TYLER
The only thing more stressful than games are the moments directly leading up to them.
Around the dressing room, my teammates joke and laugh while I sit off to the side, tuning them out. Everyone knows the deal by now. Once we get to the arena, no one talks to me until we’re on the ice.
Closing my eyes, I visualize the entire game from puck drop to the buzzer. All the plays and each possible scenario that could result. Passes, takeaways, giveaways. Every shot and how I’ll make that save. I picture every single detail: the weight of my gear, the ice beneath my skates, the bright LED lights shining down, and the roar of the crowd after each blocked shot.
Did Seraphina text me back yet?
Fuck, Tyler. Get your shit together.
“How do you feel about facing your old team?” Dallas asks, clearly talking to Reid.
Since I’ve already been derailed, I allow myself to sneak a peek to see his reaction.
“Not fucking great,” he grumbles, dragging the toe of his skate along the gray-speckled rubber flooring. “I’m worried about Grady. He knows my moves, and their D will be all over me.”
Steve Grady—Head Coach of the Woodbine Rams—was a hockey legend in the making until an injury forced him into early retirement at twenty-six, and he became one of the youngest coaches at the college level. He also used to be Reid’s mentor, and my working theory is that Grady has something to do with why he left.
“If they are, that’ll leave me and Ward wide open. Either way, we’ll fuck them up nicely; don’t worry.” Chase tips back his head, squirting his water bottle into his mouth.
“I’m sure we will, but I like scoring too,” Reid says dryly.
“That’s what she said!” one of the guys yells. Raucous laughter breaks out, and the room gets ten times rowdier, filled with whoops and hollers, dirty jokes and excessively detailed blowjob stories.
Irritation seizes me when I realize I’m more off track than ever, and I clamp down on the urge to tell them all to shut the fuck up. Not only would they not listen, breaking my no-talking rule would set a bad precedent.
On a normal day, I wouldn’t be able to hear any of this. I’d be completely in the zone and utterly oblivious to the circus around me. Right now, I can’t concentrate for shit. All I can think about is the texts Seraphina and I exchanged back and forth all day. The first thing I’m going to do when I get off the ice is check my phone for the next.
I look down at the floor and try to focus on counting my breaths, but it doesn’t work. I’ll be standing in front of the net in a matter of minutes, and for the first time in my life, I’m rattled over something that has nothing to do with hockey.
Halfway into the second, we’re tied. If I needed something to force my head into the game, I got it. Woodbine’s offense has been fucking hammering me for twenty-nine minutes. After facing over forty shots on net, I’ve only let in two goals. Both were bad bounces, one of which was completely out of my control. Puck luck hasn’t been on our side tonight and rebounds are our defense’s weakness.
A shot bounces off the crossbar with a clink, sliding into the crease. Reflexes kicking in, I throw myself to the ice and cover it with my glove to stop the play. Or at least, the play should stop—but the officials have swallowed their goddamn whistles.
Woodbine’s forward, Burgess, wedges his stick beneath my glove, digging to knock the puck loose. It’s times like this I wish goalies could fight according to hockey code because right now, I want to get up and pummel this dick. Everyone knows you don’t mess with the goaltender after
a save. Not only is it cheap as hell, it’s pointless. Any resulting goal will immediately get called back.
As I glance up to see what the fuck is going on with the refs, Burgess jabs my hand, followed by a slash to my wrist. The blade lands above the cuff of my glove, hitting bone. I drop my head, gritting my teeth as white- hot pain radiates up my forearm.
Dirty move, dick. I already know I’ll be feeling the effects of that for a few days at a minimum.
Reid skates over, cross-checking Burgess out of the way. “Back the fuck off.”
“What’s your problem, Holloway?” Burgess throws down his stick and skates forward, getting in his face.
The whistle finally sounds but it’s too late. After a heated period, the tension has boiled over. I push to stand as the rest of the players talk shit and shove each other, escalating into a full-blown scrum. Even our scrawniest freshman is getting into it with one of their smaller guys. Chase is yelling encouragement at our team from the bench, no doubt wishing he’d been on the ice to participate. Since I’ll get pulled if I get anywhere near it, I keep a wide berth.
“Touch our goalie again, and you’ll be leaving on a stretcher,” Reid spits.
“Cry about it, bitch.” Smirking, Burgess brings a glove to his chin, pretending to ponder. “Think they’ll let you switch schools again when you shit the bed here, too?”
Even I’m about to take a swing at this guy.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Reid tosses his gloves aside and grabs the front of Burgess’s jersey, roughly yanking him forward. Reid’s fist connects with his nose, making an audible crack. I can’t lie; it’s highly satisfying to watch. They exchange a few more swings back and forth, with most of the successful ones coming from Reid before the officials manage to pry them apart. He’s immediately ejected from the game while Burgess goes to the penalty box.
Not surprisingly, the commotion on the ice amps up the crowd, and the atmosphere in the arena feels more like the playoffs than the regular season. It’s a brutal, physical grind with penalties left and right for both sides, as well as a shit ton of goalie interference against me that keeps going uncalled.
The score remains tied until the last ninety seconds, when Dallas sinks a shot between the five hole, narrowly sparing us from a round of overtime. Thank fuck.
By the time we make it into the dressing room, we’re drenched and bagged. Reid is pulling on his charcoal dress socks, having already showered and gotten dressed while waiting for the game to wrap up. He’s also sporting a nasty bruise beneath his right eye, but it pales compared to what he did to the other guy.
“Congrats, man.” Chase claps him on the back as he passes. “You’re officially a Falcon now.”
Reid snorts a laugh, fastening the cuffs of his light blue dress shirt. “Glad I finally passed my initiation.”
I fist-bump his shoulder on the way by. “Thanks for defending my honor, Holloway. You’re a true gentleman.”
“You wish. I’ve been looking for an excuse to kick that guy’s ass for three goddamn years.”
“Always awkward when you can’t stand someone on your team,” I agree, jerking my thumb at Chase. “I mean, we all have to put up with that guy. Yikes.”
Chase stops untying his skates and flips me off with both hands.
When I reach my stall, I hang up my helmet and tug my drenched jersey overhead. While the average set of hockey equipment clocks in around 20- 25 pounds, my goalie gear weighs twice that by the end of a game. I’m sweaty, exhausted, and I need a gallon of electrolytes followed by a day’s worth of food. I have a nagging pain in my hip that tells me I need to get my hands on an ice pack, stat… and I’m itching to look at my phone.
Obviously, that’s what I do before I even finish taking off my equipment.
Tinker Bell: It makes me happy to know I’m also the kissing exception.
Tinker Bell: Killer game, Hades. That save at the end was *fire emoji*
She was watching? Shit, I’m kind of glad I didn’t know. Silly as it may be, that would’ve made me more nervous than a stadium of eighteen thousand fans and a myriad of faceless cable television viewers.
Hades: Thanks, Tink.
Tinker Bell: Wish I could wear your jersey for good luck, but it might raise some eyebrows.
Hades: You can always wear it alone for me.
Tinker Bell: With nothing underneath, right? Just want to make sure I understand the assignment.
Hades: Fuck. Yes, please.
Tinker Bell: Wouldn’t want to get it wrong and make you have to spank me.
Hades: Standing in the middle of the locker room here. You’re killing me.
Tinker Bell: *angel emoji*
Post-win celebrations at our hotel carry on until Coach Miller orders everyone back to their respective rooms. Because he’s happy with our performance, he lets things go a solid hour later than usual, and it’s after eleven before everyone calls it a night.
Chase and Dallas peace out to their place across the hall, leaving me alone with Reid, who’s wasted. Not just drunk; he’s swaying and slurring and bumping into inanimate objects. I’m fully sober other than the adrenaline high from a good game.
Realistically, we should both get to bed, but it doesn’t seem like sleep is anywhere in sight for either of us. I’m trying to read, and Reid is stumbling around our room getting undressed.
“Saw you with Carter’s sister the other day,” Reid remarks, nearly losing his balance as he tugs off his dress pants.
My blood turns to ice, and I set my copy of Atomic Habits next to me on the bed. “You did?”
“Yeah. You two were leaving the arena after dark. She’s got pink hair, super hot? That’s her, right? I remember her from Chase’s party.” He casually tosses his dress shirt onto the desk chair, seemingly unaware of the fact he’s sitting on information that could blow up my life.
Panic takes hold, and my thoughts start to race. I was definitely more handsy with Seraphina than I should’ve been on our way back to my car after our encounter in the announcer’s box. Thinking with my dick yet again, even after we’d already had sex.
If Reid saw us, who else did? Has he mentioned this to Chase? Or to anyone?
“Listen,” I start. “That’s complicated.”
Smooth, dumbass. Reid is so drunk I could tell him I’m an astronaut and he’d probably buy it. Yet I chose to go the worst possible route: admitting guilt and making it seem like an even bigger deal than it is.
“Complicated how?”
I’ve already dug myself this deep; might as well keep excavating. “Carter doesn’t know, and you’d be doing me a solid if you helped keep it that way.”
He flops onto his bed next to mine, stretching out his legs. “Fair enough. I won’t say anything.”
“You won’t?”
“Nah.” Reid scans my face, a grin springing across his. “Relax, man.
You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”
“Just didn’t think we’d out ourselves like that. Sloppy on my part.”
It’s tricky to navigate because I like spending time with Seraphina and doing things together. Actually, the two of us in public isn’t the issue; it’s that I need to keep my hands to myself when we are. Easier said than done.
She’s so soft, and she smells so good… “I take it Carter wouldn’t approve?”
“Chase would blow a fucking gasket. Besides, he doesn’t need to know.
We’re not dating, we’re just…” “Fucking?” he supplies.
My stomach clenches. Categorizing it that way feels wrong.
“Friends with benefits, basically.” Well, fuck. That doesn’t sound great, either. “We both have a lot going on right now.”
Reid drains the last of his Stella and sets it on the nightstand next to the alarm clock. “Smart. All of the advantages without any of the drawbacks. Makes it easier on you if things go sideways.”
“I don’t think they’ll go sideways.”
He snorts. “That’s what I thought, and then she fucked Grady.” My head whips to look at him. “What?”
I pick up my book and slip a metal bookmark inside to hold my page, setting it on the bedside table. Suddenly, it all makes sense. This is why Reid transferred in the middle of the season. This is why he’s been so tight- lipped about the circumstances around it. And this is why he’s shown zero
interest in all the chicks who’ve been throwing themselves at him since he arrived. His girlfriend cheated on him with his team’s head coach. Dude got burned. Bad.
“Fuck my life.” Reid runs a hand down his face. “I’m not s’pposed to be talking about this.”
“I think you already did, dude. You can tell me if you want. Remember, you’ve got leverage on me, too. Consider it a vow of mutually assured destruction.”
He stares at the patterned bedspread, drumming his fingers on his thigh, then his gaze snaps up to mine. “Fine. Grady fucked my girlfriend. That’s why I transferred. One day I went to his office after hours to ask him about something, and he had Michelle bent over his desk. Some mentor, right?”
“Holy fuck. What did you do?”
The very thought of seeing Seraphina with someone else like that makes my stomach lurch. I was pissed enough about Rob picking her up and trying to convince her to spend the night. I have a newly discovered jealous streak a mile wide when it comes to her. If I found someone else fucking her, I’d end up in jail.
“What do you think I did? I waited for him to get his pants on and then I kicked his ass. His fighting skills must’ve been rusty because it was pretty one-sided.” He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Woodbine was more worried about keeping everything under wraps, so no one pressed any charges. Guess they figured it’d be a bad look if people found out their thirty-year-old head coach was fucking undergrads, especially his star player’s nineteen-year-old girlfriend.”
“That’s brutal, Holloway. I’m sorry.” My empathy skills leave a lot to be desired, but I feel for him in this case. I’d have done the same thing in his shoes.
“I couldn’t stay there and play for him after that happened. I couldn’t even look at him. They made me sign an NDA in exchange for helping me transfer. All I had to do was leave quietly and keep my mouth shut, which I’d been doing a good job of until I had all this beer and now… fuck. Telling you puts me in breach of contract.”
He blows out a breath, sagging against the wooden headboard. “It feels kind of good to get it off my chest, though. The only other people who know are my parents, and they seem to think I should forgive Michelle.
We’d been together since high school, man. How the fuck do you forgive that?”
“You don’t. At least, not in my world.” As I reach for my bottled water, an unpleasant realization hits me. Seraphina and I haven’t talked about other people. Haven’t even tiptoed around the subject. Deep down, I don’t think she would hook up with anyone else, but it’s unsettling to know she wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules if she did.
The heat kicks on and warm air rolls across my bare upper body from the nearby vent. It starts to feel uncomfortably warm, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the climate control or the disturbing mental image I’m holding in my head.
“Right?” Reid slumps in his bed and lies flat, pulling the covers over his body. He stares at the ceiling as he continues. “We were together for over three years. Three goddamn wasted years of my life. She even came to Woodbine to be with me. I had no idea anything was going on behind my back. Who knows, maybe I was too focused on my own shit.”
“You can’t blame yourself for her behavior. Even if you were, there are a million other ways she could’ve handled it instead of cheating.”
“Either way, joke’s on me. I thought we were going to get married. And now I am never, ever fucking dating again.” His words slur together. “It’s not worth it, man.”
When I switch off the lights, Reid passes out instantly. I’m not as lucky. My mind refuses to shut off. I lay in the dark, staring at the crack of moonlight pouring in through the gap between the curtains and the wall. Is he right? Is this thing with Seraphina going to go sideways on me? What happens when she moves out? Or when I leave for the summer?
She said we should enjoy ourselves and take things as they come. Easier said than done when that’s not in my nature. I’ve never not had a plan.
