Page 78 of Anatomy of a Player

I didn’t even remember walking to my car, but somehow I was inside, jamming my key into my ignition. I’d thought I’d been upset on my drive there, but now I knew that what I’d felt before was a speck of sorrow—completely harmless in comparison to it filling you from your head to your toes, so that every breath, every tiny movement, ached down to your bones and made you wonder if you could survive so much pain.

On autopilot, I drove home. Anger rose as I stormed up the stairs, and I grabbed on to it like a lifeline, letting it lift me above the fog of grief. It took over my body as I opened my laptop and pulled up the first scathing version of my article about athletes and everything they got away with. It drove me as my fingers moved across the keyboard. Every time I slowed to think, or to recall part of the research I’d done over the past six weeks, the raw ache in my chest threatened to take over and drag me back into torment.

So I typed faster, writing until my fingers and wrists throbbed and my eyes burned from staring at the screen. After this, I’d turn myself over to the depression and have my breakdown, but instead of only having an empty Kleenex box and an equally-empty ice cream container to show for it, I’d have this article finished.

That way Hudson would know that, while he might’ve won his demeaning bet with his jerk teammates, Whitney Porter wasn’t going down anymore without throwing a knockout punch of her own.

How was that for fucking sports reporting?

Chapter Forty-Three

Hudson

I was having the worst game of my life. No doubt karma was paying me back for not telling my roommates how wrong they were about everything that’d happened between me and Whitney.

Whitney, who wasn’t in the stands. I’d seen Lyla, but the seat next to her was empty.

Coach glared at me as I took my place on the bench. Next timeout, he was going to rip into me. I should be worried about it, but I glanced again up to where Whitney usually sat, frowning when she still wasn’t there—and now Lyla wasn’t there anymore, either.

What if she’s given up on us already?She’d been so upset about the Lindsay thing this afternoon, and I could tell my promise to try hadn’t been enough to ease her concerns. After she’d left, my mind had still been spinning on how to fix things, which was why I’d stood there like an idiot when my roommates congratulated me on a stupid bet I couldn’t care less about. It hadn’t been about that in weeks—really, it had never totally been about that, definitely not after the first time we’d had a real conversation.

I’d started to tell them that it wasn’t like that. That I cared about her, and they should shut their mouths and never talk about her that way again. But I couldn’t stop staring at the door she’d left through, the thought that she and I might already be over ripping me in two. Nothing else seemed to matter, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain it to guys who’d give me shit about how I’d finally fallen for a girl.

Then I’d have to explain that I’d already screwed it up and I didn’t know how to fix it, or if I even could. I did know that the thought of not having Whitney in my life made me completely miserable, to the point where not even hockey helped.

Not that I’d admit that last part out loud, but the first part was bad enough.

Who knew what meddling Dane would do then.

But when they started to make a joke about it tonight—and I was sure they would—I’d set them straight. Then I’d figure out my next step.

Sure enough, I got my ass chewed at the time out, but Coach sent me onto the ice again. Since I couldn’t do anything about Whitney right now, I decided to do what I’d always done and take out my anger on the ice and the opposing team. Why bother wearing pads if you weren’t going to use them, right?

…

I’d taken the fastest shower of my life so I could leave with Whitney—even if we staggered leaving to avoid suspicion. We’d meet at her car or her place or wherever we needed to so we could finish our talk from earlier, because I had a lot more to say.

“Did Whitney ever come in?” I asked Dane and Ryder as I scanned the room—it wasn’t like she’d be hard to spot in a sea of dudes, but even after I made a pass, I couldn’t stop looking.

“Why?” Dane asked. “Were you planning on—” At my death glare, he snapped his jaw shut. Then his eyes widened. “You like her. Shit, bro, I didn’t know, or I never would’ve said all that stuff earlier.”

I waved it off because I didn’t have time for it right now. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk about it later. Have you seen her or not?”

“Nope. She hasn’t come in. Just some dude from theGlobe.”

I looked to Ryder and he shook his head. “Haven’t seen her.”

I took out my phone and called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I spotted Beck across the room, also showered and dressed, and rushed over to him. “Hey, do you know what happened to Whitney?”

He hiked his duffle bag onto his shoulder and lifted his phone. “No. Lyla was here at the beginning of the game, but halfway through, I looked over and she was gone. I tried to call, but she didn’t answer.”

Horrible scenarios involving Whitney flashed through my head, of her in a car wreck, of her lying in a hospital bed. I told myself I was overreacting, but the images remained, causing my heart to pump faster and faster, each beat spreading the worry.

Beck looked at me, and worry must be contagious, because he caught it, too. “I’m sure the girls are fine,” he said, but it sounded hollow, the way you spoke in certainties when you were trying to convince yourself so you didn’t freak out. He looked at his phone again. “I’m going to head to their place now. I’ll call and let you know what I find out.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said. “Let me just grab my stuff. Two seconds.”

Beck nodded. “Okay.”’

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