I set my skates down and tried to figure out how to answer that. “I don't know. Maybe. He was there, we talked, and then I gave him my number and left.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He hasn't called or texted.” I pulled my phone out of my bag and checked it again even though I'd looked at it five minutes ago. Still nothing. “I don't even know if he's going to.”
Jace was quiet for a second, and then he said carefully, “Maybe give it more than eighteen hours before you spiral?”
“I'm not spiraling.”
“You missed a pass to Dmitri that my grandmother could have made, and she's been dead for six years.” Jace's tone was gentle, but the point landed anyway. “You're spiraling. Which is fine, honestly. This is a big deal. Just maybe try to keep it off the ice until we get through playoffs?”
I knew he was right. Knew I needed to pull myself together and focus on the team and the postseason we'd worked all season to qualify for. But knowing that didn't make it any easier to stop checking my phone every ten minutes or thinking about the way Soren had looked at me across the bar.
“I'll get it together,” I said, shoving my phone into my jacket pocket. “Sorry for being a disaster today.”
“You're not a disaster. You're just human.” Jace stood up and clapped me on the shoulder. “Get a shower, go home, get some sleep, and stop checking your phone like it's going to spontaneously combust if you look away.”
I managed a weak smile. “No promises.”
I grabbed my towel and stood up, and I'd barely made it three steps toward the showers before Finn's voice rang out across the locker room.
“Hey Cap, you planning on showing up to the actual playoffs or are you gonna keep passing to invisible guys?”
I flipped him off without turning around. “Shut up, Finn.”
“I'm serious, man. I've seen better decision-making from a zamboni.” Finn was grinning, I could hear it in his voice. “You know what a zamboni is, right? Big machine, goes in circles, occasionally runs into the boards?—”
“I know what a fucking zamboni is.”
“Just checking. Thought maybe you forgot after today's performance.”
“You should be concerned about shutting your mouth before I make you skate suicides tomorrow,” I shot back.
Dmitri's voice came from a few stalls down, dry as hell. “Captain cannot make Finn skate suicides. Finn already skates like he is being punished.”
The locker room cracked up, and I heard Finn sputter indignantly. “Excuse me, my skating is beautiful. It's like poetry on ice.”
“Poetry written by drunk toddler,” Dmitri said calmly.
“Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all?—”
“There is no second,” Tate cut in from somewhere near the benches. “Dmitri's right. You skate like you're constantly surprised the ice is slippery.”
“I hate all of you,” Finn announced. “Every single one of you is dead to me.”
“Good,” Cole's voice joined in. “Maybe you'll finally stop asking me to grab you coffee.”
“That was one time!”
“It was six times this week.”
I couldn't help grinning despite the shift I'd had. This was exactly what locker room banter was supposed to be — ruthless, stupid, and somehow still affectionate underneath all of it.
“At least Finn's consistent,” I said. “Unlike me today, apparently.”
“Damn right you weren't consistent,” Finn said, but his tone had shifted slightly. Less teasing, more genuine. “You good, Rook? For real?”
“I'm fine.”
