11. Lila

Chapter 11

Lila

I knew I'd messed up with Sabrina, but I didn't grasp just how badly I'd messed up until she showed up for our morning skate the next day.

I fully expected her to cold-shoulder me. Between now and when I could pull her aside and apologize, the air between us was going to be colder than the ice we skated on. Totally predictable and understandable.

What caught me by surprise was how she cold-shouldered everyone . When Laws said, "Good morning," to her, Sabrina's response was monosyllabic, her expression flat. While we all put on our gear and everyone chattered about whatever, she didn't say a word to anyone. And as soon as we hit the ice, she was off in her own world, skating like this was the middle of a playoff game and firing pucks into the boards so hard they echoed into the arena's high rafters.

Ooh, boy. There was no way this was a coincidence. That she just happened to be in an uncharacteristically foul mood the day after I'd shot off my mouth.

This was bad, and I needed to fix it. I owed it to her and to our team.

Shit, I thought as I went about my own warmup routine. If I hadn't already felt like the world's biggest asshole, I sure did now.

The other problem? There wasn't a lot of opportunity to take care of the situation, especially today. This was a Sunday game, so puck drop was at 1:00 instead of 7:00. That meant our window of time for pre-game routines was a lot shorter than usual, and I knew better than to interrupt another player's routine under the best of circumstances.

After the game, then.

Except…

Jesus Christ. Twenty-three minutes into tonight's game, I knew waiting had been a mistake. This game was not going well, and even though it wasn't because of how I was playing, it was absolutely my fault.

"Pittsburgh number five," the ref said three minutes into the second period. "Two minute minor for roughing."

Sabrina shook her head as she took her seat in the penalty box, anger written all over her face. The call was a fair one; Nashville's blue liner had been trying to goad her, and Sabrina—usually so damned disciplined—had taken the bait. The other woman had wisely not punched back, so only Sabrina was penalized.

Jesus. This wasn't like Sabrina at all. Throughout our major junior days and whenever we'd played in international competition, she'd always been one of the most well-disciplined players on the ice. By the end of a season, she usually had a fraction of the penalty minutes as everyone else, and half of the ones she did get weren't really a lack of discipline. Accidentally tripping someone or high-sticking them; those were just part of the game.

Roughing? In the same game where she'd already taken a double minor for high-sticking?

This seriously wasn't like her.

And I couldn't avoid the fact that the way she was playing—angry, undisciplined, too aggressive—had all started after we'd had words in the gym. Every puck she'd hit this morning had practically screamed for mercy, and her checks this afternoon were harder than usual.

Now she was in the box because someone had successfully provoked her into roughing.

Oh my God, I thought as I watched her fuming behind the Plexiglas door. This really is my fault .

There was nothing I could do to fix it—not while the game was still going—but I could do my level best to minimize the damage. If Nashville scored a power play goal on us, they'd take the lead. If that ended up being their game-winning goal, Sabrina would feel even worse than she must have already.

No power play goal, then, I told myself as I set up with the penalty kill. Not this game.

Nashville wasn't going to make it easy, though. Their center won the faceoff in our zone, and they immediately started cycling the puck. We practiced for that, but there was only so much we could do. The point of it was to wear down the defenders, and it worked because we had to follow the puck if we didn't want to leave our goalie vulnerable.

The one saving grace? They weren't as good at this as they thought they were. As they cycled, I watched how they worked, same as I had during their last two power plays, and they were way too predictable. When a player at the point got the puck, she sent it to the other, who then passed it to the forward closest to her, who in turn passed it to the one closest to herself, and on to the next one, then back to the point. No changing things up.

Which meant when that second defender had the puck, I knew exactly where it was going.

It was a risk, but I left my own defensive position. Worth it—the puck landed right on my stick. I was about to clear it to the other end of the ice, but then I realized there was nothing but wide-open space between me and Nashville's goal. While the power play had cycled the puck, they'd been moving around, and they'd misjudged their spacing.

Instead of clearing the puck, I took it on my stick and bolted for the neutral zone. I sensed one of their players on my heels, but I skated like hell across the neutral zone and into the offensive zone, the crowd roaring with approval and anticipation.

With mere feet to go to the goal, I faked, then shot on the backhand.

The goalie was fast. She made the save, but the rebound got away from her.

There was a flash of black and gold at the corner of my eye, and I turned just in time to see Anastasia—who'd apparently followed me into the zone—fire the puck right into the back of the net.

The fans absolutely lost their minds.

I was first to Anastasia and threw my arms around her. "Nice shorty!"

"Nice setup!" She slapped my back. "That was amazing!"

A second later, our other two teammates were there, congratulating both of us. We had the lead now, and the jailbreak goal had Sabrina out of the penalty box.

Hopefully that meant a big relief for her and a small redemption for me.

As Sabrina skated across the ice to the bench, she smiled at Anastasia. When her gaze landed on me, though, the smile vanished, and she just continued toward the bench.

My heart sank. I deserved that. I knew I did. I hoped the effort to keep Nashville from converting would earn me a little bit of grace, but I wasn't surprised that it didn't. She didn't owe me a damn thing after what I'd said. Getting her out of the box and helping our team to a lead wasn't—and shouldn't have been—enough.

After the game, I promised myself as I went to the bench.

I needed to make things right with her anyway. Pride be damned, I couldn't just let this fester. And now that it was affecting the team, there was no way around it. I'd set this in motion, and I needed to be the one to put a stop to it, ideally before it cost us a game or something.

One of the downsides with this sport, though, was how fast things moved, and not just on the ice. When the game ended, we were encouraged to take off our gear and shower quickly so the media could come in. Before the reporters had even left the locker room, we were being ushered into the lounge to eat, reminded multiple times that we were leaving for the airport soon.

Then it was onto the bus, into the airport, onto the plane, and into the air. Before we'd even leveled out, Sabrina was asleep. Not long after, so was I. Then we were landing and being ushered off the plane and onto another bus, which took us to the hotel.

Room keys in hand, we all dispersed to our rooms.

Several of our teammates were going to hit the bar for a nightcap. It was still reasonably early, and anyway, the nap on the plane gave some people a second wind. They needed to wind down a bit before they called it a night. I was dead on my feet, ready pass out even though it was only 9:00 (Pittsburgh time, anyway; God only knew what time it was in… wherever we were). Still, I joined them, hoping Sabrina would too. Then I could find a chance to discreetly pull her aside and clear the air. Ideally before Tuesday night's game.

But she didn't come down to the bar.