Page 82 of Scoring Position

“Get out here! Run the play with Lefty and Mucker.”

“Sure thing, Coach,” he said, full sarcasm. But he skated to the blue line.

They ran the play. It wasn’t magic—Lefty kept expecting Ryan to be able to read him as well as Nico had—but they weren’t any worse than usual. Together they managed to get around the defense as often as not and even got a couple of goals.

Of course, they also had a giant failure when Lefty tried to no-look pass and Ryan collided with a teammate when he scrambled after the puck. And until their reinforcements arrived, the Fuel defense was still the Fuel defense, only without Kitty.

Vorhees sent them home with a terse yell about keeping Ryan with Lefty and Mucker. No one was jumping for joy over the news—not Ryan, his new lineys, or his old ones—but Lefty fist-bumped him and murmured, “Glad it’s you.” So there was that.

In the locker room, no one knew what to say. Yorkie reminded them Kitty was doing fine, recovering from surgery, and was expected to heal without complications.

But Nico was the goddamned pink elephant in the room, and despite Yorkie’s best efforts to silver line it, it just wasn’t possible. Nico had been on the ice for more than a third of the team’s points. That wasn’t replaceable.

Ryan stripped his gear off, anxious to get home.

“—Ernie without Bert—” someone said across the room.

Ryan pretended he hadn’t heard, just like he’d been pretending not to notice any of the cautious looks players had cast his way all morning. No one seemed to know what to say to him, or if they should say something at all. It was as if they couldn’t decide if he needed extra consoling or not.

He took the fastest shower he’d ever taken post practice and got dressed to go home.

Home.

Because Nico’s house was home in every soppy sense of the word.

In the privacy of his car, Ryan checked his phone and found plenty of texts and missed calls, including one from Diane. None were from Nico, and he didn’t feel equipped to look at any of the rest.

He tossed his phone into the console and put the car in gear. Hopefully Nico would still be there and they could talk. Ryan didn’t know what he’d say, but he didn’t want Nico to leave on yesterday’s note.

He parked in the garage next to Nico’s beloved BMW and for several long moments couldn’t get his fingers to open the door. He sat listening to the car cool, staring at the garage door.

Then he gritted his teeth, got out, and walked into the house.

It was quiet.

Heart sinking, Ryan called out, “Nico?”

No answer.

He knew instinctively the house was empty. The signs of Nico’s departure were everywhere—boots and slippers and coat missing at the door, go bag missing from the master bedroom.

Ryan sat on the couch in the den and tried to process that Nico had left without a goodbye. Maybe he was being melodramatic. They both had cell phones. Ryan could call him right now and talk to him, try to fix things.

Assuming Nico picked up.

But it felt significant that Nico thought it better to leave without even a text to let Ryan know he’d be gone before practice was out. Nico hadn’twantedto say goodbye. Was he angry? Was he hurt? Did he think Ryan wouldn’t care?

Of course he thought Ryan wouldn’t care. Ryan had basically told him so.

Groaning, he buried his face in his hands and tried to will away the sting of rejection. So much for handling the trade well.

He’d known this was coming. He hadn’t expected it to happen like this… but he’d known. He’d known it would hurt.

Only he hadn’t known it would hurt likethis.

But he couldn’t dwell on it forever. He got up and went into the kitchen. He should eat.

He headed for the fridge, grabbed the handle… and noticed the grocery-list whiteboard had new text.

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