Page 85 of Pucking Amazing

I close the door behind me with a heavy click. The apartment seems cavernous, empty. I strip off my suit, not bothering with the lights, and fall into bed.

But sleep eludes me. I stare at the dark ceiling, the game playing over and over in my mind’s eye like a grotesque highlight reel. Every goal, every missed save, every disappointed face in the crowd.

My chest constricts, breath coming short and sharp. How can I face them again? My team, my coaches, my fans?

I close my eyes, trying to summon the feeling of DJ and Syd’s embrace. But all I can see is the puck sliding past me, the red light glaring.

Failure.

With a groan, I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.

CHAPTER 29

DJ

I’m practically wearing a path into the polished hardwood floor of Slade’s sprawling living room, my sneakers squeaking in protest with every agitated stride. This house reeks of good taste and even better paychecks—high ceilings with crown molding, state-of-the-art technology, endless plush couches that are begging for lazy days, and art on the walls that I’m damn sure didn’t come from a thrift store.

“DJ, if you keep pacing like that, you’re gonna drill a hole straight to China,” Emma teases from her cozy nest of throw pillows, not bothering to look up from her tablet.

“Sorry, Em,” I mutter, pausing to flash her a grin. She’s the kind of girl who can pull off bedhead and PJs like it’s high fashion, and right now, she’s all Sunday morning ease with her hair in a messy bun and a steaming mug of something caffeinated on the table beside her.

“Got your jockstrap in a twist over Ty?” Ryan asks, poking his head out from the kitchen, where he’s probably pilfering someone else’s snacks. Guy’s got an appetite that could rival a bear pre-hibernation.

“Something like that,” I admit, scrubbing a hand through my hair.

Slade lounges in a leather armchair like it’s his throne, his grey-blue eyes sharp and assessing.

“Just spit it out,” Slade commands, but there’s a warmth there that says he’s already halfway to my corner.

“Tyler’s a mess, man,” I start, throwing my hands out, tattoos stretching with the motion. “The guy won’t stop beating himself up over the last game. I mean, we clinched our spot, and he’s acting like he single-handedly tanked our chances.”

Slade nods, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “He puts too much pressure on himself.”

“Exactly.” I flop down onto the opposite chair, my body language broadcasting frustration. “You know how he gets—like he’s trying to shoulder a mountain or something.”

“Okay, so what do we do about it?” Slade leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking every inch the captain ready to lead us out of rough waters.

“Distraction. He needs something to take his mind off the ice,” I suggest, hoping the vague idea blossoms from there.

“Like a group outing? Just the guys, no hockey talk allowed?” he offers, tapping a rhythm on his thigh that suggests he’s already plotting the guest list.

“Perfect. And maybe...throw in some friendly competition? Something stupid and fun without any stakes, like laser tag.”

My lips quirk up at the thought of Tyler decked out in neon gear having a blast, momentarily free from his self-inflicted goalie’s guilt.

“Or paintball,” Slade fires back, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “Nothing bonds a team like colorful bruises.”

“Genius.” I can’t help but laugh. “It’s settled then. Operation Distract Tyler is a go.”

“Operation Keep Our Goalie Sane,” Slade corrects with a smirk, and I have to agree—it does have a better ring to it.

“Alright, let’s get this planned, captain,” I say, feeling the band of tension in my chest begin to loosen. With Slade on board, Tyler doesn’t stand a chance against this impending morale rescue mission.

“Time to blow off some steam, boys!” Slade announces the next day as we pile out of our cars in front of a local paintball arena.

The place looks like a freaking war zone—inflatable bunkers, stacks of tires, wire spools, and camo netting everywhere. I grin. A little friendly competition and adrenaline is just what the doctor ordered.

We suit up in camo jumpsuits and protective masks. Tyler and I exchange a knowing glance as we strap on our gear, hands brushing.

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