“Goodnight, Erin. Thank you for being my date today.”
I pull away, my fists clenching. I want to wrap her up in my arms and hold her until morning. But this next phase isn’t about me. It’s about her. She needs space. Time to breathe and understand whatever’s going on in her head. And I’ll always give her what she needs.
“I’ll see you soon, baby.”
Cold air slicesacross my face as The Hellions skate around me. I let my head tip back, eyes shutting for a second, just long enough for the loss to settle in the air.
I’ve never been one to hate a team before, but lately, every time I see The Hellions, all I can think about is the blinding swish of red flashing behind our net. The way the crowd gasps, it’s as if they’re taking the punches with us.
We lose, and it fucking sucks. Every emotion tied to the color hits me as they intercept the puck and score the winning goal on our home ice.
I know Logan is already beating himself up about it, but when he mumbles his apology to Hayes for the pass and can’t meet anyone’s eyes, his disappointment in himself somehow hurts more than the actual goal.
They had their player placed in the perfect spot. Remembering how it unfolded, we practically passed the puck right to them. The second they took possession of the puck, it was over.
My movements are sluggish as I skate off the ice after shaking hands with the other team. The Tornadoes walk down the tunnel, heads bowed, in quiet agony.
Silent and defeated.
We fought hard. My legs are jelly, and I know we gave it everything we had. But tonight, The Hellions performed better, and we paid the price.
The smell of sweat, ice, and frustration linger in the locker room. Gloves, sticks, and helmets smack the metal and tiles. Someone mutters a curse. Logan slams his fist into his locker, but no one says anything.
We’ve all been there.
It sucks, but he needs to deal with it in his own way. Just as we all have. It’s a tough loss, but we’ll turn it around.
We always do.
By the time I get home after post-game interviews, I want to collapse on the floor. Even stripping off my clothes is the equivalent of lifting weights, but I know if I crash straight into bed, I’ll regret it in the morning. I jump in the jacuzzi, letting the soothing jets pelt me from every direction.
It’s pure bliss.
Steam curls around me, but it’s not enough to drown out the images of Erin on her doorstep four days ago—her eyes glassy, her lips trembling, and the way she held her breath.
I lift my phone from the drink holder and tap on her contact. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, but before I can type out a message to her, the group chat starts pinging with notifications.
WE’RE THE TORNADOES, BITCHES!
Rudy: Does anyone know why Goose is acting weird?
Rudy: And by anyone, I mean you, Pretty Boy.
Oliver: Weird, how?
Rudy: She’s been sending one-word replies, and when I asked if she wanted to hang out tonight, she said, ‘some other time.’ @Chase did something happen on your date I should know about?
Hayes: Does tagging the person you want a response from do anything special when they’re already in the group chat?
Oliver: Aww, look at Dad asking the tech questions.
Hayes: Again, I’ll remind you I’m the same age as you, dickhead.
Rudy: @Chase, please answer at your earliest convenience.
Austin: Pretty sure if he did do something he’s not going to tell you. You did threaten to be the reason he doesn’t have any offspring.
Me: It was hardly a threat.
