8. Wyatt

8

WYATT

" H old on, you were stuck in an elevator all night with some random girl?" Max, one of my teammates asked. I nodded, lacing up my skates. "Did you sleep with her?"

I was in the middle of telling my best friends about being stuck in an elevator Friday when Max over heard and announced it to the whole team. It resulted in quite a bit of teasing until they learned I hadn't been alone. Then of course came the questions and jeers as the rest of the team gathered around.

Around us others leaned in to listen.

"So? Did you?" Max nudged me with his elbow.

"You know you can talk to a woman without sleeping with her right?" I shot him a look.

"Don't tell me you spent all night with a woman and didn't make a single move on her?" Trevor raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"Was she ugly?"

"Tits too small?"

With each taunt from my teammates, I clenched my jaw tighter until I could feel my teeth grinding together. Usually, I didn't mind the taunts of the team, but for some reason, hearing them say things about Josie just pissed me off.

"Come on, bro. Don't hold out on us!"

Suddenly, I stood, my hands clenched at my sides, as I glared at them. "Shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth about her."

"Bro, chill we were just playing." Max held his hands up as my teammates exchanged glances. Immediately, I knew it looked like I'd overreacted—there was no reason why the conversation should have pissed me off as much as it did. It's what happens in the locker room. Someone comes in talking about the latest person they slept with and the rest of us prod and tease. But Josie wasn't like any of those girls. She didn't deserve being talked about in the locker room with twenty-three horny men.

"Whatever," I mumbled, grabbing my stick and helmet before storming out of the looker room. To be honest, I'd never really cared for talking girls and our sexploits—my mom raised me better than that. I didn't know what it was about Josie, but I felt protective towards her, and even though I knew I might never see her again, I felt that there was something special about our night together.

"This girl really has you in knots," said my other best friend, Bryton, as he slapped me on the back. I didn't need to look back to know Trevor was also right there. I just grunted in response.

Fuck. He's right.

Three days had passed since the elevator, and I'd thought about her nonstop. Every few minutes her face would pop into my head, that smile that could make any man fall to his knees, those eyes that could see into your soul. It was driving me crazy, and it was the last thing I wanted to talk to the team about.

"Can you at least tell us if you've seen her since?" Trevor asked as the three of us skated onto the rink. I shook my head, focusing on the sound of my skates cutting across the ice. Just stepping foot on the rink brought me a sense of calm. As if it was an old friend wrapping its arms around me, welcoming me home.

"Why not? Don't you want to see her again?"

"I do, that's the problem," I grunted. "How is that a problem?" Bryton asked, falling in sync alongside me as we began our warm-up laps.

"Because I left her there that morning. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I ran out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs while she dealt with the manager and the onlookers," I confessed, the words slipping from my lips before I could stop them. I felt like shit as I said it out loud—It was stupid, but it was a blow to my pride. I should have manned-up and stood by her side, not disappear up to my apartment like a pussy.

Who knows what she must think of me now.

"But you said she told you to leave, that's not your fault," Trevor tried to reason but I shook my head.

"It's a cop out. I should have stayed–who cares if anyone recognized me." I hated to admit it, but I was embarrassed that I walked away so easily. Josie gave me an out, and I took it without a second thought. All I've wanted to do for the past three days was find Josie and apologize.

I'd worked out from the button she'd pushed in the elevator that she lived on the eighth floor, and it took all my willpower to not go down and knock on every door until I found hers. It was the fear that she wouldn't want to see me that held me back.

Bryton pulled up to a sudden stop in front of me, and I quickly pushed the blade of my skate into the ice to brake.

"Look, Wyatt, it seems to me this girl knew you didn't want anyone to recognize you. She did you a favor by making you leave. But now, she probably thinks you're an asshole."

"What?" I scowled.

"Well, have you tried to find her since the elevator?" Bryton asked. "You know, to say thanks."

"No, but…"

"I agree with Bry," Trevor piped up. "You could have tried to track her down. I mean, you live in the same apartment building, how hard can it be? How long's it been?"

"Three days," I muttered.

"See?" Bryton continued. "Now I bet she regrets helping you out. I would have thrown you to the wolves." I punched him in the arm, but he and Trevor only laughed.

I didn't want to admit it, but I knew they were right, and I was kicking myself for not doing something sooner.

"All we're saying is do something about it soon before she slips through your fingers," Bryton as he playfully returned my punch.

I will.

"Since when did the two of you become wise about women?" I joked, shoving past the two of them.

"We've always been wise, you've just never listened," Bryton smirked. Since he was the only one of us with a girlfriend, maybe he was the wiser.

With fresh resolve I was determined to call the superintendent after practice, and find out what apartment she lived in.

"Thanks." I didn't need to say anything more than that—they were my best friends; they knew what I meant without me needing to say it.

We were almost done with our laps when I heard my name bellowed across the rink. Inwardly, I winced. I'd hoped Coach would let Friday slide.

"Oh, good luck," Bryton patted my shoulder before he and Trevor took off, leaving me to deal with the wrath of Coach. With a sigh, I skated towards him, knowing the sooner we got this conversation over, the better.

Coach stood behind the barrier; his arms crossed over his stocky chest. To say Coach Barnum was intimidating as hell was an understatement. He played in the League years ago and became coach of the Knights a few years before I joined the team. At 60, he was still in great shape. If his 6'2 frame wasn't intimidating enough the scowl on his face was. I swear he could make a man want to bury himself with his expression. And right now, it was directed at me. It's been a while since I was on the receiving end of it.

And I wanted to bury myself.

"Coach," I greeted.

"Do we need to talk about what happened Friday?" I raised my eyebrows. I'd expected a roasting over the game, but something about his tone told me that wasn't what he was talking about.

"Uh, what part?" I asked.

"How about the fact you left without a word to anyone. You know it's a contractual obligation for the players to talk to reporters after a game. Instead, you left your teammates hanging."

I knew I was in some pretty deep shit. After the game I was so caught up in my own head that I hadn't considered the team.

"Sorry Coach I…"

"If you do it again you are benched for three games. Got it?" Coach cut me off.

I nodded—I knew better than to talk back. "Get your head out of your ass, Boone."

"Yes, Coach."

With that, he turned and stomped off towards the other end of the rink. With a long sigh, I leaned against the barrier, knowing it was no idle threat. Coach was a man of few words, but when he spoke, we all knew to pay attention. Besides, he was right. I needed to get my head out of my ass.

"Mathews, Perkins, Hall and Young you're up!" Coach yelled. Beside me, Trevor and Bryton hopped over the boards and onto the ice. Because of our horrible losing streak, Coach decided that torture was the best method for today's practice. We'd already sweated through an hour worth of drills, and by the looks of it, we were now about to have four on four scrimmages.

While I waited for my turn on the ice, I stretched out my knee and watched my teammates play. When I was younger, I thought I could play solo. That as long as I played well that's all that mattered. I didn't need to focus on my teammates—just the game. Thankfully, I soon realized how far from the truth that was.

You can be an incredible player but if you don't learn your team, don't learn how they move and play, you won't win. The perfect time to do that was at practices. While sitting on the sidelines you can watch their feet work, how they move the puck, what side of their body they prefer when shooting. There's something…magical when you click with your teammates.

On the ice, we had to be a close-knit group. We feed off each other. It was important to think like your teammates as you raced down the ice. We had to play as one, and if any player was off their game, then the whole team was too.

For thirty minutes, the first group of four played on the ice, Coach occasionally barking out names and plays. By time he called them off the ice they were all breathing hard.

When Coach turned and looked down at me, I knew I was in for it.

"Boone, Jekin, Lukugv, Lewis!"

When I hopped the boards I took a few deep breaths, knowing I needed to focus. It may be practice, but what we do here reflects on game day—and I had to prove myself. As Captain of the team, it was my job to make sure we were a well-oiled machine. I knew I needed to play better than I had—I owed it to my team.

The honor of becoming Captain this year was a huge deal. Someone my age typically doesn't get the privilege. It usually goes to one of the older guys on the team with more experience. I made a vow to be the best Captain the Knights have seen and I wasn't about to break that now.

I lined up against my ‘opposing' teammate, anchoring my skate into the ice. With one last deep breath I centered myself. As soon as the puck was live, I took off after it. I was known for my speed and ability to make a shot regardless of the situation. I could have four guys on me and still find a small space to smack the puck. It was second nature, I just had to get back to playing like I was before the injury. Something that was harder than I imagined it would be.

I pushed aside thoughts of my injury and how badly I'd played since my return. Instead, I focused on practice and pushing myself harder, hoping in some way, it helped make up for our shitty playing. I knew I wasn't the only one at fault for our losing streak. We lose as a team. We win as a team. But that did little to ease the feeling that I was the one at fault.

By the time Coach blew his whistle I was breathing hard and sweating. I may have pushed myself a tad bit too hard for just a scrimmage but as I skated my way back to the bench my teammates each patted me on the back. I gave them a nod, trying to down-play how happy that made me as I took a seat on the bench. Fixing my pads, I tried to slow my breathing as the next set of four went out onto the ice.

"You were playing pretty hard there. Thinking of a certain someone?" Trevor nudged me.

"Maybe he got laid after all, and he's been holding out on us," Bryton added.

"Oh, fuck off," I growled, as Trevor started making dirty hand gestures. I rolled my eyes.

"Boys." All it took was one word from Coach to shut us all up. We were all grown-ass men but none of us were going to correct him calling us that. I rammed my elbow into Trevor's side for getting us in trouble.

When the last scrimmage was called to an end, I had a small amount of hope we were done for the day. Then Coach said one word that brought those hopes crashing down.

Suicides!"

The entire team let out a chorus of groans but one hard look from Coach shut us right up. Setting our sticks down we all made our way to the far side of the ice.

I'm definitely going to feel this.

"You will go back and forth until I say otherwise. If one person gets left behind, we start over." Without another word Coach blew the whistle. As one we all pushed off the ice and skated for the other side.

I purposely kept my pace a little slow, not going full out, with Trevor and Bryton on either side of me. We all knew we'd be there awhile.

My skates cut through the ice with a satisfying sound, pieces of ice flying as I angled the blade sideways to slow down a little, before pivoting and shooting back the way I came. Each pass had my lungs straining against my chest. My thighs burned after the tenth pass, but I welcomed it. I think on some level, professional athletes were masochists. Why else would we put our bodies through pain over and over again.

After twenty-five passes, we all started showing our fatigue, each of us breathing heavily. This was definitely punishment for how shitty we'd played. I couldn't recall the last time Coach pushed us this time.

By the thirtieth pass, I was done for. As I was about to tempt fate and signal for Coach to call it, he suddenly blew the whistle. Instantly the sounds of blades on ice came to an abrupt stop. A few guys buckled onto the ice, rolling onto their backs as they tried to catch their breath. Others moved to the sideboards looking either ready to pass out or throw up. Or both.

Knowing if I didn't keep moving my legs would seize, I took a slow lap around the rink. Sweat ran down from under my helmet, down the back of my jersey and my face. I longed for a hot shower.

Spotting a row of fresh water bottles on the sideboards I made my way over, instantly squeezing the bottle through my face guard and into my mouth. I guzzled the water, reveling in how good it was after such an intense session. My legs burned. No doubt we'd all be sore tomorrow.

Lowering the water bottle, I noticed the sudden change of conversation next to me.

"I think someone is lost."

"Are the cheerleaders holding tryouts?"

"Damn."

Curious, I pushed off the board and turned around. It took a second for me to work out what everyone was talking about…or more like who.

Josie.