Page 42 of A Little Complicated

We continue practicing for another thirty minutes until sweat soaks my jersey and black dots spot my vision. I shouldn’t be tired yet—or at least notthistired—but exhaustion burrows deep in my chest, leaving me craving rest like I’ve run a marathon. At least I worked off my pent-up energy. She’s getting better. Or at least, I think she is. She’s lagging a little now, her reflexes slower and less polished than when we first started, though she’d never admit it aloud the same way I won’t. We’ve been at this for hours.

Checking the time on my phone lying on the bench, I wave her toward me. “Let’s call it a day.”

Her hair is a mess of strawberry blonde curls as she slides off her helmet. A few strands stick to the side of her face, and she shoves it away, cradling her helmet on her hip. “I want to keep going.”

“No.”

“Come on, you’ve been taking it easy on me.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have. You can tell I’m tired, and you’re going easy on me.” It isn’t a question, but I answer it anyway. Or, at least partially.

“You look exhausted, Opie.”

“So? Stop holding back. Let’s do it again.”

I want to laugh. To tell her I can’t becauseI’mthe one who’s exhausted. I’m the one who needs to go home and sleep. The one who can barely hold himself up. But I swallow it back. Scrubbing my glove over my face, I mutter, “I’ve got shit to do.”

“The sooner you stop holding back, the sooner I’ll let you get to whatever shit you need to be doing,” she offers.

Letting my hand fall to my side, I stare at her. “Opie…”

She slides her helmet back into place and heads to the goal, spreading her padded legs wide as she moves into position. “Come on, Mav. One more shot with all your strength. Let’s see it.”

All my strength.

If only.

“It’s a bad idea,” I start.

“I’m not weak.”

“Never said you were weak,” I argue. “Only stubborn.”

“Then I guess it’s time you give in and actually try,” she quips.

“I’ve been trying.”

“In the beginning, sure. For the last ten minutes or so?” Her padded shoulders lift. “Not so much. Come on. Hit me with your best shot.”

She shifts her weight back and forth, egging me on. I leave the bench and skate to the red line again. My muscles feel fucking flaccid, and I’d laugh at the correlation if it wasn’t so pathetic. But seriously. I feel like I’m fucking eighty. Digging deep, I tap into the last of my strength and rush toward her, her eyes following the puck as I handle it with my stick. When I’m a few feet in front of her, I dart left, snapping the puck toward the right side of the net, but it ricochets off the post and nails the side of her helmet, causing her to stumble onto her ass.

Shit.

I round the back of the goal and race toward her, sliding onto my knees and unbuckling her chin strap as fast as my fumbling fingers can manage. Once it’s free, I slip her helmet off, and she blinks slowly back at me, dazed.

“You okay?” I rasp, cradling her cheeks in my hands while willing away the dots lining my vision as I attempt to inspect her for any damage, but I’m lightheaded as shit.

Don’t pass out, asshole.

With a laugh, she pushes my hands away from her. “Yeah, I’m good.” Her smile widens. “Damn, Mav. There was a lot of power in your shot.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She peeks up at me. “Thank you.”

My brows dip. “For what?”

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