“Also, speaking of Cap—what’s going on there? He’s been like a wounded animal today.”
“Nothing. We’re fine.”
“You’re definitely not fine if you’re day drinking and hiding from him.” He studies me. “Whatever happened, that guy’s crazy about you. Like, annoyingly so. Won’t shut up about you.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He stands, stretches. “Anyway. Girl advice appreciated. And hey, if you ever need someone to just hang out with who isn’t all intense and brooding, I’m around. Could use more friends who don’t spend all their time talking about hockey.”
“Thanks, Rodriguez.”
“Anytime, Doc.” He heads for the door, then stops. “And seriously. Talk to Cap. Whatever it is, you two will figure it out.”
I don’t talktoRoman.
Instead I go home, check on Mom—she’s sleeping peacefully for once—and sit in my apartment staring at my phone.
Three texts from Roman, all from this afternoon.
Roman
You’re avoiding me
We should talk about the other night
Marnie. Text me back.
I type and delete five different responses. Each one sounds wrong—too casual, too serious, too much like I’m completely spiraling.
So I do what I always do when things get complicated: I turn off my phone and pretend the problem doesn’t exist.
Tomorrow. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Or the next day.
Or whenever Roman finally corners me and forces the conversation I’m not ready to have.
For now, I’m just going to sit here with my wine buzz and my anxiety and convince myself that avoiding things has ever actually worked.
Spoiler alert: it hasn’t.
18
ROMAN
The team planeto Canada is the usual chaos.
Brody and Dex arguing about whether jersey numbers 69 and 99 should be allowed in the NHL (they shouldn’t), Rodriguez filming everything for TikTok, Luca with his headphones on ignoring everyone like the world might end if someone interrupts his pre-game playlist.
We’ll be gone for ten days on this swing and I’m already feeling every minute of the tension between me and Marnie.
I’m supposed to be reviewing game tape on my tablet. Barrett wants us prepared for Montreal’s new defensive setup, their tendency to collapse low in the zone.
Instead I’m watching Marnie one row up and across the aisle, curled up with a book, completely absorbed in whatever she’s reading.
The cover’s visible from here—shirtless guy in goalie pads, title in cursive font:Five Hole Fantasy.
I lean forward between the seats. “Five Hole Fantasy? Really?”
