I flex my knuckles, the familiar gnaw of aggravation nipping at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not to be a dick —”
“Which means you’re absolutely going to say something dickish…”
“I know me and Wes gave you shit about Tori. But I’ve seen how you look at her. And how she looks at you. You’re…different when she’s around. Calmer.”
I gnaw the inside of my cheek and stare at the bench. Callum’s not wrong.
He clears his throat. “Sometimes you have to fight for things worth having.”
His words land hard, straight in my chest.
“For what it’s worth — Tori’s worth fighting for. Don’t screw that up, Bennett.”
“Dude —” I hold up my palm. “Why do you assume I screwed things up?”
He bites his lip, blinking. “You smell like last call, for one thing. Your eyes are bloodshot, you were late to practice. Kinda the tell-tale signs of a Bennett spiral.”
“Fuck off, Callum.”
“Just think about what I said.” He punches in the code to his locker without another word and I storm out of the locker room more pissed off than before.
I try to sleep, try to eat. Try to do anything other than obsess over Tori.
And fail miserably.
I still haven’t heard from her. She didn’t check in with me and wasn’t on the bus.
At least the game’s about to start, and I can go take my aggression out on the puck.
Keller holds his hand up and a hush falls over the noisy locker room. I lean on my stick, adrenaline already buzzing through me.
“This game means a lot to the franchise. We’re back in New York and they’re going to boo you the second you touch the puck. Let ‘em. We’re not here to win a popularity contest — we’re here to win a hockey game. We’ve got a shit ton to prove. To ourselves. To the other team. To the city we left behind. Now go play the best fucking hockey of your life.”
Keller locks his steel gray gaze on mine and I absorb those words, feel them deep in my bones.
Play the best fucking hockey of your life.
Done.
We stream out of the locker room and through the tunnel, taking the ice. Nerves ping through me and I’m ready for action.
Ready to prove who I am and what I can do.
The puck drops and Weston slaps it my direction. I go to settle it, but their winger gets there first. Stick on my blade, shoulder on my hip—just enough to knock me off my line. The puck skips past my reach and I have to chase.
Lungs burning, I race to recover.
And lose.
The Sounders score a goal in the first fucking minute. Gold lights flash, the horn blares, and the crowd erupts.
Motherfucker.
I glide toward the bench, jaw clenched.
I’m already screwing things up.
