On the nearest screen, the replay was already running. A player in blue and white wound up, released, and the puck rocketed past the goalie’s glove. The camera then cut to the celebration: teammates swarming, gloves tapping helmets, and in the center of it all, grinning like he’d won the lottery . . .
Skyler Shaw.
He looked different on the ice, bigger somehow, the pads adding bulk to his already broad frame. His helmet hid most of his face, but that smile was unmistakable. Even through the TV screen, even from across a crowded bar—hell, from across the country—it made something in my chest go tight.
The broadcast switched to another replay, this one in slow motion.
Skyler received the pass and settled the puck, then his whole body coiled before the release. The announcers were gushing about his wrist shot, his accuracy, and his ice-cold composure.
“—and that’s his fifteenth of the season. Shaw continues to prove why he wears the C for this franchise—”
I was staring.
I knew I was staring.
I couldn’t seem to stop.
Someone snapped their fingers in front of my face.
“Earth to Jacks.” Benji was giving me a look somewhere between amused and concerned. “You okay? You’ve been holding that same lime for like thirty seconds.”
I looked down. Sure enough, a lime wedge was clutched in my fingers, forgotten.
“Yeah, sorry. Zoned out.”
“Watching the game?” Benji glanced at the screen, where the broadcast had moved on to the next play. “Didn’t know you were that into hockey.”
“I’m not. I . . . got distracted.”
Benji’s eyes narrowed, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. He glanced at the TV again, then back at me, and I knew with horrible certainty that he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear.
“Isn’t that the guy who—”
“Garnish tray’s done.” I cut him off, shoving the lime into its container with more force than necessary. “I’m gonna go check on the floor.”
I escaped before he could finish the sentence, weaving into the crowd and putting as much distance between myself and the bar as possible.
It didn’t mean anything.
I’d been tired or distracted, and my eyes had landed on the TV at a random moment when the announcer’s voice cut through the crowd. It could havebeenanygoal, byanyplayer.
That it wasSkylerwas coincidence.
Pure coincidence.
I spent the rest of the night deliberatelynotlooking at the stupid TV screens.
Chapter 6
Skyler
Thirty thousand feet above Kansas, surrounded by the best teammates a guy could ask for, I was alone.
Not literally.
The plane was full.
Murph was passed out two rows ahead, his apish mouth hanging open, a thin line of drool connecting his chin to his shoulder. Erik had his sleep mask on and noise-canceling headphones clamped over his ears, dead to the world. Tyler was curled against the window like an oversized cat, using his balled-up hoodie as a pillow.
