“Fuck me,” I mutter.
A perfect shot, and it’s still not enough.
The game goes on like that, with too many shots on goal and not enough to show for it.
At the end, the Sabers beat us in our barn, and I trudge off the ice, annoyed that we’re playing like we were at the end of last season.
In the locker room, I try to put it behind me. “It’s one game,” I say to the guys. “We’ll get the next one.”
“We fucking will,” Miller seconds as he lumbers across the room in his leg pads.
Lake glowers as he starts taking off his gear in the exact same order he put it on. “Maybe we do need lucky cupcakes.”
“No, just need to capitalize on scoring opportunities,” I say, stating the painfully obvious.
As I toss my jersey into the laundry bin, I noodle on that word—opportunity. Is that what today was with Mabel? An opportunity to do something different than I did when I met her seven years ago? It was the wrong time then, for a lot of reasons. Should I go for it now?
As I shower, I weigh that word more, and the costs that come with it. While I don’tneedTheo’s permission to ask out his sister—she’s a grown woman with agency and all—maybe I’ll talk to him, let him know I’d like to explore something with his sister. Give him a courtesy heads-up.
Yeah, that sounds reasonable. I can figure this out. It’s what I do—handle shit. As I get dressed, I avoid the frosting-covered shirt, stuffing it into a duffel and instead grabbing a T-shirt with my alma mater’s name on it from my stall, then putting on my suit jacket.
“Dude, my eyes hurt, and it’s not from the color, man,” Miller says, shielding his face from my mismatched outfit.
“Not sure I can be seen with you. It’d hurt my rep as a stylish motherfucker.” Riggs scowls as he runs a hand down the plaid pattern of his suit jacket. Maybe itisfashionable. Who even knows? “But seriously, you can’t pair suit pants and a T-shirtwith words.”
I lift my chin. “Ask me if I care.” I do care a little, but not enough to do anything about it.
Shouldering the duffel with the evidence, I leave the locker room. I’m headed down the hall to the players’ lot when a sharply dressed Theo rounds the corner toward me, head bent over his phone. “Asshole,” he grumbles at the screen.
That’s not good. For a moment, I wonder if it’s about…me. About this afternoon. How would he know though?
He spots me when he looks up from his phone and stops, his dark eyes full of fire. “Knight, my man. Have I told you how much I hate Dax Strong?”
Why does that name sound so familiar? “Don’t think you have.”
“I hate my sister’s ex more than I hate losing.”
Oh right. That’s who Dax is. Mister Romance Beach. I swallow roughly but keep my poker face as Theo keeps going.
“I swear if I ever see him, I will slice him to pieces with my rhetoric.”
“And your rhetoric has claws,” I say, grateful it’s not aimed at me.But why would it be? I have to keep reminding myself of that.
“Damn straight.” His phone rings, and he glances at it. “Gotta take this,” he says, continuing down the hall.
I make for the exit and push open the door, the night air like a smack of reality.
What was I thinking? Theo’s the most protective guy I know, and he’s made a sport of hating his sister’s exes. I donotneed to get on the bad side of the acting GM.
Not to mention, my team’s not playing the way we should. I’m the last person who needs a distraction right now.
As I slide behind the wheel of my car, a message from my daughter pops up on my phone.
World’s Best Daughter: Next time, Dad! But tomorrow we can at least make brown butter chocolate chip pumpkin blondies with nuts.
Next time.
The words echo in my mind.Next time, next game, next chance to win.
