Page 7 of Wrap Around
I brace for the hit, but flinch instead when he drives his fist into the metal of the locker an inch from my head. The metal rings, reverberating in my brain. And in my heart.
Then he turns and walks away without a word.
I don’t move for several minutes, pulse pounding, lips burning, jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
He'll never stop hating me unless he knows the truth. And I can't ever let him find out.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark, trying not to count Gideon's breaths. If I pay too much attention to his presence, I worry he'll know I'm thinking about him, and it'll set him off again. His reaction to getting our room keys and finding out we’ve been roomed together was worrisome.
Brent, Landon, and Franks had to coax him outside to walk it off. Everyone looked concerned, eyeballing me like I might have the answers to why their typically stoic, cool-headed defenseman was acting like an overgrown toddler. And yes, that's exactly what it looked like. I would know, I have a toddler. And she happens to favor her uncle quite a bit, so it's even easier to imagine his six-foot-three, two-hundred-something-pound body lying on the ground and kicking his feet because he doesn't want to go to bed.
Coach responded to his tantrum by putting his foot down even harder and mandating that we room together duringallaway games. Which is bullshit, because now I’m getting punished for his behavior.
Ridiculous.
This whole trip has been ridiculous. We somehow pulled off a win, but it sure as hell wasn’t because of our line.
Gideon wasn’t openly hostile, but he didn’t play with me, either. He avoided passing to me like I wasn’t even on the ice, and more than once, I swear he let Seattle’s defense get to me on purpose.
Thankfully, he’s good enough that his attitude didn’t tank the game. But it could’ve. We should have dominated the ice tonight.
A local sportscaster called us a disaster in the making. They're not wrong.
Why the hell Coach thinks it's a good idea for us to share space off the ice as well as during away games, which are already stressful, is a mystery.
"You don't have to like each other," he barked. "Just make it work."
So now we're here. In a too-small hotel room with double beds that almost touch and air conditioning that rattles in the vent. Lying four, maybe five feet, apart in total silence. The kind of silence that's too damn loud.
The tension is unbearable. I was more comfortable sleeping on a cot at my temporary billet house when I was getting transferred around the junior leagues. My muscles are too tight to sleep, and I can tell from the shallow rhythm of Gideon's breaths that he's not sleeping either. And just knowing he's awake, makes it that much more impossible to sleep.
This doesn’t bode well for the split-squad games tomorrow night. It’s our shot,myshot especially, since it’s my first season, to show what we’ve got and earn our place.
And I just know Coach is going to keep us on the same line. We’re going to look like idiots in front of everyone when we can’t connect on a single shift.
Blow a trial game like that, and we’ll be lucky to crack the roster at all.
I didn't come all this way, leaving my family, sacrificing sleep and time, and hundreds of nights of baby snuggles while Adaline grew from an infant to a toddler without me, to sit on a goddamn bench.
If Gideon wants to keep up his bullshit,fine.
Maybe it's time I match his energy.
Sure enough, from the first puck drop, Gideon pretends like I don't exist. He doesn't pass to me, doesn't call for the puck, doesn't even glance my way unless it's to glare. Which he does, a lot.
Because I'm not letting him have this anymore. I’m done playing nice.
He doesn’t need to worry about passing to me if the puck never even reaches him. I’m not usually a puck hog, but tonight I’m taking control, and I'll do what it takes to make this work for me.
If there’s one thing I understand, it’s hockey. I read plays before they happen. I know where the puck’s going and how to get there first. And I’m fast. I think fast, react fast, and move even faster.
Plus, I’ve spent most of my life playing with and against Gideon Shepherd. I know how he skates. I know how he thinks. I know how he likes to fake left and cut right, how he drops his shoulder before he takes a shot. I know every tell, every twitch, and every habit he’s never managed to break.
I play the game—and him—like a goddamn fiddle.
He tries to pass around me? Intercepted. I catch the puck clean and act like it was meant for me. Grinning, I call, “Little to the left next time.”
I can’t help but laugh when he tries to outpace me. He should know better. Maybe in the last few weeks of me keeping quiet and holding back, he forgot who he’s up against.
