“Skyler, you’ve seemed different lately, more energized and focused. Something’s changed. What’s got you all fired up and scoring like this?”
It was a simple question, one she could’ve asked Erik or Tyler or any of the guys—but she’d asked me, and it hit me like a check I hadn’t seen coming.
My brain short-circuited.
Sheknew. She had to know.
Someone had seen me at Barbacks, seen me talking to Jacks, and now it was going to be everywhere. The headlines would write themselves.
NHL Captain Spotted at Gay Bar.
Shaw’s Secret Friendship with Former Football Star.
Lightning Star Dating a Man.
“I, uh . . .” My mouth was moving, but nothing coherent was coming out. “Just, you know, I’vebeen working hard, trying to stay focused, that sort of thing. The team’s been great, and, uh, we’re all trying to—I don’t know, to play our best hockey.”
The reporter frowned, unsatisfied with the non-answer. “Is there anything specific? A new routine? Something in your personal life that’s—”
“Nope. Nothing. Definitely nothing personal. No personal life here. None at all. Don’t have one. Just hockey.” I was already standing, already moving toward the exit. “Thanks everyone, appreciate the questions. Go, Bolts.”
I fled. Like a prisoner who’d dug out the last spoonful of dirt under the jail, I ran for my life. There were no other words for it. I practically sprinted out of the press room, ignoring the confused looks from our media coordinator, not stopping until I was back in the locker room with the door closed behind me and my chest heaving like I’d just run a marathon.
What the hell was wrong with me?
It was a simple question.
A softball, really.
Fuck, it was the kind of generic “what’s your secret” fluff that reporters asked all the time. And I’d fallen apart.
Because for one terrifying moment, I’d thought she was asking about Jacks, which made no sense.
Nobody knew about Jacks.
There wasn’t even anything to know about Jacks.
We were friends. We texted. We’d had one conversation in a booth and made plans for tacos.
That wasn’t a story.
It wasn’t anything.
So why had my first instinct been to panic?
The locker room had emptied while I was gone. A few guys lingered, packing up, but most had already headed out to meet family or catch late dinners. I sank onto the bench in front of my stall and stared at nothing, trying to get my heart rate under control.
“Hey.”
I startled and looked up.
Tyler was standing a few feet away, bag slung over his shoulder, concern etched into his features.
“You okay? You left the presser like your ass was on fire.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” He dropped his bag and sat down on the bench across from me. “What’s going on, Cap? And don’t say nothing, because I’ve known you too long to buy that shit.”
