Page 133 of Staying Selfless

“Do you think he’ll even want to talk to me after what he thinks he saw last night?”

“Of course. Come on. It’s Marc. He’s probably the most understanding person we know.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him everything, but I do need to apologize for how I handled this past week. I just gotta figure out the perfect way to say it.”

“Your communication doesn’t have to be perfect, Ali. He’s not your ex. The tiniest bit of communication will go a long way for Marc.”

She nods in agreement but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Which isn’t all that surprising. If her past relationship did enough damage to run her out of New York and start a new life, it’s no wonder she’s worried she’ll say the wrong thing in a new relationship.

“Thanks for listening. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner,” she says. “I’m just not good at talking about emotions and shit.”

“I know, but you just did, and I’m proud of you, Ali. And even though I loved the idea of my two closest friends being together, the truth is, I love the idea of you feeling whole on your own even more.”

“Thanks, girl.” She wears a half-smile, standing from my bed. “Alright, I’ll let you go shower. I can’t believe we had a real conversation with your hair looking like that.”

Chapter 35

Eli

“How’s the ankle feeling?” Cam asks as we sit in our respective locker stalls, changing back into our post-game suits.

Not that I really need to suit up. I doubt there are many, if any, fans still waiting outside of the locker room for us to emerge. But we are 1-0 after our first playoff win, so I don’t mess with my routine. Call it superstition, but when you win a big game, you repeat everything you did that day. So, suiting back up, it is.

And I’ll be sure to let Logan know that the morning sex we had was a vital reason why we pulled out the W today.

“It’s alright,” I tell my assistant captain as I take one more glimpse at my bruised ankle before covering it with my sock. The blueish-purple has shifted to a yellowish-green at this point. It looks disgusting, but it’s healing. “How’s the shoulder?”

He rotates it around, trying to ease the ache. “It hurts like a bitch. But it was worth it for that power-play goal,” he adds in reference to the late hit he absorbed that smashed him into the boards, giving us a two-minute man advantage.

Cam slowly slips his suit jacket back on as I tie up my shoes. I gather my few belongings from my locker, eyeing my two favorite pictures posted up in the top corner before heading towards the exit.

“You know.” Cam nods towards my dyed hands. “If I didn’t like you and your girlfriend so much, I would give you so much shit for having red-stained hands and being the most pussy-whipped man I’ve ever met.”

I don’t really have an argument there. I am ‘pussy-whipped’, and I fucking love it. The causal shrug and proud expression I shoot Cam tells him just that.

I’m usually never here this late after a game, but I needed time in the training room’s ice baths, which is why there are fewer than ten eager fans waiting in the hall rather than the crowd that’s usually hanging around.

Out of habit, my eyes immediately peer up the hall where Logan typically stays away from the fans, and even though I told her not to wait up, there she is, wearing my jersey and her proudest smile.

I feel a little jolt in my chest when her green eyes meet mine, but before I can even make a move towards her, my copper-haired friend takes off in her direction.

As Cam opens his arms to hug my girlfriend, he shoots a smug little smirk over his shoulder towards me, trying to get under my skin.

“Logie, I owe you my life.” He hugs her. “Or at least my scholarship.”

“Did you ace it?” she asks, in reference to what I assume is his statistics test.

“Yes, ma’am! Well, I got a C-plus, but same thing.”

I peek around my assistant captain, looking for the attention my needy ass is always begging for from my girlfriend.

“Good game, baby.” Logan leans up on her toes as I bend down to meet her partway, my lips finding hers.

I wrap my arms around her shoulders, placing another kiss on the top of her head. “Thank you. All ten minutes of ice time,” I add with sarcasm.

I average just over twenty minutes in a typical game, so playing under half of my usual time was frustrating. But, once we were up 3-1 in the third, my coach sat my ass on the bench for the rest of the game in an attempt to not put too much strain on my ankle.

I have a whole week to heal before the second round of playoffs, and I fully plan on playing my average minutes by then.

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