Page 110 of The Love You Win

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.

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