Page 35 of Gamechanger

I reached for his hand, but he pulled away, standing up abruptly. "I said it's fine. Can you just drop it?"

The rejection stung, but I pressed on. "No, I can't just drop it. Not when I can see how much this is eating at you. Please, let me in."

He paced the length of the living room, agitation radiating from every movement. "You don't understand. This is my job, my career. I can't just—"

His phone buzzed again, and something in me snapped.

"Oh for fuck's sake," I growled, jumping to my feet. "Can you put that thing down for five minutes and actually talk to me?"

Moose whirled on me, his eyes flashing. "What do you want me to say? That I'm drowning in work? That I'm terrified of screwing up this opportunity? That I don't know how to balance this job with... with us?"

His words hung in the air between us, heavy and charged. I took a step toward him, my heart racing. "Yes," I said softly. "That's exactly what I want you to say. Because then we can face it as a team."

For a moment, I thought I'd gotten through to him. But then his phone buzzed again, and the spell was broken.

"I need to take this," he muttered, already turning away.

"Moose, Agent Knitter, wait—"

"Not now!" he snapped, his voice harsher than I'd ever heard it. "Can you just... can you drop the stupid spy shit for five minutes and let me handle this?"

The words hit me like a body check, leaving me winded. His eyes widened, shock and regret flooding his face as he realized what he'd said.

"Oh, fuck, I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," I said quickly, even though it wasn't. My chest felt tight, and I struggled to keep my voice steady. "You're stressed. I get it."

Moose ran a hand over his face, looking lost and defeated. "Please, I didn't—"

"I should go," I cut him off, already moving toward the door. "Early practice tomorrow."

"Wait—" Moose started, but I was already halfway out the door.

The cool night air hit me as I stepped outside, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension of the apartment. As I walked to my car, I couldn't shake the image of Moose's face—the stress, the anger, and the regret. Something was eating at him, something beyond normal work pressure.

***

The next morning, I arrived at the rink early, hoping the familiar rhythm of stick handling drills would clear my head. To my surprise, Sergei and Blaise were already there.

"You look like shit, Novak," Blaise said by way of greeting.

"Thanks," I muttered, lacing up my skates.

Sergei studied me with his shrewd gaze. "Problems with your big friend?" he asked.

I nearly dropped my stick. "What? No, I—how did you—"

Sergei's laugh was a low rumble. "I have eyes, Rookie. And many years of watching teammates fall in love."

"We're not—it's not—" I stammered, feeling heat creep up my neck.

"Relax, buddy," Blaise chimed in. "Your secret's safe with us. Though you might want to tone down the googly eyes during team meetings."

I buried my face in my hands, equal parts mortified and relieved. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those paying attention," Sergei said kindly. "Now, come. We have a new play to perfect before Coach arrives."

As we ran through our drills, executing the new strategy with increasing precision, I felt some of the tension drain from my body. Whatever was going on with Moose, whatever challenges we faced, I wasn't alone. I had teammates—friends—who had my back.

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