“Yeah, where’d you go?” Robbie asks. “You left without even saying a word.”
I swallow hard, feeling all eyes on me, Coach Draper literally a few feet away talking to the team’s media manager.
“Um, I?—”
“He told me he was leaving.”
I look up to see Logan turn around from his locker, pullinghis jersey up over his head. In a flash so quick I almost miss it, his eyes flick to mine and I see the reassurance in his gaze.
“I guess I forgot to tell you guys,” Logan continues with a shrug, unfastening his pads. “He left. Said he wasn’t feeling it.”
“Yeah,” I say with a smirk, looking at Dallas. “Didn’t wanna be apissy little bitch.”
Dallas rolls his eyes, tossing a sweaty balled-up sock at me.
Robbie, on the other hand, looks at me long and hard, one of his eyes narrowing dubiously like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being real or not. But thankfully, before more can be said about my whereabouts last night, my name is called.
“Slater?” Coach yells.
I snap my head up. “Coach?”
“Get changed.” He juts his chin at me. “You got press.”
The locker room falls so silent, you could hear Rusty’s chest hair blowing in the breeze if you listened hard enough.
My eyes widen. “P-press?” I point at myself. “Me?”
Coach rolls his eyes. “No, the otherpissy little bitchbehind you.”
Everyone laughs. Dallas practically howls. It’s not every day Coach Draper cracks a joke. And I grin, but if I’m being honest, right now it’s taking everything I have not to cry. In my three seasons on the team, this is the first time I’ve ever been invited to post-game press. I’ve always been one of the background characters—an extra, if you will. It is what it is. Not every player on a hockey team can be the star. But this is a big deal; this is my main character moment.
“Sure thing, Coach,” I say, clearing the lump from the back of my throat. “I’ll be right there.”
Tugging my phone from my hockey bag, I scroll to my messages.
Me: Did you see the game?
Allie: Of course!
Allie: [pic]
My chest swells at the picture she sends me. My girl wearing my jersey, and I trail my finger over the screen, following the curve of her dimpled cheek.
Me: I’m going to be on TV again. Post-game press conference.
Allie: OMFG Happy!!!
Me: I’m going to go for a drink after, but I won’t be home late.
Allie: I’ll be here. Probably fast asleep in my textbook, but I’ll be here.
I bite back my goofy fucking smile, looking at the photo she sent me one more time before locking my screen and tucking my phone away, hauling ass and getting ready so as not to piss off the waiting reporters.
Ned’s is busier than usual, but a lot of our fans have caught on that this is where we like to come post-game. So, after tonight’s win, with only five games left before the end of the regular season, it’s not surprising to see the crowd at the bar grow with every win closer to the playoffs.
I make a beeline through the crowd, smiling at a few of the eager fans, stopping to take a couple of selfies with others, accepting handshakes and slaps on my back. I feel like homecoming king or some shit, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
“Here he is!” Robbie yells, hands held up as I approach the back of the bar, where they’re all set up at our usual tables. “Man of the fuckin’ match.”
