“Williamston!” Coach shouts as I skate by. “Wake up!”
I nod, pushing myself harder, skating faster. But even as my lungs burn and sweat trickles down my back, my mind keeps wandering.
And I miss another pass.
Then another.
And I collide with a defenseman from the other team.
The first period ends with us down by one. Coach tears into us in the locker room, but his words wash over me like white noise. I’m nodding, agreeing, promising to do better, but all I can think about is Chey and that stupid article and how I’ve probably ruined any chance I had with her before I even realized I wanted one.
“What’s going on with you?” Cam asks as we head back to the ice for the second period. “You’re playing like you’ve never seen a hockey stick before.”
“Just an off night,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I’ll pull it together.”
But I don’t.
The second period is, if anything, worse than the first. I’m struggling to keep up with plays I could normally execute in my sleep.
Coach benches me for half the period, a humiliation I haven’t experienced since my rookie year.
During a timeout, Kade approaches. “What’s going on? Are you sick or something?”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to admit the truth.
“Is this about that article? The one with you and Cheyenne?”
The fact that he knows—that everyone probably knows—makes my face heat up. “It’s not—it’s nothing,” I stammer. “That was just a stupid tabloid thing.”
Kade raises an eyebrow. “Look, whatever’s going on, you need to deal with it. The team needs you to be focused.”
He’s right, of course.
Luckily, I’m able to pull myself together enough in the third period. I make a few decent plays, even assist on a goal. Blaze, Cam, and Paul carry the team to a narrow victory, but I know I was more of a liability than an asset tonight.
In the locker room after the game, the mood is subdued despite the win. I sit in front of my locker longer than necessary, staring at my skates, avoiding eye contact with teammates who are surely wondering what the heck happened to me out there.
I check my phone, a reflex I can’t seem to break. No messages from Cheyenne. Not that I expected any, but the disappointment still stings.
“Post-game meet and greet in ten minutes,” one of the PR assistants calls into the locker room. “Just the usual routine, guys.”
I groan internally. The last thing I want to do right now is paste on a smile and pretend everything’s fine for a bunch of fans. But it’s part of the job, so I shower quickly and change into the team-approved outfit: jeans and a blue button-down that matches our team colors.
The meet-and-greet area is already crowded when we arrive. Fans line up for autographs, photos, and brief conversations. I go through the motions, signing jerseys and posters, smiling for selfies, making the same small talk I always do.
And then I see them—the blonde and the brunette approaching our table. I recognize them both from previous games. The blonde, especially. Kaylie or Kylie, or something like that. We made out once after a game last season. She’s been a regular at these events ever since.
“Dylan,” she purrs, leaning across the table so her low-cut top reveals exactly what she wants me to see. “Great game tonight.”
It wasn’t, and we both know it, but that’s not why she’s here.
“Thanks,” I reply, my standard response to compliments I don’t deserve.
“Some of us are going to The Velvet Lounge after this,” she continues, handing me her phone for a selfie. “You should join us. It’s been way too long since we caught up.”
Her hand lingers on my arm as she poses for the photo, her body pressed against mine in a way that leaves no doubt about what “catching up” would entail.
And I feel ... nothing. No interest. No spark. Not even the basic appreciation for her obvious beauty that would have been automatic for me just a few weeks ago.
