“I’ll text Lex to give her a heads-up, just in case. Rally the troops.” Ryder steps away from me and grabs his phone from his locker, quickly tapping away.
I need to check on Indie. Make sure she’s okay.
Earlier, I’d thrown my phone in my duffel bag, and I reach for it now to dig it out.
“It’s time, men.” Coach Fry’s deep voice is cold water dumped over my head. “This is what we’ve been working for. I know we’re disappointed about our loss last night. No one wants to be down by one going into game four, but this is our chance to tie things up. Time to go out there, play our asses off, andshow the Sharks that they’re not the apex predator in this barn tonight.”
Everyone on the team cheers, hyping themselves and each other up. Everyone except for me, Maddox, Griffin, Ryder, and Logan. They’re watching me as I dig through my bag, frustration growing with every second I can’t find my damn phone.
“Navarro. You good?” Fry’s eyes narrow, the amber skin of his brow furrowing.
Shaking myself out of it, I force myself to nod. “Yeah, Coach.”
“Good. Then let’s get moving.” He slaps me on the back as I reluctantly abandon my efforts to find my phone, get to my feet, and move on autopilot toward the visitor entrance to the ice. “We’re counting on you tonight, son.”
We’re counting on you.
The simple phrase reverberates through my head, growing louder and louder.
They’re counting on me.
My parents are counting on me.
Indie’s counting on me.
I don’t have time to freak out about some Hollywood weasel. Maybe he’s in the Twin Cities, maybe he’s not. It doesn’t matter. Indie’s with Lola and the rest of the ladies. She’s safe. She’s fine. There’s nothing I can do to change any of this right now, so I need to push it out of my mind. I can’t afford to let it take up space.
Right now, I need to focus on the game. I need to win it for the men and women of this organization. And I need to win it for Indie. Because if I fuck up after this article came out, my girl will never hear the end of it.
My chest tightens. The gear I’ve worn daily for decades grows heavy. My helmet is stifling.
It’s hard to breathe.
“Hey.” Maddox’s concerned voice breaks through the ringing in my ears.
When did that start?
“Breathe. It’s going to be okay.”
I nod. The movement feels wooden. “Yeah. Of course.”
I must sound convincing because Maddox nods at me, pats me on the back, and focuses his attention on the ice as the announcer introduces us to overwhelmingboosand jeers from Florida fans.
When it’s my turn to step onto the ice, it feels like my body weighs a thousand pounds.
Everyone is counting on me.
I listen for the sound of cracking ice, ready for it to swallow me whole. All I hear is static and the hammering of my pulse in my ears.
I can’t fuck this up.
forty-seven
INDIGO
Something is wrong.
From the very first face-off, Sebastian’s movements have been wooden and slower than normal. It’s difficult to tell from watching a televised game versus in-person because I can only see what the camera operator focuses on, but it looks like his teammates see it, too, because they keep saying stuff to him every time they skate past the crease.
