Page 81 of Heartbreaker

It was a small gig and eking out a win in a college game.

It was mixing our own Gamebreakers and getting drunk as fuck in a shared on-campus apartment.

It wasn’t getting random news stories written about me or hearing about the latest drama I’m creating in a TikTok video.

It wasn’t walking outside and having someone pepper me with questions to try to get a rise out of me.

And it wasn’t…

Jade.

That pit in my stomach that had been opening up, threatening to consume me, to send me spiraling with all the things I wanted and how they didn’t end up being as great as I expected them to be—losing Colt; the guys and I trying to keep it together for Briar and Frankie; the conflict in the band as I struggled to balance that and create artandkeep to the schedule the record company demanded of us; the politics between agents and media and producers; the accident and Amber leaving; the news and recovery afterward—all of that freezes with just four little letters.

Jade.

“Heads up!” Banks calls, and I snap out of my head enough to see Atlas tearing toward me with the single-minded focus that is so totally Atlas.

So much for a friendly game.

My lips twitch, but I manage to side-step the charging Atlas and get the pass off.

And then I’m not in my head.

It’s just the game—the calls from my teammates, the cool rush of air against the overheated skin, the sting of the passes hitting my stick blade. My hand isn’t perfect, but it’s much better than when I’m trying to play my guitar. Gross motor versus fine motor, and really the passing and shooting is all about wrist and elbow movement and weight transfer, not being able to strum guitar strings in rapid succession.

I brace for Atlas when he circles back, shove him off, and I’m glad that he’s not actually trying to take me out when he lets me.

“Easy, fucker,” I tell him.

He just grins, like he’s having the time of his life.

And it’s such a shocking change from his normal stoic self that I find myself standing still, mouth agape.

At least until Banks skates by and smacks me on the ass with his stick. “Move it, Royal.”

I scowl at him, but it’s just for show, and then I’m moving again.

We play until the Zamboni doors open and they kick us off the ice.

But I’m still riding the high as we walk down the hall to the locker room and start getting undressed.

I’m just tossing my skates into my bag when Banks shoves his cell into my face. “Look,” he orders, hitting the button to start the video someone took.

I grin as I watch me pass him the puck on the screen. Watch as he dips and dances, using some of his lightning speed to streak up the side of the ice. But I’m right behind him, my stick on the ice, waiting because I know?—

And yup, there it is.

He chips the pass over to me…and because the man’s got the goods, it settles right on the flat of my blade, perfectly on target.

All I have to do is flick my stick and?—

“Nice fucking shot,” Banks says, bumping his shoulder against mine.

I grunt at the compliment. “Send that to me, would ya?”

He looks at me sideways—probably because we don’t take this kind of stuff seriously, and I’ve never asked him to send me a video before, not unless it was of Frankie being adorable, that is. But he doesn’t comment, just texts it over to me.

I pull out my phone, take an obscenely long time trying to find the right words to accompany it, then just decide on?—

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