I stand and grip the boards, my knuckles white.
"Settle down, Cap," Coach says.
I can't.
Between periods, I follow the guys into the locker room, they're deflated.
"Hey." I stand in the center of the room. Making them look at me. "We've come back from worse. Two goals is nothing."
I'm pacing. Fired up. I catch Jo watching me from the corner where she's taping Sully's fingers. There's something in her expression I can't read. I hold her gaze a beat too long before turning back to the guys and continuing my speech.
Third period. We come out with more fight. The crowd gets behind us, stomping, chanting.
Fish buries a rebound, and the arena explodes.
2-1.
I lean forward, come on. Jo's beside me now, close enough that her shoulder nearly touches my arm. She's invested, too, lips parted, watching the ice. For a moment, we're on the same side.
Then Chicago scores with two minutes left. I feel her eyes on me. I don't look at her.Ican't.
Buzzer goes.
3-1.
The arena deflates, the guys trudge off, and I stay rooted behind the bench, staring at the empty ice.
We lost.
Fuck.
The hallway outside the locker room is quiet when I finally make my way down. Most of the guys have already showered and left, the loss hangs heavily in the air. I round the corner and stop. She's there, standing outside the training room, a tablet clutched to her chest, her dark hair falling loose around her face. She looks exhausted. She looks up and notices me.
"Don't," she says before I can speak.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say I told you so." She rolls her eyes at me.
I step closer. "Wasn't going to."
"Liar. I can see it on your face."
She's right, the words are burning on my tongue. "My team needed me."
"Your team needs you healthy." She steps toward me, chin raised. Defiant and so fucking beautiful. "You'll have the rest of the season to get back that loss. But if you'd played tonight and made it worse? You'd have nothing."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
The hallway is empty, just us and the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting shadows across her face. Her chestrises and falls with quick breaths, cheeks flushed pink, eyes blazing with that stubborn fire that makes me want to shake her.
Or kiss her. Or both.
I step closer. She doesn't back away, just lifts her chin. Like she's daring me to say something, do something.
"You think you know what's best for me?" My voice is low.
"I know you'd rather destroy yourself than sit out one game." She matches my tone, her words sharp. "That's not strength, Emmett. That's stupidity."
