Page 111 of On the Breakaway

We won 2-0.

The team erupts around me, celebrating the road victory. By the time we make it back to the locker room, I’m moving on autopilot, showering and dressing as quickly as possible before anyone can give me the third degree.

When I manage to escape the locker room, my bag slung over one shoulder and my damp hair twisted into a messy knot at the back of my head, all I want is ten uninterrupted minutes alone and a bed to crawl into so I can pretend my entire life isn’t slowly turning into a dumpster fire.

“Avery.”

I look up to find one of the trainers jogging toward me through the hallway, her expression somewhere between amused and curious.

“I was just coming to find you.”

“Congratulations,” I deadpan. “You found me.”

“There’s a hockey player waiting for you in the friends and family area.”

My feet stop moving. “A hockey player?”

“A very attractive hockey player,” she clarifies. “Tall. Brown hair. Suit.”

My stomach drops and flips at the exact same time.

Grayson.

His game ended hours ago.

And despite spending the entire day convincing myself that talking to him would be a bad idea, that last night changed nothing, that we’re fundamentally incompatible, warmth still spreads through me knowing that he came here anyway.

Some pathetic part of me is excited.

“Thanks,” I say, reigning in the restless energy now coursing through me.

The trainer grins knowingly before heading in the opposite direction.

My feet move faster than they should as I make my way down the hallway, nerves tightening with every turn.

Because if Grayson starts looking at me the way he looked at me last night, all soft and earnest, there’s a very real chance I’ll forget every reason we’re an awful idea and end up right back in his bed.

I smile to myself, turning the corner into the lobby area, but my heart completely falls out of my chest when I round the corner.

Because it isn’t Grayson.

It’s Damon.

I almost don’t even recognize him, having not seen him since I disappeared from his apartment.

The suit.

The dark hair.

His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscle ticking from halfway across the room.

He’s leaning against the wall near the entrance with his hands shoved into the pockets of an expensive charcoal suit, clearly having come straight from whatever media obligations followed his game earlier. The moment his eyes find mine, every bit of hope that had been building inside me curdles into something cold.

Not today.

Not after the day I’ve had.

Not after months of rebuilding myself and finally getting him out of my head.