Page 82 of Caught from Behind

We were supposed to talk this morning.

But instead, I woke up with the sun flowing through the windows, my alarm suspiciously turned off, and the space beside me empty.

Then I spent the morning trying to track down a certain brown-haired beauty who was running from something.

From me?

From her past?

From something shitty that happened when I was gone?

I don’t fucking know and that’s killing me.

But she’s not picking up my calls, not returning my texts. And she’s not at her house or the salon or Lake and Nova’s. She’s not at the bar or on the patio, nor at the bakery or sandwich shop. She’s not shopping at the base of the gondola—or not that I could see amongst the crush of people still enjoying the ski runs made possible by the Snowmaggedon a few months ago.

And then I had to pause my search.

Because of a bunch of dicks—literally and figuratively.

“My legs are fucking shot,” Knox grumbles from next to me, towel knotted around his middle but split up this thigh, giving me a glimpse of his balls before I jerk my gaze away, grinding my teeth together.

See? Dicks.

I grunt.

Because my quads and hammies are on fire. Because Knox and I hit the gym after we crawled our asses off the ice.

We have a new offensive coach, which means working on implementing a new system. It’s not game ready, yet, but Coach Joey—short for Josephine—is a perfectionist.

I’m excited.

She brings fresh blood and an enthusiasm for the game I haven’t seen in years.

But our locker room isn’t all camaraderie and sword fighting, crossing streams in the shower and pulling pranks on the rookies.

We have two main groups—Lake, Knox, me, Leo, Bear, Storm, and a few others form one. And the other…I look across the room, see them clapping shoulders and punching each other and generally acting like unfocused idiots—same as they behave on the ice.

We’re winning—for the most part—so it hasn’t created too much of a problem.

But…it’s not great.

It’s getting sloppy.

And I’m worried that we’re going to get worse.

Plus, we haven’t won a Cup, and we won’t until they get their shit together.

Or maybe everything’s fine and I’m in my own head because everything’s fucked up with Ella.

I exhale, focus on Knox, who’s still complaining about his legs.

“This was your workout,” I remind him, pulling my underwear and pants on—see? Now I’m helping solve my dick problem.

“You got me there,” Knox says, dropping the towel.

Jesus.

Dick problem once again.

---