Coach pulls me aside after. "What the hell is going on with you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You’re playing like shit.” He crosses his arms. "Is this about the baby mama drama? Because I need you focused, Stag. I can't have you playing like this."
"I'll figure it out."
"You’d better. Because right now, you're a liability."
On the bus back to the hotel, Sloane texts.
Appointment went fine. Babies are good.
That's it. No details. No "wish you were there" or "miss you."
That's great! What did Dr. Patel say? Any updates?
Sloane
Just the usual stuff.
I stare at my phone, that uneasy feeling growing stronger.
I might be keeping my worries from Sloane, but she’s clearly holding something back from me, too.
Friday night, we're back in Pittsburgh for a home game against Philadelphia, and my entire family is there. I can see them in the stands during warm-ups—Mom, Dad, all my brothers, uncles, cousins. A whole Stag section, loud and proud.
But Sloane's not there.
I knew she wouldn't come. She's been avoiding anything that feels too couple-y, too public. But seeing that empty seat hits harder than I expected.
"You good?" Alder skates up beside me.
"Yeah. Fine."
"Liar." He knocks his stick against mine. "She'll come around. Just give her time."
But what if time isn't what she needs? What if she's pulling away because she's decided this isn't what she wants?
The game starts, and I try to focus. Try to be present, to do my job.
But I keep looking up at the stands. At my whole family cheering, and that one empty seat.
Halfway through the second period, Philadelphia's enforcer—a huge guy named Morrison—goes after Grentley behind the net. It's a dirty hit, late and high. Grentley goes down hard.
I should move. Should drop my gloves, should protect my teammate.
But I'm watching my family in the stands. Watching my dad jump to his feet, watching my mom cover her mouth. And I'm thinking about Sloane at home, alone, pulling further away from me every day.
I'm too slow.
By the time I react, Morrison has already gotten in two more hits. By the time I reach them, the damage is done.
The refs blow the whistle. Grentley is on the ice, holding his shoulder. The trainer is rushing out.
And Coach Thompson is screaming at me from the bench.
"STAG! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"
