Puck Shy (Carolina Comets), page 11
That’s where I am right now. We’re winning, but everyone else might as well be playing a different game than me. I’m screwing up basic things, and people are beginning to take notice. We can’t keep this up all season, winning games by just a point, almost letting the other team score on simple mistakes.
I know it and everyone else knows it too. Playing like this isn’t going to get me a contract extension, not by a long shot.
Colter inches closer, our noses nearly touching. “The only reason we won was because your ugly buddy Rhodes pulled your ass out of trouble. Scared Boston away with that ugly fucking scar of his.”
“Fuck. Off.” I growl again, my patience with the asshole wearing thin.
“Or what? Gonna have Rhodes come fight your battle for you again?” His lips pull into an ugly smile. “You don’t have the fucking balls to hit me. You’re weak, Wright. And if the captain wasn’t so in love with you and didn’t convince Coach you’re worth the ice time, we both know I’d have your minutes in a heartbeat.”
Ah. So that’s what this is about.
He’s jealous.
Which, given my piss-poor playing lately, is comical.
Rhodes skates closer in my periphery, and I shake my head at him, keeping him back.
This isn’t his battle. It’s mine.
I step toward my teammate. “Even at your absolute best, you couldn’t handle the extra minutes.”
And it’s true. Colter is a selfish player, and that’s what’s holding him back. I might be shit right now, but he couldn’t cut it. He’d be too busy trying to make fancy plays and costing us precious inches.
I might not be perfect out there, but I have years of experience and patience.
He shoves at me. “Fuck you, Wright.”
I let him have that shove because I deserve it.
But he won’t get another.
“You think you’re untouchable, think your spot can’t easily be filled. You’re wrong.”
Another shove, and I break.
The gloves come off, and I hear his nose crack under my fist. He stumbles backward, then charges me again, getting my jaw good. The unique metallic flavor hits me all at once.
I run my tongue over my teeth and grin at him.
I like this.
Shit, maybe I even needed this.
Colter goes for another blow and misses. He pulls at my sweater, trying to yank it over my head, but I’m bigger than him and easily wrench myself away, landing another hit to his jaw.
Around and around we go. Back and forth, swinging in circles now, matching each other blow for blow.
Nobody around us moves until we hit the ice, then suddenly they’re all pulling at us.
Rhodes grabs under my arms, hauling me up and off Colter, who scrambles to get out of Miller’s grasp to reach for me again.
“Enough!” Lowell yells, a hand on each of our chests, shoving us away from one another. “Fucking enough. Cool off.”
Miller tries to drag Colter away, and he shoves at him—which pisses me off all over again—then skates toward the dressing room.
We all hear the doors slam as he makes his way down the tunnel.
Lowell looks over at me. “You good?” I nod. “Good. Don’t pull that shit again.” When he’s skating past me, he mutters, “Been wanting to do that since day one.”
The laugh that’s on my lips is cut short when I catch Coach’s eye from across the ice.
He’s not happy.
Not fucking happy at all.
Awesome.
Colter doesn’t come back—which doesn’t matter to me—and the rest of the morning is uneventful.
We’re in the dressing room when Rhodes flops down onto the bench next to me.
“All right. Spill it.”
“What are you talking about?”
He presses a hard finger into the pinched skin between my eyebrows. “I’m talking about that shit. I’m supposed to be the broody one.”
I smack his hand away. “Piss off.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s nothing.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s going to let it go.
But he’s Rhodes, so of course he’s not.
Instead, he leans down, tipping his head toward mine, and speaks low. “We have a game tonight, you know. So you better start talking before your head is so far up your own ass that we lose and your contract with the Comets turns to ashes right in front of you.”
Shit.
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.
I gnash my teeth, trying to rein in my frustration.
“Fine.”
I tell him about Harper. How we met…then met again. How I left out some minor details like the fact that I play professional hockey. How I haven’t told her that HockeyGuy69 is also the guy she played an awful game of nighttime “I spy” with.
When I’m finished, he just stares at me, mouth slackened, eyes wide.
“Are you…are you like extra dumb or something? Concussed?” He places his hand against my forehead. “Are you sick?”
I swat him away again. “I’m fine.”
“If you’re pulling shit like this, clearly you’re not. What the hell, man? Why?”
“I don’t know. I just…fuck!” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “She’s not into sports and doesn’t have a clue who I am. Doesn’t care at all.” I shrug. “It’s nice to not worry about all that for a change.”
Rhodes shakes his head. “I hate how that actually makes sense to me.”
“See? I’m not completely nuts.”
“No. You are. What the hell were you going to tell her when you met her, huh? Just hoped she’d laugh it off and you two would bone and that’d be it?”
I clench my fists at the thought of that being it.
“I was hoping she’d understand, yes.”
“You know the likelihood of that is almost nonexistent, right? Are you really sure this is what you want to do? It’s not too late to back out. You haven’t gone on the date yet.”
“I’m not going to ghost her like some asshole.”
“You have no problem lying to her like one.”
Another squeeze of my fists.
“Face it—you’re fucked.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I huff out a derisive laugh. “If this was supposed to be some pep talk, you suck.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d tell me this shit. I just figured it was Colter being a cock again or that look Coach gave you after the fight.” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against his cubby. “Damn, dude. No wonder you’re playing like shit, missing easy passes and not having your head in the game. You’re all messed up from this.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, a few straggling teammates shuffling about.
I don’t know why I asked Harper out, like shit isn’t complicated enough already.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I know exactly why I did it—I like her. Probably a lot more than I’m allowing myself to admit.
But I could have found a better way for her to find out it’s me. I could have just been honest from the beginning too, but it’s too late for that.
Now I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to fix it all.
If this were any other chick, some random hookup, it wouldn’t be a big deal because it wouldn’t mean anything.
But Harper…she means something.
“You know you have to tell her before your date, right?”
“I know.”
“She’s gonna flip.”
“I know.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
“I—”
“You’re not helping,” I cut him off, glaring. “I’ll tell her, okay? I’ll fucking tell her.”
“When?”
It’s a simple word, but the meaning behind it is anything but.
What he really means is before tonight.
He wants me at the game with a clear conscience.
I need to be at the game with a clear conscience.
“I’ll tell her,” I promise quietly.
“Good.”
There’s nothing like playing in front of a home crowd. There’s a buzz in your veins and in the air.
Tonight, mine is buzzing for a different reason.
I head for the dressing room, trying to block everything out.
Several heads swivel my way, probably because of my busted lip and the bruise on my jaw after the fight with Colter this morning.
I keep my head down as I change out of my suit into some shorts and a t-shirt, then pop my earbuds in and settle onto the couch we have in the lounge. I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on a random ’90s playlist to try to relax.
My eyes drift toward the BeeMine app.
I tried several times to message Harper earlier, but everything I typed out sounded horrible.
There is no doubt she’s going to be pissed. She may never forgive me or talk to me again.
And I’d deserve that one hundred percent.
But Rhodes was right. I need to tell her.
If I don’t, it’s all I’m going to be thinking about tonight, and I cannot be thinking about that tonight.
If that fight with Colter this morning taught me anything, it’s that I can’t keep screwing up.
I want to be better than that. Better than him.
I click on the app and pull up my messages with Harper.
* * *
HockeyGuy69: There’s something I need to tell you.
* * *
HockeyGuy69: It’s probably going to piss you off, but I have to clear the air.
* * *
HockeyGuy69: I’m Collin.
* * *
HockeyGuy69: Collin Wright. And I play for the NHL.
12
Harper
HockeyGuy69: There’s something I need to tell you.
* * *
A pit forms in my stomach as I read his words.
We didn’t talk last night and I’ve tried hard all day to not think much about it, but I won’t lie—it’s been eating at me.
Ever since he asked me out, something has seemed…off.
I don’t know if it’s nerves or if he’s actually just busy with work, but it’s off nonetheless.
Another message comes through.
* * *
HockeyGuy69: It’s probably going to piss you off, but I have to clear the air.
* * *
Oh crap, here it comes.
“Nope!” Ryan steals my phone away just as it vibrates again. She slips it into the abyss known as her purse as we make our way down the arena stairs to our seats. “That’s mine for the night. No more pining over Hockey Hottie. Tonight is girls’ night.”
I should protest. Should tell her that’s a stupid rule.
But I can’t bring myself to say it because I’m not so sure I want to hear what he has to say.
Does he want to bail on the date? Has he been catfishing me all along? I mean, he’s seemed too good to be true from day one, so I wouldn’t be entirely surprised.
“Here we are,” Ryan says, scooting down the aisle. She claps her hands, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Holy shit. These seats are amazing!”
I want to point out that since she’s never been to a hockey game before, she doesn’t know if these seats actually are good.
But considering we’re just three rows back from the glass, I’d say her assumption is correct.
Ryan forced us to arrive nearly an hour before puck drop. She claimed she wanted to make sure we got to our seats okay, but I know she just didn’t want to miss warmups.
She also promised snacks if I agreed to it.
“So when do we get to the good part?”
“Well, apparently they do warmups and then there’s a bit of a break and—” She pauses, then snorts out a laugh when she catches my bored expression. “Oh. You meant food.”
“You promised popcorn. Nachos too.”
“And alcohol.”
“All the alcohol.”
She chuckles. “All right. I’ll be right back. But no nachos until later.”
“Because that’s the only way you’re going to get me to stay the entire game?”
A grin. “You know me so well.”
She takes off for the food, leaving me sitting there with nothing to do since my phone is in her purse.
Spectators begin to file in around me. A woman sits a few seats down, and I can hear her on the phone talking about something to do with goats. There’s nobody in the two rows in front of us yet.
I still can’t believe we’re sitting this close to the ice. I once went to a football game with my dad and we were so far from the field you could barely make out the players. Here…it’s going to be like I can reach out and touch them.
And it’s chilly too.
I pull my cardigan closed a little more, shivering a bit at the nip in the air.
“First time?” the woman asks, drawing my attention.
“How’d you know?”
She nods toward where I have my arms crossed over me. “I was the same way my first game. But you get used to it.”
“I really didn’t think I’d be this chilly, but I should have known. I’m a wimp when it comes to the cold.”
She laughs. “Me too. It’ll warm up once more bodies get in here, but not enough to take your cardi off.”
A shadow falls over her and a beer appears in front of her face. She grins at the tall guy with ink-black hair and black-framed glasses who takes the seat next to her. He’s wearing a shirt that says “G.O.A.T. Dad” with a picture of him and several tiny goats. I’m not usually into the whole nerd-vibe thing he has going, but this guy is…wow.
She takes the drink from his outstretched hand, then tips the cup my way. “Plus, the alcohol helps. I’m Delia, by the way.” She gestures toward the guy beside her. “This is my husband, Zach. Please ignore his embarrassing shirt. He wouldn’t take it off.”
He leans around her and sends me a grin. “She’s always trying to get me naked.”
She swats at him. “Zachary!”
I laugh. “I’m Harper. It’s nice to meet you both.”
“Are you here for the Comets or the Caps? I assume Comets since you’re in season ticket seats.”
“Uh, Comets. I’m just here for the snacks mostly.”
They laugh like I’m joking.
I’m not.
“Oh my gosh,” Ryan says, dropping back down into the seat next to me. “You should have seen the lines out there. It was like all of a sudden people came from nowhere. I’m so glad we got here when we did. I heard someone in line say that warmups start—”
The players come barreling onto the ice.
“Well, right now, I guess.”
She does another little clap, watching as they move across the rink.
They look…kind of beautiful if I’m being honest.
The way they move is breathtaking. It’s smooth, like they’re gliding on air.
She hands me a few napkins. “Here. For your drool. And the popcorn.”
I scowl at her. “I’m not drooling.”
“Sure you’re not.” She winks, then hands me a beer. “These were free, by the way.”
“Ryan, did you flirt your way into getting free drinks?”
“Of course I did. Have you seen the prices here?” She shrugs, turns around, and waves at a guy sitting a few rows up. “Plus he was cute,” she says, turning back my way with a flirty grin.
I shake my head at her, then return my gaze to the ice.
A few Comets players are skating around in circles on one half. A few are doing some sort of stretch that makes them look like they’re humping the ground, and a few…
A body slams into the glass, causing me to jump, spilling beer down my secondhand Aerosmith t-shirt and the cardigan I’m wearing.
“Son of a…” I shoot up from my seat, cold, sticky liquid clinging to me.
“Oh, crap!” Ryan grabs a handful of napkins and starts patting at my shirt. “Dammit. I love this shirt too. I—”
There’s a tap on the glass that pulls our attention.
One of the players—who has a mean, jagged scar across his face—mouths Sorry to us. He taps his buddy on the shoulder, pulling his attention our way.
The moment our eyes collide, I freeze.
He gapes at me, his eyes—which I can now see are a clear green—wide with shock.
“Collin?”
“Wait, like Hot Hitchhiker Collin?” Ryan asks.
I don’t answer her. I’m too busy staring at the guy I never thought I’d see again.
His friend says something quietly to him, and Collin nods without looking over. He can’t seem to take his eyes off me either.
We’re locked in a trance, unable to move.
Then someone calls his name from across the ice, and just like that, it’s broken.
He turns and I gasp.
Wright.
It’s there, stitched clear as day on the back of his jersey, along with the number 96.
I actually meant to type in 96, but I guess we’ll call it a happy accident.
He nods at whoever spoke to him, then turns back to me. He takes a step closer and his teammate pulls at his arm, trying to drag him away.
Even from here, I can see that his eyes are full of so many emotions—shock, worry, regret.
Another tug from his teammate, and this time Collin allows himself to be pulled away.
He looks back at me three times on his way to the other side of the ice, and each time it feels like a punch to the stomach.
Then he disappears down a tunnel and I’m left standing here feeling like a complete fool.
“Give me my phone,” I say to Ryan, finding my voice once he’s gone.
She reaches into her purse without question and hands it over.
I hold my breath as I click on the notification from the BeeMine app, hoping this is all some sort of sick coincidence.
It’s not.
