Page 158 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Thanks.”

“Just saying. If this is what heartbreak looks like, I’m gonna need you to fall out of love in the next ten minutes.”

I snort. Barely.

Then I stand, roll my shoulders back; pull my helmet on like I’m suiting up for war. Because at this point, I kind of am. Ha! I’m not battling the other team out there—I’m fighting the version of myself that used to know how to play this damn game in my sleep.

We hit the ice.

Immediately, I feel the heat—the crowd hates me, the lights are too bright, my thoughts spiraling. The more I think about it, the worse I play.

Every scrape of my blades is too loud.

Every breath feels like it’s being sucked through a straw.

My gloves are soaked.

My heartbeat is a goddamn drumline, eyes shooting to the seats Nova typically occupies.

They’ve been empty the whole first half of the game and now…

Still empty.

I miss my mark again.

“Fuck!”

It costs us.

Again.

The puck turns over, the other team breaking away, and their fans roar as their winger snaps a clean shot past Gio’s blocker side.

Goal.

Tie game.

Shit, shit, FUCK.

The horn blares and I barely make it back to the bench before Coach tears me a new asshole for the third time tonight. I don’t register his words.

“Pull it together.” Damien Stark glares at me with gritted teeth.

I nod.

Yup. Got it.

Thumbs-up!

I take the ice again with a chip the size of the goddamn Zamboni on my shoulder.

The guy across from me—number 13—has been chirping at me this entire miserable game. Big talker. Mouth like a woodchipper. He’s the kind of player who exists solely to piss you off into making a mistake.

I usually don’t rise to it.

Tonight?

I see red when his big mouth starts yapping.

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