My heart batters my ribs. “What?”
“It’s loud in here. Crowded.” He doesn’t look away. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when you can actually hear yourself.”
He’s offering me an out. A way to leave without making it about anything more than needing space. But the way his look burns my skin, the way my body responds to his nearness, the way my breath hitches tells me it would be about a lot more than that.
“Come with me,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
I should say no. Should finish my beer, go back to my room, pretend this never happened.
Instead, I find myself nodding.
We don’t talk as we walk through the casino, past the slot machines and card tables, past crowds of strangers who have no idea that my entire world just shifted on its axis. The elevator ride to his floor is silent, the air so thick with tension that I can barely breathe.
When we stop in front of his door, he pauses with the key card in his hand.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
I look at him, really look at him, and see something that mirrors my own confusion. My own want.
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
He steps closer, the heat radiating from his body warming my skin. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
The softness in his voice nearly unravels me. When was the last time someone offered me that kind of choice? That kind of safety?
“What if I don’t know what I want?”
“Then we figure it out together.”
He holds the card against the lock, and the door clicks. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway.
I follow him inside, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The door closes behind us, and suddenly we’re alone in the dim light of his hotel room.
And for the first time in my life, I stop running from who I really might be.
ONE
tate
TWO YEARS LATER
The puck slidesthrough my pads like I’m not even fucking here.
With a roar, Colorado’s center throws his hands up in victory. Two seconds left on the clock. Two goddamn seconds, and I let in the softest goal of my career.
I drop to one knee on the ice, pressing my gloved hand against my helmet. The plastic does nothing to block out the boos raining down from the Oakland fans. They paid good money to watch us beat Colorado, not to see me hand them a win on a silver platter.
“Fucking hell, Barnes,” a fan yells as I skate past, my head down.
I can’t even blame him. That shot should have been routine. A weak wrist shot from the slot that I’ve stopped a thousand times before. Instead, I froze like a goddamn rookie in his first NHL game.
Our hopes of overtaking Vegas for the division lead are crushed. By my hand. I drag myself to center ice, avoiding eyecontact with my teammates as they line up for the post-game handshakes.
Masterson skates up next to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The lie tastes like shit on my tongue. “Just missed it.”
“Happens to everyone.”
