16. Devon

Devon

The next morning, I sneak out of my own apartment.

When I wake up, I realize she's nuzzled into me, and I still don't know her name. She smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like she works in a bakery. It occurs to me that I don't really know anything about her except for the fact that she's come to three of my games wearing the opponent's jersey every time.

I've never done what I did last night—tucking a woman in and telling her without telling her that I wanted her to stay. The second I wake up and feel her body, naked and snuggled against mine, it immediately feels like a mistake and also something I want to do again.

So, I do the one thing I know how to do best.

I run away.

I get out of bed and creep quietly to the front hallway, grabbing my practice bag. To get out of the apartment as soon as possible, I don't even bother with getting ready. I just throw my toothbrush in my bag and finger-comb my hair before dashing out the door.

It locks automatically behind me. It will lock automatically behind her, too, assuming she wakes up, finds me gone, and leaves on her own.

Just then, my brain raises a decent point. What will I do if she's still there when I get back from practice? One part of me says to run away again, while the other part says to bend her over my bed.

Images from the night before flood my brain, and I shake my head, trying to dislodge them. I can't be thinking about how she looked spread out on my couch when I am just about to walk into the practice facility and look at all my teammates. They'll immediately know something is up.

When I get to the stadium, I hurry to the locker room, where I brush my teeth and freshen up before getting my gear on. I'm out on the ice before anyone else—even before Grey, and it feels pretty good.

I grab a puck and go through some warm-up maneuvers. Once my body is limber and ready to go, I decide to have a little fun with the puck to try and get my mind off of that woman, who's probably still in my bed, her warm, naked body sliding over my sheets—

Cutting off that train of thought, I decided to practice a trick shot I hadn't quite mastered yet. I move to the opposite end of the rink, dribbling the puck all the way down the rink, adjusting my body when I get by the net, and then scooping up the puck and twisting at the last minute.

The puck misses the net by a long shot, rolling over to the edge of the rink.

With any luck, when I execute this trick, the puck will bounce up over the goalie and slide into the net right behind him.

I think about the first serious hockey team I joined as a kid and how we were all obsessed with trick shots. Still, I was the one who practiced them over and over long after everyone else left the rink.

Deep down, I know the obsession with making the coolest goal comes from the feeling that I need to prove my worth to be worthy of love. I push those thoughts away, too, and gather the puck, taking it back down to the other side of the rink.

Dribble, dribble, tilt, spin, scoop—and the puck flies over the net again.

"Shouldn't you be working on something worthwhile?" Grey asks, his voice booming through the arena as he makes his way down the steps.

"Shouldn't you be at practice before your players?" I retort.

"I've got a baby at home," he says, shaking his head, "and nobody told you to get here at the ass crack of dawn."

"That's disgusting, Grey."

"You really have nothing better to do than to come to the rink early on a Sunday morning?"

I ignore him, dribbling the puck back down the rink and trying again. Once more, it flies past the net.

"It's all in the flick of the wrist," he calls out, and I roll my eyes at him, though he can't see it with the helmet I'm wearing.

"Yeah, and you'd break your wrist if you tried this, brittle bones."

"You're only a few years younger than me, asshat," he scoffs.

"But age is just a number, isn't that right, Grey?"

"Oh, fuck you," he says, but he grins, knowing I'm messing with him. "Why are you here so early? Seriously."

"Just wanted to get some extra practice in," I reply nonchalantly.

He stares at me as I try the trick shot again, clearly not believing this excuse. He's not able to keep prying, however, because Brett Ratcliffe comes hobbling into the arena on his crutches.

"Good morning, Chambers!" he calls cheerfully.

"Fuck you, Waterski," I say as he struggles to take a seat.

"Oh, come on, man, you can't still be mad about that."

"What kind of asshole goes water-skiing one week before the season opener?" I grouch.

"I know I'm an idiot!" he grumbles. "I'm getting my punishment, believe me. I'm supposed to be out there on the ice, burning it up. Instead, I have to watch you get all the ass."

"What ass?" Grey asks, looking over at me and raising an eyebrow. I meet Brett's eyes, and his go wide when he seems to realize he knows something Grey doesn't. What—did Brett see my mystery woman and I leave the bar last night?

I give him a look that hopefully translates as say a single word and I will put your balls in a cast, too. Apparently, it works because Brett shakes his head and calls out to Grey.

"Metaphorical ass, coach."

"Who's getting metaphorical ass?" Sammy asks, skating out onto the ice and pulling on his helmet. "And how is it that, even when I'm early, you guys are always here before me?"

"It's called dedication," Brett says from his place in the stands.

"Fuck you, Waterski," Sammy says, grinning as he skates toward me, trying to take the puck. We easily fall into a simple maneuver of me playing keep-away until he finally snags it and starts taking it down the rink. We go back and forth like that for a while until Grey calls for practice to start.

Once all the guys start filtering out onto the ice, I glance up into the stands and realize I'm looking at the spot where my mystery woman was sitting last night. A chill runs through my body, and something else—something like frustration—follows closely in its wake.

Practice starts, and it goes horribly. Every single one of my shots misses. I slam Dole into the wall, and he shoves back at me.

"Hey!" Grey yells, shoving us apart. "Aren't you two fuckers on the same team?" Then, to everyone, he says, "Five-minute break! When you come back, you better have your fucking heads in the game!"

Then, he grabs my sleeve and pulls me to the side.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" he questions.

"Nothing," I grunt in reply.

"Don't say nothing when you're playing like a fucking Lincoln Log out there."

"I'm fine," I say, pushing off to skate past him, but Grey grabs me by the front of my practice jersey, hauling me back.

"You may have everyone else fooled with your little tough guy act," he says, "but not me. Tell me what's going on, man."

I let out a sigh, yanking my helmet off and scrubbing a hand through my hair. When Grey was going through all his shit with Ellie, he let me in and told me about it. So maybe it's time I did the same for him.

"The mystery woman," I say slowly. "I…"

"No shit," Grey breathes. "So, what's her name, man? What's her deal?"

"I don't know," I admit, swallowing.

"You don't know? Am I reading this wrong? You took her home, right?"

"Yeah. She came into the bar last night, and I just—well, she came back to my apartment."

"So who is she?" Grey probes.

"I said I don't know!"

"You didn't ask?"

"I did," I grumble, "but she didn't answer. And, I mean, you're not going to believe this, but there were other things to focus on during that exact moment of time."

"Jesus, Chambers," Grey mutters, running a hand over his face. "You don't even know her name."

"Which is fine," I say, "because we're going on the road tomorrow anyway, and there's no way in hell she will show up at another game. I'm pretty sure I worked it out of my system."

"I sure as shit hope you didn't," Grey mutters. "We need it in your system so you can keep playing like this."

"What's in his system?" Brett asks, hanging over the wall like he's trying to get close enough to hear our conversation.

"Oh, fuck off, Waterski," Grey says before calling everyone back for another drill.