Page 8 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

The tension was palpable, the only sound heavy breathing, as everyone waited to see how I’d react.

Which was the moment my turncoat agent finally decided to speak. “Look, Savage, no one wanted to be the one to tell you this, but since I’m not there for you to punch, I volunteered.” He chuckled at his own joke, but no one else laughed. My hands tightened into fists until my knuckles were white.

Harry’s laughter petered off and he continued, “You’re done for the season. Go home, see your family, take time to grieve …” Blood rushed through my ears. “We think a break will—”

I stepped back so fast, my chair fell backward and clattered to the ground, silencing Harry. “We’re in the play-offs. You can’t pull me.”

“We can, and we are,” Mike said with the finality of a missile hitting its target. “Clear out your locker. We’ll see you in the preseason.”

As if they’d planned it, everyone bustled from the room while I stood there in the wreckage, my palms pressed to the table, my heart beating so fast I could die on the spot.

And who would care if I did?

A heavy hand gripped my shoulder. “This is for your own good.”

I shook Coach off. “Watching from the sidelines as my team plays. How is that good?”

Coach paused. “No, Dylan. You won’t be here at all. You’re on a mandated leave until preseason practice starts.”

The room spun like I was back in the ancient tilt-o-whirl at Winterhaven’s nearly-abandoned fairground, reaching the end of my endurance through rotation after rotation, but unwilling to cede victory to Shiloh, Hudson, Charlie, Lily, or any of our old group.

I stared at the table as if it might hold the answers, my words bitter as I spoke. “You’re going to lose without me.”

“Maybe,” Coach threw back tightly. His face was the kind of bright red it got when we were floundering on the ice, making stupid mistakes. “But I’m trying to hold this team together after Shiloh, and you seem determined to tear it apart.” He glanced away as if he couldn’t even bear to look at me. “Take a break, Savage. Get some help.”

“I don’t need help. I need to play hockey.”

Coach set up another missile. Took aim. “If I see you at the rink before the preseason, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Target hit.

The front lights ofthe townhouse I shared with Bret and Gage were on when I got home from a twelve mile run. I winced. They were still awake. Waiting for me. We were all early risers, and during hockey season, it was rare to see any of us after nine. But they knew I’d been called in to speak to Coach, and they’d want to hear about it.

Word would be out soon enough anyway, but saying it out loud made it feel too real. Like I still stood at the precipice of possibility, but once the words were out, I’d plunge through thin ice into freezing cold water with no lifeline.Hockeyhad always been my lifeline. It saved me when I left home. And it would save me from losing Shiloh—if they hadn’t just ripped it away.

I bent over my knees and sucked in the fresh mountain air while my heart rate calmed down. A punishing work-out at the gym followed by a run at my top speed had managed to quiet my brain. But the effects would only be temporary. I had to face this at some point.

The door beeped as I punched in the code and pushed it open into the kitchen. Gage and Bret sat at the table, each eating a huge carne asada burrito from our favorite Mexican restaurant. Gage kicked a chair out in invitation to join them. “Ordered your favorite.”

My burrito was still warm, and my stomach growled despite the stress churning in it. I dropped into the chair and tore off the greasy wrapper.

“Long run,” Bret commented through a mouthful of steak and guacamole, but I’d known him long enough to hear the subtext:Take care of your body, Dylan.Our health affected one another. We were all on the same team. Orhad beenon the same team.

“Stalking my location?” I took a huge bite of my burrito. I was as hungry as I felt after a long game.

“Nothing better to do.” Bret finished his burrito and fished around in the greasy bag for another one.

I grunted and focused on eating. Bret had insisted the team share their location with one another, for emergencies. Apparently, this qualified as an emergency.

“Coach messaged us,” Gage said, and I started to choke on my food. He slammed my back a few times, and I finally got it down.

I set my burrito down, not hungry anymore. “Did he tell the whole team?” Why did it matter? They’d know soon anyway. The whole world would know.

“Not yet,” Bret said. “He’s worried about you, so he reached out to us.”

Some of the numbness from my run was wearing off, and the agony I barely kept at bay pressed in. “He has some way of showing it.” I pushed my chair back from the table, letting the anger take over.

Bret and Gage shared a concerned look.

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