Page 64 of The Secret Play

I understood why they were the star players—more than once, some girl or girls came by to flirt with them. They were good-looking kids, perfect for putting their faces on every bit of team merch that they could. A googly-eyed girl asked Ty to sign her foam finger with his name on it, which he did with a sly grin before she took it and ran off to show her friends.

“So, guys,” I said, trying to collect their attention once again. “According to our sources, your bios have been crashing the school’s system. People keep trying to find out more about you. What would you like my readers to know?”

Ty chuckled, turning that sly smile to me. He flicked his dark eyes up and down over me. “What do you want to know? I’m an open book. For the right reader.”

“Maybe something personal. Is that girl the right reader for you?”

He grinned. “Nah. I like my women grown. The girls around here are just that. Girls.”

I softly laughed. “I can understand that. Jacob, how about?—”

“Gemma,” Ty said, stealing my attention for himself. “What I mean is, you’re exactly my type.”

“So you prefer older women?”

“I prefer you.”

I laughed a bit louder that time. “Thanks, but I’m taken.” Was that a lie? It felt like a lie. But getting into the specifics was not on the table.

He sucked air through his teeth and muttered, “Damn. Hey guys, did you see where that girl went?”

Jacob pointed down a hall, and Ty was off. The remaining players sheepishly smiled or shrugged. Jacob said, “That boy doesn’t have the sense God gave a goat. I’m sorry about him running off like that.”

“Most players I interview don’t have it in them to sit still for long. No worries.” After that, the players were polite, friendly, and eager to talk. Evidently, Ty had stifled their personalities, which made sense. His persona was almost too big for the room.

They were cute, sure—tall, athletic, and confident in that boyish way that college kids always seemed to have. But they all looked like kids to me, and even though they were young and full of potential, they didn’t have the depth or the quiet confidence that Casey had.

Without meaning to, he had become my benchmark.

I found myself picturing him instead—the silver in his hair, the faint lines around his eyes, the way he carried himself like someone who’d lived and learned. He was the only man I wanted, and no amount of charming smiles or college boy bravado was going to change that.

By the time I got home, the ache in my bones was worse than ever. I dropped my bag by the door and sank onto the couch once again, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed in my mind.

I wanted to call him. I wanted to hear his voice, to tell him how much I missed him and how badly I wanted to fix things. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat there in the quiet, letting the guilt of it all wash over me.

I loved him. And I deserved to be alone after what I’d done.

Chapter 25

Casey

Buzzing. That was the only word to describe the hum of adrenaline in the locker room. It was electric in a way that only happened before a playoff game. The players were loud, hyped up, and restless, their voices bouncing off the walls in a chaotic din. Normally, this was where I thrived—channeling their energy, sharpening it into focus—but today, the noise felt different.

Today, they weren’t listening to me.

It did more than bruise my ego. It worried me for the playoffs. They had to get their shit together so they could learn the new plays I’d come up with, but instead, they were screwing around while I talked. I stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand, trying to go over our game plan, but the guys weren’t paying attention. “Reilly, put your phone down. You’re at work, remember?”

He gave half a shrug and kept texting without even looking up.

Before I could reprimand him, Nico smacked the back of his head, which made Reilly’s hand curl instinctively into a fist. Until he saw who had done it. Then, his brow furrowed in confusion. Nico gestured for him to put his phone down and pointed at me, so Reilly muttered, “Oh. Sorry, Coach.”

Why had Nico gone from slamming me into the lockers to garnering some modicum of respect for me? I had no idea. But I’d take it where I could get it. The guys had been assholes for the past few days, and I’d had enough of that.

“Right. Reilly, you or the other centers will drive up the middle in this play, no risks on your part. When you get the puck this close to the goal, they’re gonna try you. They wanna fight? You don’t give it to them. Not this time. This is the playoffs. We’re not here to jerk each other off. Your only goal is to get primed for your winger to slap it to you, got it?”

The centers nodded along. All but Sorkin, though I wasn’t surprised.

Out of the lot of them, he had the worst habit of zoning out. His fingers were usually drumming on his knee when he spaced, and sure enough, right now he was playing some piece on his knee again, likely from his old days.

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