Page 22 of The Forever Play

Within fifteen minutes, I’m unbuckling Zoey from her car seat, and then we’re walking up the front path. Mrs. Ward gives out hugs with her effervescent laughter and shoos me away to go have some “me time.”

Zoey is so happy to be there, she barely even notices my kiss to the top of her head.

Slipping out the front door, I set my exercise app to go and jog to the sidewalk, then turn left and find my usual ambling pace is much faster today.

And I go with it.

Because maybe if I run fast enough, I can shake off these haunting memories. I can outrun these ugly feelings in my chest and sweat out this pining ache that won’t seem to stop plaguing me no matter how hard I try.

CHAPTER 8

ZANDER

I wait outside the arena until someone with a key card happens to walk by. Thankfully, he recognizes me from the latestSports Digestand lets me in with a smile. I explain that I’m just wanting a quick chat with one of the coaching staff.

“Thinking of switching to hockey, huh?” He laughs at me.

I smile. “Not a chance. Just needing some info.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Who can I get for ya?”

“Uh… I’m looking for Coach Fisher.”

“Russell, sure. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

I wait in the foyer in agitated silence, shoving my fists into my hoodie pockets and wishing the guy would hurry the hell up. Sweat is starting to prickle the back of my neck.

Checking my watch, I calculate how fast I’ll have to run to make it to practice on time and wince, knowing already that I’m going to be a few minutes late for thegame review video. Hopefully Coach won’t notice me slipping into the back.

Of course he’ll fucking notice. He notices everything!

Scraping a hand through my hair, I start to pace and am two seconds away from bailing when I hear my name.

“Zander Donohue.” The voice behind me is sharp and snappy.

I spin and see this guy walking toward me. He’s got a sharp, pointy nose to match his voice, his eyes dark and narrowed, his angular face looking all kinds of pissed off.

“Okay,” I murmur under my breath before sticking out my hand. “Coach Fisher?”

He doesn’t reciprocate the gesture. Instead, he crosses his arms and keeps glaring at me. “What’s a football player doing at the hockey arena?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“Obviously.”

I frown at his frosty demeanor, but if anything, it’s making me more determined to ask my questions. Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to sound more confident than I feel. “Do you know Sienna Erling?”

His eyes flash before he clenches his jaw and looks away from me. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need to speak with her.”

There goes that jaw clenching again. He stares at the wall adjacent to me, like he’s calculating something, then swears under his breath and mutters, “I knew something was off.”

“What?”

He ignores my confusion and fires a death glare straight at me. “Why? Why do you need to speak with her?”

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