“Don’t worry about us. We’re good.”
“But—”
“I’m calling because you’ve been moody and I’m making sure you’re not about to go postal or something,” she informs me, clearly diverting the conversation to safer territory. “It’s not like you to go silent on me.”
We don’t talk every day, but there are weeks when we speak more than others. Mostly because of our schedules. Hers is five times as busy as mine most days, so I try not to bother her. But I know if I use that excuse, she won’t believe me. “I’m doing okay. Just keeping to myself and letting everyone live their lives.”
She hums. “While that’s kind of you, that doesn’t seem like the entire story. Want to try again?”
I check my watch. “No, because I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’m going to be late for practice and don’t feel like having your dad up my ass and threatening to sit me out for next week’s game.”
She groans. “Thomas, I want to talk to you.”
“Then I’ll call you when I’m done.”
It isn’t like I have anyone to speak to these days anyway.
“Do you mean it?”
I don’t know.“Yes,” I lie. “Talk later?”
“Fine. But if I don’t hear from you by the end of the night, I’m calling. And I won’t stop until you pick up. And if you dare turn your phone off—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Dimples,” I tell her to appease her from this rant. “I love you, and I’ll talk to you later.”
There’s a frown in her reply when she says, “I love you too.” And I don’t have time to think about why it’s there.
I also don’t think about the fact that she called me, which tells me she probably wanted to talk to me about more than what’s up my ass.
So, I’ll make it up to her later.
I have to.
Or all of this is for nothing.
*
The sound ofskates scraping against ice and bodies slamming into the boards is music to my ears. Unless, of course, it’s my body being rammed into the plexiglass by a two-hundred-pound man in full gear.
“You good, Moskins?” Hoffman calls out when Dawson releases me with a pat on the back.
Clarkson and a few others were murmuring about Yokav watching our practice from one of the suites. When I looked up, I saw him lurking above us like a king on his throne. And he’d been staring at me.
That’s inevitably when Dawson, the asshole, body slammed me for the puck.
“All good,” I yell back, smacking the wall as I push off it. At least there weren’t any bloody noses today. Yet. The day was still early.
Hoffman gathers us all back in the center of the ice. “Look, I know we all have our own shit going on. But being distracted out here isn’t going to help anyone.”
He doesn’t direct that comment at me, but he may as well have. Nobody else is slacking on their plays or being watched like a zoo animal. Just me. And everybody else probably suspects who the owner of the Fireflies is keeping an eye on.
“Our first game against the Islanders is going to be a good test to see where we stand under pressure. Remember one thing—preseason games may not count toward the Stanley Cup, but they still matter. This is our official introduction to the league. Ifwe want fans to root for us, then we need to prove we’re worth it. That means giving it our all from here on out.”
Richie Head smacks my chest. “Yeah, Moskins. Hear that?”
A few of the guys snicker, but quickly stop when I shoot them an unimpressed scowl.
Clarkson clears his throat. “We all need to be at our best. I was slower on the last run and screwed up my pass. It threw things off.”
