How am I supposed to explain it to Chloe if Finn doesn’t come back?
How is Finn going to remain mine if she’s halfway around the world?
How will I deal with that empty space beside me in bed, the quiet kitchen, the demon kittens if she’s not here?
How the fuck am I supposed to exist in this house while enduring the grief of losingher?
But how can I possibly dream of asking her to give up all she’s worked for…
To stay?
“Fuck,”I growl, shoving the asshole off me. He falls backwards and I scoop up the puck, start carrying it down the ice.
I do it with my head up, looking for openings, looking for a pass, but the Sierra have clogged the center and I’m forced to dump it into our offensive zone, and hope my teammates can chase it down.
I turn, intending to get the fuck off the ice.
It certainly hasn’t been a record-breaking game for me. I’ve barely done anything. The best I can say is that I haven’t done anything to cost the team.
Until I finish that thought, that is.
I’ve kept my head up, but I haven’t looked behind me, and when I turn toward the bench, I’m only paying a half of beat of attention to my positioning.
Which means I trip the asshole coming up behind me.
Worse, that asshole is Lake Jordan.
And he always gets the fucking calls—especially the ones where he’s blatantly tripped right in front of the fucking ref.
Who throws his arm up.
“Fuck,” I groan as my teammates touch the puck and the play is blown dead.
Lake pushes himself up from the ice and winks at me. “Thanks.”
I glare at him then skate to the box, sitting down to take my two-minute timeout.
Which unfortunately only lasts thirty-two seconds before Lake taps a goal home.
“Fuck,” I hiss as I take the skate of shame to the bench.
“Shake it off, Calder,” Coach says, patting me on the shoulder before she goes to discuss something with another player.
I do my best to follow that edict.
But, fuck, it’s hard.
My mind is not in the game. It’s back at home, in the kitchen, staring at Chloe’s drawing, and freaking the fuck out that I’ve made a giant mistake that is going to cost us all.
I jump out for my shifts. I skate and shoot and pass…
Miss a clean chance to tie it up in the third.
Nearly get another penalty the shift after that.
And then spend the rest of the game sitting on the bench, watching my teammates even the score…and then pull ahead with thirty seconds left before the final buzzer.
When we’re all done with press—and thank fuck no one wants to talk to my sorry ass—King sinks down next to me, towel around his waist, hair damp from the shower. “You all right?”
