Which makes me think he had no idea he’d be sitting this one out.
The camera pans wide across the bench. It’s quick, so I don’t catch him—just a blur of Rixton jerseys and my father pacing behind them like usual.
The other commentators talk about being cautious this late in the season. How Coach Dawson has experience leading teams to the playoffs, and how sitting your starters is a long-term approach.
Sasha brushes past me. “Is everything okay?” she asks, nodding toward the TV.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for another glass.
“Is it his shoulder? Is it still bothering him?”
I don’t want to tell her I don’t know because that would be a lie. I know it’s been bothering him, but we haven’t seen each other for a few days.
So I go with the most honest answer I can give. “I thought he was doing better. He seemed like he was anyway. I guess I don’t know what’s going on.”
She nods and presses her lips together in a forced smile.
The first period ends, and the teams skate off the ice. I use it as an opportunity to slip in the back and refill the ice. When I do, I pull out my phone and open our messages.
He still hasn’t responded to my texts since the night of the party, when I asked where he was and if he was okay.
I scroll up through our thread and land on a photo he sent me. It was one of the first messages we exchanged. It was a selfie he’d taken right before a game.
His hair was wet, either from sweating or from just getting out of the shower. I can’t be sure. He’s sitting in front of his stall without a shirt on.
He looks incredibly handsome with his sharp jawline and those piercing gray eyes. This was when his facial hair was a bit shorter, but the last time I saw him on campus, I noticed he had let it grow out a bit. Like he hadn’t shaved in a few days.
Butterflies settle in my stomach at the sight of him. Something pulls at my chest that I can’t describe in words, but it feels like longing. Like I miss him and hate this distance between us.
I swipe out of the photo and realize I was smiling to myself when my thumb hovers over the keyboard, debating if I want to send him a text.
I hope everything is okay.
I stare at it for another second, then delete it.
He’s got a game. If they’re sitting him for a reason, I don’t want to add something else for him to deal with.
I slip my phone into my apron and finish loading up the ice into a bin.
They don’t show him again, so I turn my attention to work, going through the motions of taking orders, wiping down the counter, and refilling whatever needs to be stocked.
As the minutes wind down on the third period, my phone vibrates against my leg. I glance at the clock on the screen. The game is tied.
Of course it is.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter to Sasha before slipping into the back room.
An unknown number flashes across my screen. I hesitate, then answer.
“Hello?”
There’s a beat before a man’s voice comes through. “Uh, hi. Is this Brinley Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, this is Caleb from County Line Towing. Just calling to let you know your car’s ready.”
I blink. “Already?”
