He keeps it out of the net. That’s all everyone else seems to care about. The roar that follows is loud, but he stays down after the whistle.
Long enough that my stomach bottoms out.
He’s clutching his arm against his side, like he’s waiting for something to feel right again. When he stands, he makes a slow circle, tapping each post the way he always does when he’s trying to reset.
Except his arm continues to stay tucked close to his side now.
I don’t even notice the bench door open until I see another goalie skating out.
My pulse spikes.
I learned after the last game that they don’t pull him unless something’s wrong.
Cooper doesn’t argue. He just skates off. When he reaches the bench, he pulls off his mask with his left hand, his right barely lifting to help.
He continues out of the arena and down the hallway toward the locker room, but it looks like he stops halfway to talk to someone, likely one of the trainers.
From here, it looks normal. It doesn’t feel normal, though.
The game starts up again without him. I cheer when Atlee jumps up beside me. I try to follow along with the game, butmy eyes keep drifting back to the bench and to the ice where he should be.
When the final buzzer sounds and they win, the whole place exhales. People start talking all at once, replaying everything that just happened. But I’m not really listening.
I pull my phone out. My fingers hover over the screen longer than necessary before I type out a message.
Me: You scared me a little tonight. I hope you’re okay.
I stare at it, hoping he sees it from wherever he is in the locker rooms, before typing out another.
Me: I’m heading home to the farm with Atlee.
Home. Not my place. Not the loft.
Home.
Even as we stand and file out with the crowd, I keep checking my phone.
Atlee bumps my shoulder. “Everything will be okay,” she says. “He’s as tough as nails.”
“I know,” I say. But knowing doesn’t lessen the unease coiling in my stomach.
As we step outside, I glance back at the arena once more, like I might see Cooper standing there, a smirk on his face, ready to tell me I’m worried over nothing.
He isn’t, though.
As I climb into Atlee’s BMW, pulling my jacket around myself tighter, one thought keeps circling in my mind.
He’s too good at pretending nothing bothers him. What if it really does?
Chapter Twenty-One
Cooper
The adrenaline doesn’t disappear when I leave the ice. It just settles deep under my skin.
By the time I’m walking down the tunnel, my helmet tucked beneath my arm, the noise from the arena has already faded behind me.
My shoulder has gone from hot to heavy. Like a weight I can’t shrug off.
