Page 87

I groaned, falling onto my back. “Fuck,” I bit out, jamming the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to block him out.

In for four …

Was Mikey telling his date about the time he figured out his old neighbor—a surly mechanic—was actually one of the area’s top drag queens? I’d heard him tell that story three times now, and he always started it slightly different, but she wouldn’t know that.

Hold for four …

Was he making her laugh the way he made me laugh—the type she’d try to hold in, but there’d be tears running down her cheeks, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe?

Out for four …

Was he sitting across from her thinking how great it would be to have a partner he didn’t have to sneak around with? Someone he could wrap his arm around outside a restaurant. A girlfriend he could introduce to the team as his person, and maybe, eventually, bring home for Christmas.

I lost count of where I was in the breathing sequence and sat up, pulling my knees to my chest and resting my forehead against them.

I’d known from the start that hooking up was a bad idea—had known it all the way back when he’d invited me to eat dinner in his room at the beginning of camp. Had known it every single night after that when I kept going back anyway.

I had definitely known it when I tricked him into living here with me.

And now I was sitting along in our shared apartment on Friday night, beating myself up because the guy I was in love with was across town with someone who wasn’t me.

I’d had a hundred chances to end things before it got to this point, and every single time, I’d chosen … more. More of his scent. More of his moans. More of his skin. More of … him.

I was so goddamn selfish.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with my dad’s contact photo—a professional headshot that I thought made him look constipated.

I let it ring twice before I pushed to my feet with a groan, hauled my sore, tired body up onto the couch, and answered.

“You watch the tape I sent you?” he asked, the built-in bookshelves behind him lined with all the trophies and accolades he’d amassed over his long, storied career.

No greeting, of course. I didn’t know why that still surprised me.

“Some of it.”

Only long enough to get the gist of what he wanted me to see, which, in this case, was a lowlights reel of our power play collapsing at the blue line.

“We need to talk about this last road trip.”

I propped the phone against the little box on the coffee table that held the remote controls, and leaned back against the cushions, settling in for a long list of complaints.

“Four losses in six games,” he began.

I blew out a long breath. I was too tired for this bullshit. “I know the record, Dad.”

He picked a pen up and clicked it twice. “Hendricks has no idea what he’s doing with your power play. You guys keep running that stupid drop-pass entry, and nobody’s covering the high point when the D turns it over.”

“That’s not really how—” I stopped and tried again. “Coach wants the half-wall player reading the drop, not back-checking into the neutral zone.”

“Then Hendricks is an idiot,” he snapped. “And Hale’s been a sieve in net. He’s dropping into RVH on tight-angle shots before the shooter even commits, leaving the entire top corner wide open. A high school goalie knows better than to leak post-side goals like that.”

He kept going, barely taking a breath.

“Your defensemen can’t execute a clean breakout to save their lives, so you’re spending two minutes every shift pinned in your own end. And speaking of shifts—you were floating on your last couple against Carolina. You blew the zone early twice, and you took a sixty-five-second shift in the third when you were gassed.”

I tuned him out when he moved on to our showing against New Orleans, only occasionally dropping in a “yeah” or “I know” whenever there was a pause that told me he required one.

“Porter’s playing well, though,” he said, and I sat up a little straighter at the mention of Mikey. “He’s winning over sixty percent of his defensive-zone draws and actually controlling the play down low. He shouldn’t be wasted on your fourth line playing eight minutes a night with guys who couldn’t score on an open net. He belongs on the third line.”