68. Weston

The last thing I need right now is a road trip, but here I am, halfway across the country, in an arena I despise, playing like it’s my first fucking time on the ice and someone told me that the objective of hockey was to imitate a wrecking ball.

To be fair, I’m doing a good job of that. On this trip, I’ve racked up a game’s worth of penalty minutes. Scowling, Decker waves me off for a shift change.

He careens into the bench right behind me and immediately gets up in my grill. “Scott, what the fuck is your problem?” His nostrils flare angrily. “You’re unfocused and distracted. No fucking finesse whatsoever.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve missed shots, let passes skip over or under my stick, turned the puck over more times in this game than in all the rest of the games I’ve played this year put together. No wonder he’s pissed off.

I could be humble and admit I’m playing like ass. Instead, I double down on the only thing I have left: anger.

“Fuck you. I don’t need a lecture, Deck.”

“Well, you’re gonna cost us the fucking game, Scott. Pull your shit together or get the fuck off my team, alright?”

He stomps off like an angry bull to sit as far away from me as he can get. I understand that, too—if I could sit away from me, I would.

To make things worse, I feel a tap on my shoulder. When I turn around, Coach Hud has his face screwed up in a solemn mask. It says, I’m not mad; I’m just disappointed. “Go on and head to the locker room, Wes. You’re done for tonight.”

“Fucking fine by me.”

I’m snarling incoherently as I leap to my feet and stomp down the tunnel. I throw my shit down behind me as I go like a hurricane leaving carnage in its weak.

Stick—tossed.

Gloves—tossed.

Helmet—bounced off the fucking wall.

The equipment guy isn’t going to appreciate me much tonight and I’m sure the TV cameras have gotten it all on video, but I don’t care.

Let the world know I’m mad.

I take a shower cranked to the temperature of hell. I want my outsides to look as inflamed and furious as the insides of me feel.

By the time I get out and get dressed, Decker is waiting for me.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you,” he begins. “But you need to get your head out of your ass. Figure your shit out and play the game the team is paying you to play. If not… you’re gonna cost yourself a spot you earned with blood, sweat, and tears. Is that what you want? You want all your hard work to go to waste?”

I open my mouth to stick to my norm: telling him to go kick rocks, that he doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what I’ve been through.

But what comes out instead is somehow way worse.

“I’m in deep with some shit, man. I’m just… Fuck, man, I feel like I’m drowning.”

Something softens in Decker’s face. It’s not pity—that would only make me angrier. It’s not empathy, either.

It’s just… recognition. A sign that he’s listening.

“Come on then,” he says, ushering me out of the locker room and into a nearby empty office. “Tell me about it.”

I drop into a folding chair that groans under my bulk and I unload. All of it. Renee. The hope and the despair of being with her. Eva and the first break-in, then this new shit.

When I finish, I feel like I could float. Just saying it all out loud is a weight lifted off me. I’m a little red in the cheeks with embarrassment because Decker Price sure as hell ain’t my therapist.

But that soft look in his face is something I didn’t know I needed.

“So, Renee. That’s your lead suspect. You really think she would do that? She doesn’t strike me as the type.”

I wish he was right, but my gut feeling is so strong. She doesn’t seem the type, but neither did Eva.

I don’t know anything anymore. It’s like I’m losing my mind. This betrayal is hanging over me like a guillotine and I’m just waiting for it to slice my damn head off.

“Weston, I’ve seen this girl. I’ve seen how she watches you and how you watch her right back.” I shoot him a glare and he holds up his hand. “Easy, killer. What I’m saying is, any woman who looks at a man like that isn’t the kind of woman who would rip you off. I think what you two have going on is real. People can see it from miles away.” He pauses. “Even if you can’t.”

I don’t see anything of the sort. I see a couple of people who like having sex with each other in a no-strings-attached kind of way. There’s nothing holding us together. Nothing important. Nothing real.

Right?

I mean, that’s what I’ve been telling myself I see. But is the flutter I get in my chest whenever I smell her perfume in the hallway par for the course for a fuck buddy? Do friends with benefits laugh and cuddle and fall asleep holding each other like we do? How casual is it to dream about Renee every goddamn night?

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

All I’m sure about is that this whole situation is fucked. And I’m fucked right along with it. I want to believe Decker—but the past is too in my face, way too similar to this for it to be good.

So that’s where I am. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m falling for someone I shouldn’t have ever come near and the past is rearing its ugly head and gnashing its teeth in my direction like it’s amused that I ever thought I’d overcome it.

As for where to go? What to do? Who to trust? How to love? I don’t have those answers. Maybe I never will. I’ve got one thing to go on and one thing only.

My heart is with Renee.

Everything else will just have to find a way to work.