Page 43 of The Perfect Snipe

“Aw, come on.” Mykyta nudges me. “We won! Smile a little, yeah?”

“One goal doesn't fix our standings.” I toss my gloves into my bag.

His grin falters a bit. “Yeah, but it's progress, right? We're moving in the right direction.”

“Moving's not enough. We need to be sprinting.”

Mykyta holds up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Just trying to keep things positive.”

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “I know. Sorry. It's just. . .”

“A lot of pressure,” he finishes for me. “We get it, Cap. We're all feeling it. But you can't carry it all on your own, you know?”

These guys are my team, my responsibility. I should be lifting them up, not dragging them down with my mood.

“You're right. It was a good win. We'll build on it.”

Mykyta's grin returns full force. “That's more like it!”

I look around at the rest of my teammates. They're laughing, shoving each other, and being goofy idiots.

And, for a moment, I let myself believe. Believe that we can do this. Believe that we can make the playoffs.

Believe that maybe, just maybe, I can have more than just hockey in my life.

Chapter 18

Cat

I pace my bedroom, wringing my fingers together, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, casting long shadows across the room and highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. My stomach churns, a constant reminder of the conversation I need to have.

Asking for help feels like sandpaper against my skin. I've been here before, and it’s always a disaster, even for the simplest things. Like the time in college I’d asked one of my friends for a ride to the airport. I was heading home to Arizona for Thanksgiving. But my friend never showed, never texted, and didn’t even answer when I reached out.

The memory of that day floods back, sharp and vivid. The panic rising in my chest as I watched the minutes tick by on my phone, the frantic calls going straight to voicemail, the mad dash to book an Uber. The utter embarrassment of explaining whathappened to the ticketing agent. My palms grow clammy at the recollection, and I wipe them on my jeans.

My friend even turned it around on me, claiming I was making a big deal about the whole situation. Except I was the one who had to shell out extra money for a new ticket.

This is different, more serious than a ride to the airport.

I pause at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. I've always been the one people turn to for help, never the other way around. It's safer that way. No expectations, no letdowns.

Except my grandmother’s backed me into a corner and I have no other choice.

The kids are with Leo’s mom, who threw in another dig when she picked them up. I'd bitten my tongue so hard, I tasted blood, but fuck her. I have enough on my plate without dealing with her passive-aggressive bullshit.

Sucking in a deep breath, I shake my arms out, hoping to relieve some of the tension building in my body. My shoulders are so tight they feel like they're up around my ears. I roll my neck, wincing at the series of pops that echo in the quiet room.

“Come on, Cat,” I mutter to myself. “You can do this. It's just Leo, for fuck's sake.”

That's part of the problem.

It's Leo.

The man I've been living with, the man I've slept with. The man who, despite my best efforts, is starting to mean more to me than I'd planned on.

I'm running out of time, though.

And that last thought propels me out of my room and down the staircase to the living room. Leo is sprawled out on the couch, his long legs stretched out across the cushions, a beer in hand as he watches TV. A twinge of guilt tugs at my chest forinterrupting his rest, especially after traveling for away games the past few days.

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