Page 105 of Win Big

I can’t stop thinking about Gage Gregoire. The way he looked at Everly. The way she looked guilty and afraid.

The connections I’m making in my head make me want to puke.

My chest and stomach are burning inside, and once again my jaw aches from clenching it without even realizing. I gulp down some scotch. That heats me up nicely, sending a tingle all the way to my fingers.

I’m . . . pissed. Furious. I think . . . nah.

That can’t be my heart breaking. That shit doesn’t happen in real life.

More scotch sears its way down my throat.

I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling like this. These intense emotions remind me of when Hank died. I didn’t want to analyze my feelings then, and I don’t want to now.

So I wallow in agony as I try to drown my emotions in scotch.

It doesn’t really work.

It’sa good thing we’re flying to Vancouver today. I won’t think about Everly or Gage fucking Gregoire or the shit that went down last night. I’ll just have fun with the guys. Road trips are great for hanging out together and bonding.

It’s pissing rain when we land in Vancouver. Fine with me. We check in at the hotel and don’t have much time before we get back on the bus to go to the Rogers Arena for a game day skate. I’m pumped. Humming with energy. I can’t wait to get on the ice and burn off some of these damn feelings.

Our opponents don’t know what hit them. I’m slamming guy after guy into the boards, playing the body, standing up in the neutral zone. I even score a goal, beating their goalie clean with a sizzling wrist shot from the blue line. And we win, three–one.

From Vancouver we fly to Calgary. I settle down Sunday between games, but Monday, the day we play Calgary, is the trade deadline, and everyone else is on edge about that. You never know what can happen on the trade deadline. Teams that want to make a push for the playoffs are looking to bolster their team; other teams, who know they’re out, might want to clear up some cap space by getting rid of someone. I have to admit I’m a little tense myself. Last year, it was me being traded, except I’d asked for it, hard as it was to leave the bunch of guys I was so close with in Detroit.

The team doesn’t escape unscathed, with Théo making a few moves. They don’t have a huge impact, though; two of the guys play for the Pasadena Condors, although they’ve been up and down; and in a surprise move our backup goalie is gone, which kind of sucks. He’s a good guy. But we have a lot of depth at the goalie level, with a couple of guys in Pasadena that can take over that role. It’s probably good for Bolton; he’ll get to play a lot more in Pittsburgh.

That night, playing against Baz again revives my muddled feelings. It’s not his fault his agent is an asshole; it just reminds me of Thursday night, and I’m flying up and down the ice again. And we win again.

Hell. If this is heartbreak, I should experience it more often.

Except, alone in my hotel room after the game, phone in hand, staring at social media pictures of Everly and me like a sappy teenage boy, the ache in my chest returns full-on, eclipsing the soreness of my body after two extremely physical games. Coldness seeps into my bones, my arms and legs heavy. Jesus. I should be listening to an Adele song, or something.

I pause on an Instagram image of just Everly. She’s so beautiful. Inside and out. I called her a perfect princess, and yeah, she damn near is perfect, but I’ve seen she’s not afraid to get messed up and dirty. Damn, in more ways than one. Sure,Everly hot and sweaty in bed is fucking fantastic, but she was also sweaty that day she was cooking lunch at the homeless shelter. And the day we went hiking in the hills. And she was still beautiful. My lungs burn as I breathe in.

She’s my boss’s daughter. And she’s right. We let this go too far. It should have just been a few very public dates, and now emotions have gotten involved and... .and... I’m all fucked-up. Shit.

I lean my head back against the headboard and close my eyes.

I walkinto Heather’s house a few days later. The roast chicken smells fantastic. I take off my jacket and drop it over the arm of a chair. I look around. The place is quiet, other than some music playing. “Where’s Owen?”

“He’s over at a friend’s place.”

“Oh. I could’ve picked him up. Do you want me to go get him?”

“No.” She shakes her head. She’s holding a wineglass and now I notice that her fingers are trembling a little and her face is tense. “He’s staying there for dinner. I’ll go get him a bit later.”

“Well, damn.” Disappointed that I don’t get to see him, I sit down in a chair. “You should have told me. We could have made it another night.”

“Would you like a drink? I have this red wine.” She holds up her glass. “Or beer.”

“Uh, okay, a glass of wine would be nice.”

She moves into the kitchen and pours from the bottle sitting on the counter, then returns to hand me the glass. The ruby liquid is sloshing in her shaking hand.

“Is everything okay?” I eye her with concern as she sits, too, on the couch, turned to face me.

“I’m, uh, yes, fine. Fine.” She gulps some wine. “I didn’t change the plan for tonight because I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”

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