Page 102 of Play the Game

I sigh, feeling myself get sleepier the longer I stare at the screen. “There haven’t been many fights this season for you guys, though.”

“That’s because the team isn’t on the same page yet.”

I turn slightly to catch a quick glimpse of Emory. He’s leaning with his back on the headboard, and he’s shirtless. His abs ripple with each breath he takes while he watches the fight unfold on the screen.

All pro hockey players are obsessed with the game, and Emory is no exception. He’s been watching the screen like he’s studying for a test, and if his furrowed brow and laser focus are any indication, he’ll pass with flying colors.

I look back to the TV quickly so he doesn’t catch me staring at him. “What do you mean? You guys have been playing better with each game. The defensemen have gotten so much strongertoo. Malaki does really well along the wall. I noticed during the last game that his passing is more accurate. Honestly, I’d say he’s becoming one of the best skaters in all three zones.”

I stop mid-sentence when I feel Emory staring at me. We make eye contact, and there’s the smallest smile playing on his lips.

My face warms. “What?”

“It’s kind of cute that you know so much about hockey.”

I purse my lips and scoot farther under the covers. He thinks I’m annoyed that he called me cute, but the small compliment makes the butterflies swarm so fast that I have to put my hand over my stomach.

Emory continues to talk about the game. “When the team does something like that”—I look back to the screen and see that most of the hockey players are fighting now—“it means they have each other’s backs. They’re working as a team and have a bond that goes further than making good plays.” Emory runs a hand down his scruffy face. “It’s kind of what I’m trying to get the Blue Devils to become. When you trust each other, you play better.”

I say nothing because I’m afraid of what’ll come out of my mouth. It would do neither of us any good if I were to say what I’m really thinking, because truthfully, I think Emory Olson is one of the best hockey players in the league.

He’s calculated when he’s in between the poles of the net. On multiple occasions, I’ve seen him pull his teammates together and give them a pep talk too.

Emory doesn’t only look out for himself on the ice.

He looks out for his team.

“Can I ask you something?”

His chin dips with a nod.

“What happened the night you were arrested?”

I don’t know why I ask the question or why it matters. But there’s something about the quiet of his room with soft sounds of the hockey game on TV that makes me comfortable.

Emory grabs the back of his neck and gives it a quick squeeze. Just when I think he isn’t going to answer me, he starts to talk.

“I did get into an altercation that night,” his tone lowers, like he’s disappointed. “But I wasn’t the one who initiated it or even really had any connection to it other than just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I continue to stare at the side of his face when he takes a pause. His temple is flickering back and forth, and if I didn’t ban myself from touching him, I’d probably reach out and grab onto his hand to calm the anguish.

“Nelson started to shit-talk. He’s mouthy on the ice and even worse off it. One thing led to another, and he started a fight. I was trying to separate the two when it became a brawl. Next thing I knew, there was a broken beer bottle up to my throat, and I acted fast. In the midst of it, I somehow caused most of the damage, even though I was just trying to stay alive. My teammates bailed, too afraid it’d ruin their image and get them kicked off the team. Coach Berkley had zero tolerance for that shit.”

Emory turns to me, and the blue of his eyes is so bright it’s hard not to fall into them. He looks away after a second, and I know it’s to hide what he’s really feeling. “I guess they were right to stay quiet.”

Anger fuels my response. “No. They were wrong to let you take the blame. Only cowards do that.” He has no idea how infuriated I truly am. The same thing happened to William, except he doesn’t quite get it.

Emory’s lip curves upward, and he sort of smiles at me. When he turns back to the TV, he quietly mutters, “I thinkeverything happens for a reason. If I didn't get into that fight, then I would have missed out on other things.”

I want to ask him what otherthings he would have missed out on, but I don’t because I know there is absolutely no way he’s referring to marrying me, even if, deep down, there’s a very quiet part of me that wishes he was.

I’m clearly going insane.

Silence passes between us while we both quietly watch the rest of the game. My eyes start to get droopy toward the end of the third period, and Emory is fully relaxed on his side of the bed. I sneak a few glances at him here and there, and each time, he watches the screen with intense concentration, nodding occasionally when Maier blocks the puck.

As soon as my eyelids drift shut, I hear the TV turn off.

I tense. Emory must feel me jerk, because he’s quick to turn it back on.

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