Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

ZACH

I t's the first game of preseason. We're up two-nothing against Nashville and on a power play.

No thanks to me—my head has been up my ass for weeks, but tonight, and out on the ice, even I can see I'm a fucking liability.

Jessie loses the puck and turns it over to Nashville. Their winger's tearing down the ice straight toward me.

I can feel my pulse in my throat as he bears down on goal, Jensen screaming at me to take him out. The Zach of last season wouldn't hesitate to check him to the ice.

But how can I be sure we'll both come off it uninjured? What if my hit isn't clean? One last roar from Jensen above the crowd, and I take off, heading straight for him. He tries to outmaneuver me, but it's no match as I drop my shoulder and Kronwall him, hard. Maybe too hard. I don't know. He hits the ice, and the puck spills out. Picking it up, I send it straight back up toward Jon for a breakaway. A few seconds later, he lights the lamp, and it's three-nothing.

"I thought I'd lost you in there for a second." Jensen taps his glove on the top of my helmet as we skate off the ice at the end of the second period.

The family box is tough to make out from all the way down here, but it doesn't stop me staring up at it every thirty seconds. I see players have their families watch them each match, Felicity and his brother Adam for Jon, Jensen's parents who frequently make the trip from Canada. Occasionally my parents make it over when they aren't working, but it's never bothered me before.

Until now.

We've barely spoken since she told me she "needed space" three weeks ago. The number of times I've hovered over her contact, typed out a text, and then deleted it before I hit send is too many to count.

I can't get her out of my mind. And the truth is, I don't want to either.

Turning my attention back to my goalie, I pull off my left glove as we step off the ice and make our way to the locker room. "Just messing with him, making him think he's got the better of me."

He puffs out a disbelieving breath. "Yeah, well can you not mess with me at the same time? I thought my key defenseman had checked out."

I swipe a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge and take a seat on my bench. We're in complete control of the game, but when Coach Burrows bursts through the door, you'd think we just got our asses handed to us.

Jon drops his head between his shoulders when he sees the look on Coach's face. "For fuck's sake."

"How the hell we are three up and still on for a shutout, I'll never know," he booms across the room. Turning to me, I know what's coming. "Evans, remind me again why I haven't benched your sorry ass? What were you doing out there in the final play? Waiting for a fucking written invitation?"

He knows what's been going on in my head lately and the effect the hit I took in New York last season has had. But that doesn't stop him from going all in. I've been seeing the team's psychologist for over a month, and he expects me to have made progress, but I haven't. Not even close.

"I wanted to make sure it was a clean hit."

He scoffs. "A clean hit? He's carrying the puck and bearing down on goal. You check him to the ground and turn the puck over. It's the basics."

"Yeah, and that's what I did."

Rule number one. Never talk back to Coach.

Throwing his head up to the ceiling, he props his hands on his hips. "You're really pissing me off." Pointing at a rookie we recently traded from Jon's former team in Colorado. "Holmes, you're up." He turns his finger on me. "Evan's you're out. I'm tired of giving out second chances. I'm not some kind of charity."

"We going to talk about it or what?"

I twist the hardly touched beer glass around on the table. "Or what."

Jon leans back in the large booth. We usually go to Riley's after every game, especially after a win, but tonight, he's hauled me down here for a reason other than to celebrate. And now I know why.

"I don't know whether to start with your game or your head. But something tells me they're interchangeable."

"I'm seeing the team psych. I don't need another therapy session."

"Man, with respect, I'm not here to give you a lesson in visualization on the ice. I'm here to find out what's going on in here." He taps on his chest, motioning to his heart.

I push the glass away completely. I'm not interested in drinking. "Yeah, and there's the problem; there's nothing going on."

"Have you spoken to her at all?" he asks, swiping a hand over his mouth.

"Barely. I asked her how it all went with the start of school, you know, after the pictures. She hasn't been to the beach house though."

"How do you know?"

I feel my face flush. "Because the alarm hasn't been deactivated once."

His lips scrunch together as he fights it back. "Dude."

"Go on," I say, waving a hand in front of me. "Laugh. Get it all out."

He doesn't completely lose it, but his shoulders vibrate. "That's kind of creepy. What are you doing, lying in bed each night hoping you'll catch a glimpse of her on the security footage?"

My face burns.

"Fuck. You are, aren't you?"

"No. Yes. Ugh. Has Felicity spoken to her much?"

He quirks a brow. "Yes, she's doing okay but not since you asked last, which was yesterday ." His tongue pokes into the side of his cheek. "You can't go on like this, man. You're a pining mess. You two have got to work it out."

"It's down to her. I've told her how I feel and what I want."

"So that's it? You just back away and leave the ball in her court?"

A sour taste rises in my throat as I push out the next sentence. "If she doesn't want me, us, then she doesn't want it."

"Oh, come on, man." His tone is bordering on incredulous mixed with frustration. "Like it's that black and white."

"I can't force her to want me."

"No, you can't, but you don't need to. She does want you."

"Ha, yeah, looks like it."

"When do you plan on seeing her again?"

"I have no fucking clue."

"You've always given it to me straight, so I'm going to return the favor."

I look up from where I'm staring down at the dark wooden table.

"You're being a defeated asshole. You're acting like you've lost her, when the facts are, you haven't. I saw the way she looked at you at the gala—like you hung the fucking moon. Get your finger out of your ass and go to her or at least fucking call her. Just do something, for both your sanity and mine. I want my best friend back, but I need my AC for my last season."

My head whips up. What?

"I haven't said anything official yet, but I'm out of contract after this season, and my agent isn't going to negotiate renewal terms. I'm out. Whatever happens this year, I'm out."

"You're serious?"

"Deadly. I want to spend time with my wife, and this coaching thing, I'm actually pretty good at it." He smirks. "Alright, I'm fucking awesome."

"Modest as ever," I say, rising from the booth and picking up his empty glass, tipping it toward him. "Probably shouldn't, but on that bombshell, you want another?"

"Hit me," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone, no doubt to send another text to Felicity.

Standing at the bar waiting to be served, I start mindlessly scrolling through the few texts I've exchanged with Luna over the past three weeks.

"Fuck it."

Me

I really need to talk to you. I can't keep my distance for much longer.

The next ten seconds feel like ten fucking years as I watch the dots dance across my screen.

Rocket

It's past midnight here. Maybe tomorrow?

I totally forgot about the three-hour time difference. Head is firmly up my ass.

Shit, did I wake you?

No. Having trouble sleeping.

Same, baby.

What's wrong?

I know we need to talk, but I still don't have any answers.

I'm losing her. I fucking know it. Panic overtakes me.

If you need more time, then okay. But please, don't push me away, Luna.

I won't. I'm not.

It feels like you are.

Nothing. Not even three fucking dots.

I can get on a flight right now. There's no practice until Wednesday.

Don't be crazy.

Too late for crazy, baby.

Stay in Seattle. I promise, I'll call you tomorrow.