It takes a physical effort not to wince with every touch—I don’t mind it with the guys, but there’s something about physical contact from a guy who has power over me that takes me back to a dark place. Not because I think Sergio will hurt me. Because my body still expects authority to come with impact.Sergio has never been the kind of guy to lash out, though. Not physically.
“Thanks.” I smile with my lips pressed together.
Sergio moves on. My phone buzzes again, and I glance down, expecting to see another message from my mom. It’s not.
Remy:I watched the game. You were incredible tonight. Proud of you.
Proud of me. I let the sentiment settle deep enough to feel dangerous. Remy’sproudof me. I stare at the text for a long time. Proud is such a specific word. It’s not a word you use for strangers. When my fans are delighted by my performance, they’re proud to wear our colors, but they’re not proud ofme.People feel pride in the things that belong to them or the people close to them.
Am I overthinking this?
Proud of you.
That’s the word my mom used, too.
Which probably shouldn’t affect me this much psychologically, but here we are.
For a foolish ten seconds, I let myself imagine that this is my life. That I have my team, my mom, and my girlfriend in my corner. The image settles into my chest with terrifying ease, like some part of me has already started making room for her there. That Remy cares about me as much as I care about her.
Impossible, I know. She likes me enough to let me have her, but she’ll get bored with me eventually. People usually do once they realize I’m more complicated than I look. And when her job is done, she’ll move on and put as much distance between us as possible. I don’t even blame her for that, but Idowant to hold on to how good this feels for another delusional breath.
Owen:Thanks, Remy. That means a lot, coming from you.
I disconnect my phone from the Wi-Fi and shove it into my pocket. Reality is going to catch up with me eventually. I just want to enjoy this while it lasts.
Before reality reminds me that I was never built for keeping good things.
Chapter Eighteen
Remy
The day after Owen returns to Las Vegas, I show up at the arena with a file of materials for our next check-in with Dante. There’s no morning skate today, and I showed up early in case Owen has time for an in-person debrief. Not that I need an excuse to see Owen anymore, which is probably its own separate problem.
I don’t even make it to the elevators when Renee intercepts me. “Good morning, Remy! Are you here to review footage with Owen?”
“Oh. Sure?” I glance around for any sign of Owen. “Is he here already?”
“He’s in the film room. Down that hall, fourth door on the right.”
Renee seems to think nothing of these directions. She has no idea, and can never know, that my heart is pounding at the thought of being in a room with Owen again. I hurry toward the film room before my expression can give me away.
Yesterday, when I was watching him play, I felt something. Not arousal, not guilt, but a warm radiance in my chest every time Owen blocked a puck. He played well, and more importantly, he looked like a man in the flow. I’d love to tell myself that this is professional pride, but I’ve never been a very good liar. Professional pride doesn’t usually make my chest ache when somebody smiles.
The room Renee directed me to is dark, with only a small sliver of light snaking across the floor. I peek inside, confused by the lack of sound. Owen is standing in front of a large screen, arms crossed, face much too close to the display, squinting at animage of himself. The ridiculous part is that he still looks good squinting at grainy sports footage.
“Hey!” I squeak. Sneaking up on him might be a bad idea, but the pitch of my voice is anything but reassuring.
Owen turns to me. “Oh. Remy.” His slow smile is sweet enough to make me lightheaded. I’m starting to think Owen smiles so rarely because the effect would probably be dangerous if he did it all the time. “I was just watching the replay. Do you want to…?” He gestures the remote toward the TV.
“Sure.” I scurry inside and dump my things on one of the small tables.Breathe, Remy.Spending time in a dark room with him in the arena only feels illicit because of what we’ve been doing in our free time.
Owen sits on one end of the long sofa, and I join him, though I squeeze myself against the opposite arm. There’s room for at least two, maybe three of his teammates to sit between us, though I haven’t seen any signs that they’re in the building.
Owen hits play, and the game resumes. It plays for a while with the volume on low. Then, for no reason I can discern, he hits pause and scrolls back a few frames.
“What are we looking at, exactly?” I’m studying on-screen Owen, who doesn’t appear to be doing anything noteworthy in this clip.
“Watching Haggerty.” He points at the screen with his remote. I’m not sure which one Haggerty is, but I assume he’s one of the guys in red. “He switched strategies mid-game. For the first period, he was focused on Viktor. He kept fucking with his stick, blocking passes, knocking him into the glass… But partway through the second period, he changed tactics.” He points to the screen again.
