Page 25 of Knotted Laces

Groaning softly, I slip out of the quiet locker room. The press has grilled us all—I’ve heard no little amount of“You were first in the league and now you’re out in the first round, what happened?”

We’ve all given our excuses, know that the broadcasters and bloggers will be taking their pound of flesh in the days to come.

We’ve congratulated the other team during the handshake at center ice, saluted our fans.

We’ve listened to Coach rant.

And we’ve listened to Rome do his best to be a good captain, to put a good spin on it.

But…

None of it—the yelling, thekeep-your-heads-ups, the questions—make us, or at leastme, feel better.

Not good enough.

Notenoughin general.

I walk down the hall, head straight for my car, and get the fuck out of there.

No doubt, most of the guys are going to find someone to fuck their frustrations out on, and most ofthemare going to do it while getting rip-roaring drunk.

I’m going home to get drunk and slaughter my way through an orc village.

It’s better than empty sex—better than the feelings that empty sex leaves me with—andI won’t have to interact with anyone aside from my online friends.

No family, who’ve blown up my phone with calls and texts and voicemails.

No teammates, who’re feeling this as much as I am—most of them, anyway.

No assistant coaches or training staff or captains, trying to make us feel better after Coach screamed down the room.

Just…mindless activity until I pull my head together.

The roads are quiet, the post-game traffic having cleared out in the time that it took to take care of all my shit, so my drive home is smooth and relatively quick.

I hit the button to open the garage, pull in, and head inside, hanging up my bag and taking off my shoes in the mud room. I want a post-game snack, but it sure as shit isn’t going to be my normal healthy version. I’m thinking something my mom stashed in my freezer and a family sized bag of tortilla chips to cover both sweet and salty, all washed down with enough beer that I sleep for a solid ten hours.

Good plan. Go.Break.

I’m so focused on that plan that I miss the light on in the kitchen.

But I sure as shit don’t miss the woman sitting at the island.

Thank God I hung my shit up, otherwise it would have ended up on the floor.

“A-Athena?” I stammer.

She’d started swiveling in my direction, but my use of her full name has her glaring at me.

“Ats,” I correct quickly. “What”—thefuck—“are you doing here?”

There’s a flurry of emotions across her pretty brown eyes before she turns fully to face me. “It was a rough game, huh?”

I still, a flurry of emotions now running throughme.“That’s the job,” I say, moving to the fridge, intent on that beer?—

“Uh-hum.”

I turn and see her holding up a beer—and more than that, a bottle of my favorite local IPA—and I hesitate, heart pounding, hope slicing all through my insides, tangling with confusion, with not knowing what the hell is going on or how to handle the woman I’m obsessed with being in my house, coming here like this.

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