I strip out of my suit, throwing on a pair of boxer briefs and collapsing on the empty bed.
Emphasis on empty.
I’ve spent plenty of time alone in hotel rooms, traveling with the team.
But I’ve never felt so lonely.
I stare up at the smooth white plaster ceiling, the lone beam of light from the bedside lamp casting a glowing circle. Every inch of my body hurts. From the hits, the skating, the fight.
The spot that aches the most, though, is my chest.
And it’s not from the puny shove 32 sent my way.
No, this has Tori Prince written all over it.
I check my phone again, staring at her gorgeous face on the screen.
Sunshine.
Guess I earned the cold shoulder.
My fingers tap out the text I should have sent last night:I’m sorry.
With a shaky inhale, I hit ‘send,’ the whoosh loud in the spacious room.
I hawk the phone for five minutes, ten.
After fifteen, I give up and click the light off.
Tori’s not going to text me back.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
The next morning I board the plane with the team. My stupid heart hopes to spot her dark eyes and scarlet lips, catch the familiar scent of her perfume.
Sit next to her and talk things out. Apologize in person.
For losing the game, losing control.
As soon as I step on board, I scan the seats. Prince and Keller up front. Harbor next to Weston. Morrison and Ford. Dr. Sparks. The trainer.
No Tori.
I swallow down my disappointment and shuffle to an empty row, bypassing the open seat next to Callum.
Maybe she’s running late.
I take the window seat and kick out my legs, avoiding the cold stare of management. I don’t need their bullshit this early in the morning.
The flight attendant offers me a beverage, and I grab awater and an orange. The pilot comes on, talking about the weather pattern and flight time.
The doors close.
My heart sinks, a hard lump in my throat.
She’s not coming.
