Page 39 of On the Breakaway

9

Grayson

The flight home feels twice as long after a loss.

The cabin lights are dimmed low, most of the team either asleep or pretending to be, but the tension is still heavy between the rows anyway. Headphones are on, and hoodies are up. Most quiet conversations fizzle out right after starting. Nobody wants to relive tonight.

I slouch deeper into my seat and stare out the window into complete darkness, jaw tight enough to ache.

We should’ve won that game.

Instead, we spent the entire time looking disconnected and sloppy. Nathan being injured is throwing everything off worse than anyone wants to admit. Losing his points was bad enough, but his balance on the ice would’ve made all the difference tonight. He keeps the bench calm and has chemistry with everyone he plays with.

Without him, nothing is working.

Beside me, Wyatt looks equally homicidal, sprawled in his seat with his arms crossed and his headphones hanging uselessly around his neck. His hat is pulled low over his eyes, but I can tell he’s awake from the way his foot keeps bouncing against the floor.

“You look pleasant,” I mutter.

“Well, I let in three goals tonight, what the fuck do you expect?”

“Considering they had over forty shots on goal, I’d say you did more than enough.”

“We couldn’t complete a pass to save our lives tonight.”

I exhale sharply through my nose. “Don’t remind me.”

Wyatt finally glances over, brows pulling together. “You’re extra pissy.”

“We lost.”

“We lose sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, I hate it every time.”

“That’s why you’re the captain.”

“As if you aren’t in the middle of a bitch fit.”

We fall into a frustrated silence. The engines hum steadily beneath us while one of the trainers laughs somewhere farther up the aisle. Somebody drops a bag in the overhead compartment with a loud bang.

Wyatt tilts his head toward me again. “Are you going to stop glaring at the window like it’s the reason we got our asses kicked tonight?”

“No.”

“Healthy.”

“I’m serious,” I mutter. “We looked like shit tonight.”

“We looked tired.”

“We looked sloppy.”

“That too.”

My phone buzzes in my hand.

Wyatt notices immediately. “Ah. Your weekly harassment call.”