone sharp and demanding.
He freezes, his back to me. His shoulders are hiked up to his ears.
“Stop,” I say firmly. This isn’t my jokey, fun voice. It’s not the voice of the guy who tapes skate blades or makes fart jokes on the team bus. This voice means business.
“You don’t understand,” he starts, turning halfway toward me. His face is pale, his eyes wide and glassy. “That was a hundred percent on me. I cost us the game. I—”
