Page 39 of Crossing the Top Line

He’s…barkingat me. And what’s worse, my body responds, spine uncurling and fists unclenching. He manages to shove me toward the locker room, and I take several deep breaths.

“Whatever you want to say to Eli is going to wait until we get home, you hear me?” Oliver hisses, mouth so close to my head that his breath tickles the hairs on the nape of my neck.

I look up at him as I yank my water bottle out of my bag before throwing it into an empty locker. I’m about to tell him to shove it, but there’s something in his expression that stops me. He’s irritated, sure, but there’s more to this than just being pissed about me making a scene. The slight widening of his eyes, the tightness around his mouth, the paleness of his cheeks. And he can’t stop looking over his shoulder, a rapid flick of his gaze, but it’s enough. He’s afraid, but of what?

He doesn’t give me any more time to read into his expression before he turns and heads back out into the gym, leaving me to trail after him. And once I’m out on the floor, one of the trainers pulls me away to start my interval training, the pace intense enough to keep my thoughts from wandering. But once I’m done with that, and more guys have filtered in, the trainers herd us to the two dozen static bikes lined up in two rows in front of a mirror.

“Hey, Spence,” Eli greets on an exhale as he throws himself down onto the bike to the right of mine.

I look over his face for a moment, not sure what I’m looking for, but I’m met with his usual carefree smile and bright eyes. I grunt in reply, adjusting my seat as I take several deep, calming breaths. Or at least they’re supposed to be calming. Instead, I only end up being slapped in the face by magnolias and sweet tea mingling with Eli’s spruce and cranberries. My spine stiffens, and I have to look straight ahead, or else I’m liable to start shouting. I pride myself on keeping my emotions under control, but the confirmation of Eli being with Tori enough to pick up her scent has me teetering on the edge.

“God, how are y’all not miserable?” Caleb groans as he takes a bike in front of us.

“What can I say? Guess I just hold my liquor better than you,” Eli tosses back, laughter softening the remark.

Owen and Max laugh along as they sit on either side of Caleb, and I do a double take as I see the deep lines of sadness etched into Max’s cheeks. He pulls out his phone, not even paying attention as Eli and Caleb continue their banter.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask, leaning forward slightly and dropping my voice.

Max jumps, whipping around to look at me with wide eyes. Eyes rimmed with red.

“Yeah. Emily and I…we had a fight. More than a fight, I guess. She… I found out she’s been DMing guys from Shreveport…and Dallas…and Houston,” he replies, voice trailing off to nearly a whisper.

I let out a sympathetic sigh, not sure what else to say. Thankfully, Owen interjects with an incredulous snort. I shoot him a warning glare, but he doesn’t see it as he stretches his back.

“Good riddance. We tried to warn you, but no. What do we know about bunnies?” he says.

I growl low in my throat. “Dude, chill. You don’t have to be a dick about it,” I snap.

Owen turns to face me then, giving me a once-over before shrugging and dropping it. Max’s lips lift in a thankful smile, which I acknowledge with a nod. It doesn’t matter if this girl turned out to be exactly what we thought she was; Max clearly cared a lot about her, and his feelings are hurt. We can save the “I told you so’s” for literally any other time than the morning after.

“Speaking of, did you manage to catch the bunny tail you ran out of the club to chase, Eli?” Caleb asks, a clear attempt to redirect the conversation away from Max, but this is somehow worse.

I turn a harsh look on my roommate and find an uncharacteristically serious and stern expression pulling down his brow and lips. He’s crossed his arms over his broad chest, the muscles of his arms visibly flexing under the cuffs of his t-shirt.

“Let’s get a few things straight, gentlemen. I don’t know who raised you to talk about women like this, but consider me very disappointed. And if you want to brag about your conquests, or lack thereof, for everyone and their mother to hear, that’s your business. I, however, will have no part in that sort of fuck boy behavior. Now, if you don’t mind, Jeff has been trying to start our cardio for several minutes. We’re here to work, not gossip like old women.”

Eli finishes, leaving everyone within two bikes absolutely gob smacked. Myself included. I turn to face the front, eyes wide but jaw thankfully still shut. There’s no further discussion of last night as we get put through our paces, peddling hard and fast.

That still doesn’t stop my mind from churning through thoughts at breakneck speed.

A fair bit of my irritation slides away now that Eli’s said his piece about what happened. I recognize now that I was anxious about how he would talk about Tori and their hookup—there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what happened, especially with the amount of her scent still lingering on his skin. And I’ve already sorted through my top-level feelings, like anger at not being told of his plan and hurt over how my talk with Tori ended. Now I’m only left with the base, ugly truths that are impossible to turn away from.

Am I angry that Eli slept with Tori? No, not necessarily. He’s an adult and she’s an adult, and they both consented to whatever went down. The anger is masking something else: jealousy. I’m furious that I wasn’t the one to take her home, to relive a fraction of our past, even if it was just for a night. But, as my mother likes to say, entitlement is jealousy’s cozy bedfellow. In order to feel jealous, I must feel like Toriowesme that sort of attention. Which, logically, doesn’t make sense, but my feelings don’t have to make sense to be valid. But then where does the entitlement come from?

I search the very depths of my soul for the rest of Strength & Conditioning, and by the time I’m in the shower, my stomach has sunk to somewhere around my ankles. My entitlement is based entirely on memories and fantasy. Tori may have been in my dreams more times than I can count over the last six years, but that doesn’t give me any right to her time or attention. Hell, if last night was any indication, she has decided not to give me anything beyond professional courtesy. And she’s absolutely within her rights to give or withhold whatever parts of her mind and heart she wants. But that doesn’t stop the angry green dragon of envy from roaring in my chest.

So, I have two choices ahead of me. I can accept that my relationship with Tori will be strictly professional. All interactions between us will, for the time being, be team related, and maybe in time, I might gain a little bit of her goodwill. But with the way things have been so far, I’m more likely going to retire from professional hockey before I see that day.

Or.

I can do everything in my power to prove to her how sorry I am and how much I’ve changed. I’m not the hot-shot college hockey star who thought he could have his cake and eat it too. But she doesn’t know that, and how could she? I’ve been moping around and yapping at her heels like an abandoned puppy, which she clearly finds more annoying than adorable.

Faced with cool indifference and a challenging shot at redemption, my competitive spirit soars in my heart, sending the jealous monster back to its cave. It’s like we say all the time to the press. I can’t worry about what the other guys are doing, because I need to focus on playing my own game.

And when I’ve set my mind to it, Ineverlose.

It’saquietdayin the arena, a rare day of off-ice activities for the players while the facilities staff works on lighting maintenance in the rafters. A bulb was flickering pretty badly during practice yesterday, so they’re getting it changed before tomorrow’s game. I’m just glad it didn’t burst during either of the two games we’ve played so far this season. Not to mention, there’s a concert rolling in to make use of the arena while the team is out of town this coming weekend, so they’re doing an extra thorough check of the rest of the fixtures. And since the boys aren’t skating, according to Demitrius, it’s prime time to snag a few players to make some content. Which is how I find myself in one of the smaller meeting rooms, setting up backdrops and lighting for my first interview of the season.

---