I skate back into position, nodding my head to everyone watching me. I'm exhausted, and I have barely played today. The years of grueling practices and extensive workout regimens are more evident now than ever before.
I’ve spent eighteen years in this league, and this is my last season. It’s my final shot at bringing home another Cup before my body gives out completely, and I have to hang up the skates for good.
This is my last fucking chance, and I’m blowing it all because I can’t get Gianna out of my head. That twenty-two year old bombshell crash landed into my life and fucked everything up.
Visions of her dancing on the kitchen table at two in the morning in that Airbnb I rented for the night in Brookside keep creeping up at the most inopportune times. Memories of the way I pulled her off of the table and deposited her on the counter before lowering to my knees to devour her pussy plague me. Thoughts of the way she clung to me when she came and in her sleep distract me constantly.
“Again!” Our coach barks, and I can see the irritation all over his face. I can't blame him, because I'm a fucking mess.
Holden, our team captain, wins the faceoff and sends the puck flying toward me. This time I'm ready for the puck. I catch it on my stick, pivot, and send it sailing past Truett's glove into the net.
“There he is,” Holden shouts, skating past me with a smile. “I thought you were retiring early on us, old man.”
“Not a chance, and I’m not that much older than you, pretty boy,” I snap at him, and I don't miss the way his jaw ticks at my outburst.
We practice the same play six more times. I manage to stay present for most of it, but my mind keeps wandering back to that girl — woman. That night changed everything for me, and I don’t even have a way to contact her again.
There’s no way I could ask Maxton for her number. He’s been giving me the cold shoulder for months, and while he hasn’t explicitly said it’s because I took off on a stolen snowmobile with Gianna, I’m positive that’s the reason for it.
I can only imagine what he’d say if he knew I left her my credit card number on the bedside table instead of my number, like a complete asshole. Max would lose his shit. He'd probably pummel me to the ground and beat me black and blue.
Honestly, I'm surprised that he hasn't tried to kick my ass. I know that Sage told Max about her past with me. If the roles were reversed, I would have laid him out months ago. Especially because I already knew how Maxton felt about the purple haired goddess before I took her out on a date, but it didn't stop the pull I felt toward Sage.
However, I've never felt a draw to a woman the way I did with Gianna on New Year's Eve. I spotted her the instant she walked into the living room of the Georges’ home. Her dark curls wild and free, framing her gorgeous face. Those dark painted, full lips. Her big, brown eyes casting judgemental glares across the room. The dark ink on her hands that crept under the sleeves of her form fitting sweater.
Later that night when I peeled that soft fabric from her body, I marveled at the beautiful tattoos decorating her copper skin. Gianna was a wonder to behold.
My early departure from the Airbnb was partly out of my control. I had to return the snowmobile before I headed back to Hudson, and Gianna looked so peaceful sleeping in my bed. I didn’t have the heart to move her. Leaving my card information with her was to make sure she could make it home okay without the snowmobile.
It was just supposed to be a one time deal.
That was nearly four months ago, and she's still using my card.
She’s not a complete psycho, using my card to go on shopping sprees and robbing me blind. She only uses it for Uber rides late at night.
I know that I should probably cancel the card or report it as stolen, put an end to whatever this is before it becomes something worse.
I just haven’t found the time to call my bank yet. That’s the main reason I haven’t cut ties with that wild woman.
The other reason is the reassurance I feel every time I see that notification on my phone. Seeing my card charged for twenty-two dollars from Uber at nearly three in the morning means I know she made it home. I know she's safe. I know she's still out there being chaotic and reckless and everything I'm not anymore.
And for some fucked up reason, knowing that matters to me.
“Lucero,” Coach hollers at me. “You're done for the day. Hit the showers.”
I’m jolted out of thoughts of Gianna once again, and I look around at my teammates. Some of them are still skating around. The others are staring at me with blank expressions visible from underneath their helmets.
Practice isn't over yet. We've got another forty minutes before it’s time to hit the showers.
“Coach…” I skate over to him, hoping I can convince him that I don’t need to end practice early.
“No. You're a fucking zombie out there today. You have been for a while,” he says calmly, but his expression is firm. “I don't know what's going on with you, but you need to figure it out. We're in the damn playoffs. I need you sharp and at your best.”
Shame heats my face as I nod and glide toward the tunnel entrance. He's right. I know he’s right.
I'm thirty-eight years old, a seasoned veteran on this team and to the sport in general. I’m someone these younger guys are supposed to look up to, but I’m not. Instead, I'm getting benched at practice because I can't keep my head off that raven haired woman.
I skate off the ice without another word. Once I’m in the locker room, I strip off my gear and sit on the bench.
