“Bad night of sleep. I’ll recover.”
Lies.
I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this. But I’m sure the fuck not admitting that to Keller right now.
“Get out of here. Go to the trainer. Talk to Sparks. Do your deep breathing bullshit. I don’t care. But get it together before tonight. Otherwise, you’re riding the bench.”
He stalks away, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the ice.
Shit.
I need to get my head out of my ass.
But I don’t know how.
Helmet dangling from my fingers, I grab my gear and stalk toward the locker room.
The trainer can’t help this situation. And I’m not sitting across from Dr. Sparks and rehashing last night. Confessing how I feel about Tori — and that she clearly doesn’t feel the same way.
I rake a hand through my sweaty hair. It’s the hangover talking. That, and the bad practice on the heels of a fucking awful night.
Add in wounded pride. Because Tori watched Eleanor MacDonald humiliate me and didn’t say a word.
I’m still pissed about it.
But I miss her.
Her perfume on my skin. Her dark eyes sparkling when she laughs. Her body melting into mine when she loses control.
The way I catch her looking at me when she thinks I’m not watching — like I’m someone worth looking at.
I scrub my palm across my jaw, the realization hitting me harder than a bodycheck, no pads.
I’m in love with Tori Prince.
Fuck.
Not good.
Why her?
Because she’s everything. Smart, funny, the most beautiful challenge in the world.
And she makes me better.
A better man. A better player.
A better person.
And I can’t have her.
She made that clear last night. We don’t work in the real world. I’ll never be more than a bonus project she was forced to take on.
I still haven’t heard from her. Not a text, not a call, not a lousy fucking check-in.
Nothing.
I can’t admit that to Dr. Sparks. Not right now.
