ZANE
Practice that morning is brutal. Not because Calloway is punishing us - though he absolutely would if we gave him a reason - but because half the team clearly stayed out too late celebrating the win.
I, surprisingly, feel fine.
Which Mercer finds deeply suspicious.
“Blake,” he says during a water break, squinting at me from the bench, “you’re way too cheerful for someone who was out as late as the rest of us.”
“I’m not cheerful.”
“You are.”
“I’m hydrated.”
“That’s not the issue.”
Russo drops onto the bench beside us, tugging off one glove. Sweat drips down his temples, but he looks as composed as always. “What’s the issue?”
Mercer gestures vaguely at me with his water bottle. “Blake’s weird mood. Has to be related to the girl he left with last night.”
Russo lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Now the entire team is paying attention. Barrett skates over, blades scraping against the ice. Even a couple of the defencemen drift toward us, clearly sensing entertainment.
“It was just someone from the party,” I say, because it’s obvious they’re not letting this go.
“Who was at the party?” Barrett asks, catching a fragment of the conversation.
Mercer ignores the interruption. “So,” he presses, “when are you seeing her again?”
I take a long drink of water, buying time. “I don’t know.”
Mercer narrows his eyes. “You don’t know.”
“No.”
Russo tilts his head. “You didn’t text her today?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I hesitate for half a second. Then I admit it. “I didn’t get her number.”
The silence lasts exactly one beat.
Then Mercer explodes. “You didn’t get her number?!”
Russo looks genuinely offended, which is rare. “Blake.”
“She left,” I say defensively.
“Why didn’t you just get her number before she left?”
“Well, she-” I stop.
Mercer’s grin grows slowly, like a predator who’s spotted weakness. “She what?”
