I'm grateful for him. I don't say it out loud because I don't know how, but I feel it.
The drive home is silent. At home, I ice my shoulder and pull up a Sudoku puzzle, but the numbers blur together.
Scout's face keeps appearing in my head. Her tears. The sad look on her face when I tried to reassure her.
My phone lights up on the coffee table. The dating app notification glows.Yoga4Lyfe.
I set it face down without opening it.
Hockey comes first. It always has and it’s not changing. Scout is Enzo's ex-wife, which makes her off limits for about a dozen different reasons.
And there’s the fact that I don't do relationships.
So why does my shoulder ache less than my chest right now?
Kids wait by my car. Six or seven of them wearing Havoc jerseys that swallow them whole, clutching Sharpies and programs.
I should walk past them.
A little girl at the front has her arm in a cast. She looks at me like I'm supposed to matter.
"Can you sign my cast?"
Her voice comes out small. Hopeful. It pisses me off.
I crouch down. "What happened?"
"I fell playing hockey. Like you."
Something twists in my chest. "Hockey's hard."
"I know. But I'm not quitting."
"Good." I take the Sharpie and sign her cast carefully. "Don't quit. Wear your pads next time."
She beams like I just handed her the Stanley Cup. The other kids swarm forward with programs and jerseys. I sign everything they shove at me even though my hand cramps.
When the last one runs off, I stand up and catch Scout watching from across the lot.
I shove my hands in my pockets and walk past her. Whatever she thinks she figured out about me? I’m delighted for her to be wrong.
Chapter Three
Scout
My arms are full again. Story of my life. Four coffees rattle in a cardboard tray balanced on my left hand. Practice schedules press against my chest. A roll of hockey tape is wedged between my elbow and ribs because someone asked for it and I've already forgotten who.
I'm basically a walking supply closet at this point.
The Havoc hallway hums with post-loss tension. Skates scrape concrete. Voices echo. The stench of sweat and rubber permeates everything. Hockey pads get this uniquely awful smell, collectively a truly terrible stench that’s stomach-churning. Everywhere that a door can be propped open with a huge fan has one full blast, blowing the smell around so that it’s somewhat tolerable in the locker rooms and gym.
The locker room has a certainwe lost and everyone's pissy about itvibe going on. Hunter Huxley paces like a caged bear with a grudge. Beck Tate mutters curses while ripping tape off his stick like it personally offended him. Jett Huxley barks orders at rookies. Grayson Reed laughs too loud at nothing until Beck tells him to shut the hell up.Connor Li tapes his stick in silence, probably wishing he could teleport somewhere else.
Same, Connor. Same.
Juliet Monroe is the only thing keeping this powder keg from exploding. She moves through the room with her clipboard, smoothing tensions like some kind of hockey whisperer. The giant sapphire on her ring finger catches the light every time she gestures, which is often.
She's married to Hunter "the Chainsaw" Huxley, and somehow they work. Tiny, composed Juliet and her massive, scowling husband. I've watched them together when they think no one's looking. The way she whispers in his ear and he softens against her like warm butter.
