Page 36 of Westward

Meaning if I threw myself in the net like Lizzie said, I had to do it in a way that I wasn’t going to hurt myself. Hence, the stretching and the yoga.

My phone buzzed, and I quickly looked at my screen, hoping it was Lizzie again. I frowned when I saw the readout, though, confused as hell.

Unknown number

They should have hit you harder. You don’t deserve to play.

Unknown number

You’re a shit goalie.

Unknown number

I hope you die next time.

What the fuck? I was used to getting shit thrown at me online and even in person while on the ice, but I hadn’t had my number leaked in years. Having to change your phone number and deal with all of the subsequent accounts and other two-factor things was a headache in itself. Getting threats because a so-called hockey fan couldn’t understand reality was worse.

I quickly texted my agent and wondered what the fuck I was supposed to do. By the time I worked with my team and knew they’d handled it, I’d lost nearly an hour and didn’t want to work out. Hence why I needed to cardio or lift it out.

Not in the mood to lift right away, I got on the bike, put my AirPods in, and got to work. Doing yoga helped clear my mind, but with Lizzie taking up real estate there, it didn’t work like it used to. So maybe riding until my legs hurt, and I sweated through my workout gear, would help me get Lizzie off of my brain.

I set the resistance a little higher, climbing that mountain, and got to work. Thirty minutes in, my focus solely on my breathing, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I let out a scream.

I nearly fell off the bike, the pedals still going as my feet slipped out of the cages. Then I popped out an earbud and glared at superstar backup goalie, Jacob.

“What the fuck?”

Jacob held up both hands, eyes wide. However, his lips were pressed together as if he were afraid of laughing too hard. Oh, that little asshole. If he laughed, I’d have to beat him up, and then it would be a thing. And I liked this kid.

Kid. In his twenties.

I wasn’t the oldest person on the ice by far. There were a few goalies in their late thirties, early forties. Ones that had been on the ice and been my heroes when I’d been a teen. But now I was one of the older ones out there, still relatively healthy, but maybe ready for something else, and this kid was waiting in the wings.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

“I would believe that you’re sorry for scaring the shit out of me—and we might have to actually check if I shit my pants just then—if you weren’t laughing.”

“I can’t help it. That scream was so high-pitched. And please don’t make it a backup goalie job to check your pants. I feel like that’s some form of HR violation.”

“I’m not going to have you check my ass, Jacob. I can do that myself. And I didn’t shit myself. It was close, though. What the hell are you doing in Ashford Creek?”

The laughter in Jacob’s eyes dimmed a bit, and he looked down at the floor, his teeth worrying into his bottom lip.

“Did you do something? Do we need to call Coach? Whatever it is, I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Jacob’s gaze shot to me, and a wide smile covered his face.

“You really are a good person, you know that?”

“Why do you sound surprised? What’s going on, Jacob?”

“I’m not in trouble. I promise. My family was annoying me, and I felt bad about it, so I told them that I needed to go work on goalie shit with you. And since I didn’t really want to lie to my parents—who I adore—I found myself here. It was an easy flight to Denver, and the drive was nice. These mountains don’t seem real.”

Having hopped off the bike, I reached for a towel and wiped my face. We were in my home gym, and I had left it unlocked because I hadn’t thought about it, so anybody could have walked in. Including my teammate, who I hadn’t realized was here.

“I love Ashford Creek. There’s a reason why I come back. Do you want to talk about it? Actually, I’m going to make you talk about it. What’s up with your family?”

“It’s nothing.”