During the scrimmage, Hunter feeds me a perfect cross-ice pass. It’s the shot I’ve buried a thousand times, the one that got me drafted and signed and paid. I wind up, and the puck dribbles off my stick like I’m some fourteen-year-old in juniors who forgot the basics. Coach made me run that drill five hundred times my first year until it was muscle memory. There have been seasons where I couldn’t miss even if I tried, but today, I can’t hit anything.
The silence on the rink is worse than shouting. Nobody says a word. They skate past with their eyes down.
“Cross!” Coach yells. “Get your head out of your ass! What’s your problem today?”
I don’t answer or apologize. Instead, I push harder, skating until my lungs scream and my muscles shake. Nothing clears my head.
I keep picturing that triple axel and her expression afterward. Then my mind flashes to New Year’s Eve, and Kendall wrapped around Damien Blackwell at midnight. His hands were on her waist, and his mouth was at her ear, whispering something that made her throw her head back and laugh. When she caught me staring from across the room, she didn’t ignoreme. She held my gaze with a bitter smile before pulling Damien into a kiss. I left after the confetti hit the floor.
Damien saw what he wanted and took it, just like Jameson had done years ago. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’ve always been the one who stands frozen while everyone else makes a move.
By the time I’m showered and dressed, most of the guys are gone. I’m walking toward the exit when I see her hanging a paper on the bulletin board outside the locker room. Now she’s wearing tight jeans, and her hair is down. When she sees me, Kendall rolls her eyes and heads in the opposite direction.
I move toward the board and scan the info posted.
Portrait Schedule—February
Tyler Reed—February 3, 12:00 p.m.
Hunter Matthews—February 4, 2:00 p.m.
Callan Riddick—February 5, 12:00 p.m.
Ryan Brady—February 6, 2:00 p.m.
Wyatt King—February 9, 12:00 p.m.
Jacob Davidsen—February 10, 2:00 p.m.
Liam Coopers—February 11, 12:00 p.m.
Mason Reyes—February 12, 2:00 p.m.
She leftme off of the first round of portraits on purpose. It wouldn’t surprise me if she puts me dead last to ensure she’s lodged in my brain for weeks. I have a very busy schedule, juggling practices, games, and charity events. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
The door to the other hallway slams shut, and I sprint toward it. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and I jog toward her.
“What the fuck, Kendall?!” My voice echoes off the walls as I catch up.
“Let me guess,” she says coolly before turning around. “You saw the schedule, and you didn’t approve.”
“Why am I not on it?”
“You’ll get your session.”
“When? Dead last?”
“I’ve already explained this to you. When I feel like it,” she growls.
I move toward her. “You’re un-fucking-believable.”
“That honestly sounds like ayouproblem.”
“It’s going to be anusproblem if you keep playing these games. Leave me alone.”
Her eyes narrow, and she bursts out laughing at me. “Am I supposed to be threatened?”
“Schedule me this week, or I’m taking this to Coach.”
