"I know. Thanks."
I want to tell him. Want to say that Maya came to me twonights ago, and we had sex, and it was the most intense experience of my life. That I'm breaking rule number five every second I'm with her. That distance is making it worse because all I can think about is getting back to Hartford and finding excuses to be near her.
But I can't. The rules are clear. Keep it physical. Keep it secret.
Team dinner is at an Italian place near the hotel. Coach gives his usual speech about focus, about how Boston's tough on their home ice, about maintaining our playoff positioning. We're third in the division right now. It’s a good place to be, but we need to stay sharp.
I eat mechanically. Pasta and chicken, protein and carbs, fuel for tomorrow's game. Around me, the team's loose, joking, confident. Jenkins is telling some story about his girlfriend. Reeves is doing scarily accurate impressions of Coach.
My phone stays in my pocket. I resist the urge to check it, to see if Maya's texted again, to break the careful distance we're supposed to be maintaining.
Back at the hotel, Chase falls asleep by ten. I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to him snore.
Tomorrow's game is important. We need the points. I need to be sharp, focused, and ready to lead.
But all I can think about is Maya. The way she looked at me with trust in her eyes, the way she took control, the way she left afterward, following the rules even though I wanted her to stay.
Game day arrives with the usual routine. Morning skate, team breakfast, pre-game nap. I'm dialed in now, focused. Thinking about Maya can wait until after we win.
The Boston arena is packed and loud. Their fans hate us. Division rivals, too much history. The energy is electric and hostile.
I thrive on it.
First period, I set up two goals. Threading passes through their defense like I can see five seconds into the future.
Second period, I score. Break toward the net with their defenseman draped on me, and somehow get the shot off. Top corner. Goal horn. The boys mob me.
"That's our captain!" Jenkins yells.
The rush is familiar, that high of playing perfect hockey, but underneath it, I'm thinking about Maya watching from home, wondering if she's proud.
The third period gets rough. Boston comes out aggressively, taking runs at our guys, trying to get under our skin. One of their forwards takes a shot at Chase after the whistle, and I'm there before I can think, dropping my gloves.
"You want to go?" I'm in the guy's face, ready.
The refs step in before fists fly, but the message is sent. We protect our own.
I end up scoring again on the next shift. Power play goal, one-timer from the slot. Their goalie had no chance.
We win 5-2.
In the locker room, Coach is grinning. "That's the team I want to see. Anderson, hell of a game."
"Team effort, Coach."
"Two goals and three assists isn't a team effort, that's you being a goddamn sniper." He claps my shoulder. "Keep this up and we're going deep in the playoffs."
The praise feels good but hollow. I want to tell Maya about it, want to hear her voice telling me I played well, want more than these careful text exchanges.
Post-game, I shower and dress, following the team to the hotel bar for the mandatory celebration drink. One beer, some games with the guys, then I excuse myself.
Chase gives me a look but doesn't push.
In my room, I lie on the bed and pull out my phone.
Stardust
You were incredible tonight.
