“I got it,” I told my dad. “I’ll hold the line.”
CHAPTER 15
AVERY
I had hoped that the brief holiday break would give both Peyton and me a chance to forget what happened in Detroit.
No such luck.
I knew the instant I walked into the locker room for our morning skate that he hadn’t let it go. He met my gaze, then quickly dropped his and refused to look my direction again.Thatboded well for a pleasant practice.
Though I wasn’t much better off, to be honest. The best parts of my whirlwind trip back to Abbottsford had been the annual tradition of getting hammered with my cousins on Christmas Eve. My dad, brother, and I had all shuffled downstairs on Christmas morning, eyes barely open as we sucked down coffee and tried not to collapse beneath the weight of our hangovers. That had been about twelve blissful hours of not caring about anything, followed by several hours of wondering if my head might explode. By the time I’d sobered up enough to care about much, I was jumping on a plane and heading back to Pittsburgh.
Now I was back here. Back in Pittsburgh. Back in the Whiskey Rebels’ locker room.
Back in the place that reminded me of Leif and back in the crosshairs of my linemate’s icy contempt and relentless pity.
For the millionth time, I wished I’d just gone up to my room in Detroit and gotten trashed in peace. I never got that drunk in public, and the fact that it was Peyton who’d seen me? Fuuuck.
Putting on my gear took more work than it should have. Even pulling on my base layer was a struggle because my hands were shaky and sweaty, and my mind was just… not here. It didn’t help when Peyton got up and clomped out of the room toward the sheet. Was I imagining the extra sharpness in his steps? The anger in his gait?
Maybe. Maybe not. Did anything make sense anymore?
I sighed as I dropped onto the bench and started putting on my shinpads. I hated the mixed bag of bullshit that set up shop in my brain every time I looked at Peyton. Every time I thought about him, honestly, but especially when I looked at him. When we were in the same room, the same plane.
The samebar.
I cringed inwardly. That night he’d taken me back to my hotel room weighed miserably on my shoulders, the humiliation burning in my chest. I hated the shame that burrowed behind my ribs whenever he asked me if I was okay, or when he looked at me like hewantedto ask because he suspected something was wrong.
Oh, therewassomething wrong, but he’d never understand. Nobody would. They’d all think I was a mess—mostly because Iwasa mess—and then they’d know I wasn’tworthy of a Whiskey Rebels sweater. Especially not one with a C on it.
And the mess just got messier the more I thought about it, because sometimes he’d catch my eye, and an entirely different but equally unpleasant feeling would sweep through me: how much I wanted him.
God, he was so damn hot. Of course I’d always loved the way hockey players were built—lean, sculpted muscle was my absolute catnip. Peyton was on the broader end of the spectrum for guys in our sport; he wasn’t built like a football player or anything, but his shoulders were a little wider, and his hips and thighs—oh my God. The things a man could do to me with a physique like that? Jesus Christ, I hadn’t been laid in way too long, and I’d have chewed off a limb to have someone like him take me for a ride.
But every time that zing of attraction took hold, it was followed immediately by an avalanche of embarrassment and self-loathing. Yeah, he was hot as hell, but in what universe would he be even slightly interested in me after what had happened in that hotel room? Even if he’d been totally onboard—both into me and game for hooking up with a teammate—I’d seen to it that that ship sailed, sank, and vanished through a wormhole. Snowball’s chance in hell didn’t begin to describe the odds of Peyton ever laying a hand on me.
Damn shame, too, even in those moments when looking at him had rage flaring in my chest.
As I continued gearing up, all those conflicting thoughts colliding inside my head, Leif’s voice came to the surface:“A hundred bucks plus three steak dinners on the road says you screw him before the season’s over.”
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry or throw up. Maybe both.
But I couldn’t. Sometimes I did one or the other, but right now, I had to put on my gear, get on the ice, and convince everyone who was looking that I still had any business on this team.
No, I wouldn’t be losing that bet, and not just because the man who’d offered the wager wasn’t here to collect. There was no way Peyton wanted a piece of me now. Early on, I’d caught him stealing glances at me, and there’d been that glimmer of hope that the attraction was mutual.
One drink too many, though. One stupid, drunk mistake in a hotel room.
And now I had to keep playing alongside the man my best friend had bet would be in my bed before the season was out, knowing thatat best, Peyton looked at me with pity. That didn’t bode well for teammates, especially linemates, and it definitely didn’t pave the way toward anything sexy or affectionate.
One minute I hated him for what happened that night and everything he said after. Couldn’t he have just left me to drink myself stupid in peace?
The next minute, though, I hated myself. Why hadn’t I just stayed in my damn room? So what if I’d already gone through the minibar? I could’ve ordered more booze. Hell, I could’ve DoorDashed more.
But no, I’d taken my ass down to the bar, and Peyton hadn’t been able to just walk by and leave me alone, and now…
