Chapter 49

forty-nine

MADDOX

My shoulder throbs as I skate away from the New York Bobcats' defenseman. He pushes up off the ice with a glare.

"What's up with you?" Logan asks me as we grapple with our opponent for the puck. "I've never seen you throw so many hits."

The Bobcats' left defenseman comes barreling toward me. I dodge him at the last second and throw my elbow. He slams into the glass with a satisfying thud . I shoot Logan a glare. "Are we playing a game or having a therapy session?"

"Looks like you could use a therapy session," Byrne mutters under his breath. Ignoring him, I focus on the only thing keeping me from screaming. The game. If my mind is on the puck, it can't be on a certain redhead who's been using me just like Candace did. Isla's just a better actress .

We're up five to two with four minutes left in the third. Half of New York's fans have already started leaving the arena. They know as well as we do there's no coming back from that in four minutes. Especially not with the way I'm playing tonight.

I'm exorcizing all these putrid emotions eating away at my insides. Turning them on the Bobcats is a hell of a lot more satisfying than letting them eat me alive.

They'll have plenty of time for that later.

For now, I force them to fuel me.

My world narrows down to my teammates, the ice, and the puck.

Logan chips the puck off the boards, getting it perfectly placed in front of me. I slap it to Wright, who dekes right, then left, then sends it flying with a sharp crack . Right past the goalie and into the five hole. The stunned goalie looks down between his legs, as if he can't believe he missed blocking the shot.

The New York fans can't believe it, either. A chorus of boos fill the arena as the time ticks down.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty.

Ten.

The buzzer sounds, and the disappointed announcer calls the win in our favor.

I don't feel a thing.

We skate off the ice. My teammates clap each other on the back, shoot the shit, and congratulate one another. Coach keeps his post-game speech brief and tells us we didn't completely disappoint him.

I don't feel a thing.

The guys drag me to some sports bar filled with hockey fans. We get a mixture of boos from the men and hungry looks from the women. I still feel nothing. Going through the motions. That's all I can muster.

"I'm not going to be the responsible one tonight," I tell Navarro. "It's my turn to get shit-faced."

He frowns, his dark eyes seeing too much as he studies me. "What's going on, Graves? You haven't been yourself since we left Minneapolis."

With a roll of my eyes, I bring my second bottle of beer to my lips. "Nothing's going on, man."

Bash tilts his head. "How's Isla?"

As tightly as I grip the bottle, I'm surprised it doesn't shatter in my hand. "She's great. Getting everything she wants in life."

Our goalie's brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Some fans cross the bar with their cell phones out. Three women with glassy eyes and way too much cleavage spilling out of their too-tight tops. They survey Navarro and me like we're bars of chocolate and they're on their periods. Hungry. Craving.

Still, I feel abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

I purposefully avoid answering Bash's question and give the three women my attention.

"Hi," the brunette says. Her voice is sultry, and her eyes are hungry as they roam the length of my body. "You guys play for the Rogues, right?"

I nod.

"Do you think we could get a picture with you?"

Sebastian shifts in his seat. He doesn't want to take photos with these women; he wants me to tell him all my secrets. Which is too damned bad because I haven't had nearly enough alcohol for that. He opens his mouth, probably to say no, when I beat him to the punch.

"Sure thing, ladies." I flag down a server. "Think you could take a photo for us?" The guy obliges, and the three women arrange themselves around Sebastian and me. The brunette, after a moment of hesitation, plunks her ass down on my knee.

It takes everything in me not to shove her off and onto the floor. Because Isla might be a fucking fake, but I'm not. I don't want this random woman touching me as though she has any right. But I can't shove her off my lap because Coach would hand me my ass. The last thing I need is for stories to start circulating about how I hurt women or some other bullshit.

The moment the server hands the woman's phone back, I ask her to get off of me. Her cheeks stain pink, but she does as I ask before scurrying away. As soon as she's gone, I down the rest of my beer and flag the server to bring me another.

"What happened, Madds?" Sebastian tries again.

"Just fucking drop it, man. Let it go." Every muscle in my body is tense and ready to get the hell out of Dodge if Bash keeps asking questions. Luckily, he doesn't. Just gives me one of those knowing looks of his.

"I'm here when you want to talk."

A grunt is my only response. Our server sets a fresh beer in front of me, and I swallow the slightly bitter liquid down without another word.

I still don't feel anything, but at least it's becoming the good kind of oblivion.

Until my phone buzzes with a text.

Isla

That was an intense game. Are you hurt? You took some big hits. Gave some, too.

Am I hurt?

Hell yeah, I'm hurt. But it's not from the hits I took today.

Sebastian watches me, and I know he didn't miss Isla's text. Hell, the nosy bastard probably read the damned thing over my shoulder. Not wanting to deal with his questions, I type a quick response.

Me

I'm fine.

Isla

Facetime?

Out with the guys. TTYL.

Oh. Okay. Have fun. Miss you.

I don't respond. Shoving the phone in my pocket, anger begins to overpower the pleasant buzz I'd been working on. My mind replays her callous words, even though I don't want it to.

I had no idea they'd win a date for me with a rich professional athlete. Talk about luck, right?

Luck. What a fucking crock of shit. She probably planted the idea in their heads. I can't believe I fell for her innocent act. For her good-person act.

"Is everything okay with you two?" Navarro's voice is just loud enough for me to hear over the din of the bar, but quiet enough that no one else will hear it .

I hate the look of concern in his eyes. The pity.

"Don't worry about it," I snap.

Bash frowns, but after considering me for a few moments, he nods. "I'm here when you're ready to talk about it."

This time, when our server comes by, I order something stronger than beer. Turning to my friend and goalie, I give him a brusque nod. "Don't think that's gonna happen, but I appreciate it all the same."

Navarro's lips twist to the side, thinning out into a firm line. "Take it from me, Madds. Sometimes you think it's better to hold things in, but is it? Or will your secrets eat you from the inside out and leave you even more broken than before?"

Fuck. I'm not drunk enough for this.

"I'm out of here," I say to my teammates. Well, slur is probably more accurate. I'm not sure if what I'm doing can be considered actual speech.

"I'll walk with you," Navarro says, rising from the table as I do. He has to steady me with a hand on my elbow when I wobble.

"Nah. Stay. Have fun."

Sebastian shakes his head. "Coach will kill me if I let you wander, drunk, around a strange city." He nods at the other guys. "See you guys tomorrow morning. Don't get shit-faced and do something stupid."

That's usually my line.

Griffin and Logan roll their eyes. Griffin's chatting animatedly with one of our rookies, Ryder Hanson, while Logan has two women perched on his lap. I snort. Maybe he's got the right idea. Relationships are pointless and bring nothing but pain. Hot, meaningless sex with a different woman every night could be the answer.

Or it could make your dick fall off.

I laugh quietly.

"All right, Chuckles. Let's get you to bed." Navarro pushes on my shoulders to guide me out of the bar. My laughter cuts off and I scowl at the goalie.

"Don't fucking start calling me that."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, Graves. You're a grumpy drunk tonight."

I have a right to be grumpy. Fooled again.

What's that saying? Fool me one, shame on you. Fool me twice and it's clear I'm a stupid fucking idiot?

Surprise, surprise. Maddox Graves has been played again. At least with Candace, I hadn't actually been in love with the woman. Thought I might have been for a while. But in the end, I realized I didn't feel much of anything for her outside of obligation.

Isla?

My chest aches, and I rub absently at it.

I actually love her.

Loved her.

Can't keep thinking stuff like that in the present tense. Because with every stumbling step I take toward our hotel, I'm more and more convinced of what I need to do.

I need to break up with Isla Harding, block her number, and pretend she never existed.

"You going to be all right if I leave you?" Bash asks as he deposits me on my bed. "Not gonna throw up and drown in your sleep, are you? "

I grunt. "No."

He pauses by the door, frowning. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay, Graves. Text me if you need anything, all right?"

He's a good friend. I tell him so, then demand he get the hell out. Once he's gone, I strip out of my clothes and flop down on the king-sized bed. An unwelcome jolt of longing spears my chest when my mind wanders to Isla. To the fake, lying, manipulative woman I thought could be my forever.

I'm a joke. And I'm going to end up alone. It's clear as day.

Might as well make it official.

Fumbling with my phone, I smash my fingers against the screen, pulling up my text thread with Isla. I stare at her last message.

Miss you .

Not yet, she doesn't. But she will.

It's probably littered with drunken typos, but I tap out a message with furious, shaking fingers.

Me

It's over between us. You really had me fooled. But you're not the woman I thought you were. I'm looking for more in a partner. More than you and what you can offer. I deserve fucking better. I deserve better than you.

There. I hit send and ignore the violent roiling in my gut. But I do deserve better. I deserve to be loved, dammit. Do I have a sign on my forehead that says Use Me or something? Why does this keep happening to me ?

Maybe some people just aren't built for love.

Maybe I'm one of them.

Not even thirty seconds later, my phone rings. Isla's name flashes across the screen. I hit deny. It rings again.

The thing is? I don't want to talk to her. Can't talk to her. Because as much as I want my love for her to exist firmly in the past, it doesn't. It's still very much a living, breathing, yowling beast inside my chest. Who knows what I'd say if I spoke to her now?

She tries to call three more times, but I deny each attempt. Then the texts come.

Isla

What?

Maddox? Did something happen? Please answer the phone.

What do you mean, you're looking for more in a partner?

Please. Please call me back.

I can be better for you. I swear.

That last one makes bile claw up my throat. I don't respond. A minute or two later, she tries calling again. But this time, she calls just once.

Good. She's finally getting the hint. I don't want to talk to her. I don't want anything to do with her.

My phone buzzes, and a notification for a new voicemail pops up on the screen. I debate deleting it outright, but I'm a glutton for punishment when I'm drunk.

Pressing play, I steel myself to hear her voice.

I expect anger or rage. I expect her to yell at me. To call me names like Candace did. What I don't expect is to hear panic. Or pain.

Isla's voice shakes and wavers. Sniffles accentuate every few words. Once or twice, she has to fight back a sob.

"Maddox? I… Did something happen? Did I do something? Please call me back. Please. I don't understand what's going on. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Right? I don't…" Her voice cuts off in a sob. "Maddox, I…" She stifles another cry. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can be better. Please, just call me back."

The soft sounds of her crying play in my ear. I harden myself to them.

"Please call me back. I lo— I care about you so much. Please don't shut me out. Not like this." Another sniffle. "Call as late as you want. I won't be sleeping. Goodnight, Ogre." The voicemail ends.

She's a good actress. I'll give her that. If I hadn't heard the vile garbage she spewed to her ex, I might even believe her.

I stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity before I do what needs to be done.

I block Isla Harding's number.