She laughed again, and then the two of them continued to talk, consuming four more cups of hot tea as they covered every topic under the sun until nearly three in the morning. She emailed Benny somewhere around one a.m., to let him know she’d be taking her first ever “sick” day.
In the end, she spent the night in Dad’s guest room, because he didn’t want her driving home alone so late. And in the morning, she came downstairs to discover her dad making her pancakes and sausage links—her favorite breakfast. She was thrilled to learn it was his favorite, too.
By the time she got home, it was just after noon, and when she turned her phone back on—she’d turned it off as soon as she parked outside Dad’s house—she discovered several missed calls and half a dozen texts from Tank. All of them expressing concern for her headache.
Which was fitting.
Because damn, did she have one now.
An hour after returning from Dad’s, McKenna went to straight to her bed…and she didn’t leave it again for two days. Struck down by a killer flu—high temperature, headache, chills, fatigue, the works.
So, instead of figuring out what to do in regard to Tank, she simply slept. And when the headache and nausea got to be too much, she occasionally prayed for death.
Chapter Eleven
Tank sat in the locker room late Friday evening, leaning against his locker, Blake sitting next to him on the long bench.
Tonight had been the first game in the wildcard playoff. Because they were pitted against top-seeded Washington, their away game was only a short bus ride. As such, they’d returned to Baltimore right after a soul-crushing loss.
Rather than talk to them in D.C., Coach Fields had taken the bus trip home to compose his thoughts, gathering the entire team in the locker room upon their return.
While Tank was devastated by tonight’s loss, his sadness was overshadowed by his anxiety regarding McKenna.
He hadn’t seen her since Monday night at Pat’s Pub, and he’d spent too much of the past few days stressed out that McKenna hadn’t believed him when he’d said nothing happened between him and Lara.
To be honest, Lara persistently texted him enough that Tank had harbored a bit of suspicion, wondering if the woman had slashed her own tires to create a situation where he’d need to save her. But even if she had, he couldn’t in good conscience leave a woman stranded alone outside the arena at night, no matter what their history was.
So he’d dismissed the thought, offered her the lift and, in the end, it had been a short, painfully awkward ride from the arena to Pat’s Pub, as Lara tried to convince him to skip the celebration with the team to do a victory lap or three in her bed. That hadn’t been a hard invitation to turn down. One, because he wasn’t the slightest bit tempted, and two, because he was pissed as shit with Lara for even making the suggestion.
He was dating McKenna, and they’d made that fact very public. Whether or not it was real was inconsequential, because as far as Lara knew, it was. And yet she was still offering to sleep with him.
For three weeks, he and McKenna had put on a strong dating show—going out for dinner, her sitting in the team’s box wearing his jersey, lots of public hand-holding and kissing.
Of course, they’d done even more in private.
While McKenna had been resistant to continue a physical affair at the beginning, that pushback didn’t last long. Once they’d decided to explore their sexual attraction, she’d been all-fucking-in.
“That was a tough loss,” Coach Fields began, his words drawing Tank out of his head and back into the moment. Ordinarily, after a loss like tonight’s, Tank would have been in a foul mood as he analyzed his every play and penalty, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong and what had to happen to improve for the next game.
Right now, he was too busy analyzing another game, the one taking place off the ice with McKenna, to spare even a second thought to tonight’s shit show.
The coach continued to talk, and Tank found himself pulled into the speech, impressed and even comforted by the words. Tank had run the gamut as far as his opinions toward Coach Fields were concerned. At first, he’d reserved judgment—doing the old “wait and see.” Then around the holidays, he’d started to respect and like the guy. Lately, all good feelings toward his coach had morphed to resentment and annoyance as the man continually singled him out, berating him for basically every fucking little thing.
If he wanted to listen to that kind of shit, all Tank had to do was call his dad.
“So tonight’s over and done. Wipe the slate clean. Okay?”
Several of the guys yelled out okay; a few others clapped. Coach Fields’ pep talk had been a good one, and while Tank would continue to kick his own ass over too many missed shots on goal and a couple stupid penalties, he felt better—and even pumped—as they approached game two.
“Good,” Coach Fields said, after wrapping things up. “I’ll see you guys bright and early tomorrow morning for workouts. Be prepared to put in a long day. We’ve got some shit to work out on the ice, too.”
Tank rose with Blake, both of them reaching for their duffels. It had been a hell of a long-ass week, and it was about to get even longer, because Tank wasn’t going home until he saw McKenna. Three days without laying eyes on his gorgeous girl had been three too many.
“Tank,” Coach called out. “You mind staying behind a minute.”
Tank’s growl was low enough that only Blake and Victor, who were standing next to him, heard it. Both of his buddies gave him consoling glances, because none of them could figure out why Coach seemed to have singled out Tank to continually harass.
“I’ll see you guys in the morning,” he said, waiting until the rest of his teammates filed out of the locker room.
