Page 20 of Branded
Except that hockey had been the only reason I’d made it through school, my only motivation when the letters flowed around the page, that they flipped upside down or twisted onto themselves or rotated over backward. It didn’t matter that it always took me a long time to finish reading a book, even though I was enjoying the story.
I could just get out on the ice and skate my ass off.
And that would be enough.
Work hard. Hit hard. Get the fucking puck and get it up to my teammates so they can score.
Shoot from the blue line. Hope someone would tip it in.
Protect my goalie, my teammates.
Fight and check. Stay on my skates. Clear the crease.
None of those required doing something I wasn’t good at.
But what I had to do next did.
Hazel’s homework. I’d tried to summon the energy to look at the packet the night before. Really, I had.
But I’d been feeling so fucking down, like such a goddamned loser.
Kailey didn’t like me.
I liked her.
Why? Why did it matter? Why did I care? Why did I think I had a right to her affection?
Newsflash, I fucking didn’t.
But people liked me, and?—
“Fuck, man,” I muttered, yanking my hands through my hair, twisting the handle for the shower hard enough that it groaned in protest when I turned off the water.
Rough hands using my towel to dry off the pertinent bits, ignoring my dick.
Throwing on clothes and was thankful I could wear sweats and a T-shirt to the rink that day instead of a fucking suit. Socks and shoes on. Hoodie over my head.
Down the stairs.
To my laptop, still sitting on the coffee table where I’d dumped it last night, frustrated that I was so off my game that my normal strategies for reading and working weren’t useful.
Opening the top, dropping onto the couch.
The screen brightened, illuminating the document, and…fuck it, I couldn’t sit down and deal with that again.
I needed to get out of the house.
Needed to clear my head and not do this here.
Grabbing my laptop, I shoved it into my backpack, threw it over my shoulder, and got the hell out of my house.
Thirty minutes later, I was at the practice rink—well, at the player’s snack area that was tucked away between the locker rooms and the training suites and various offices.
It was really just a conference room filled with recliners and couches, a small kitchen shoved against the back wall. Food was either made by the staff at certain times, or—like now—there was stuff we could fix ourselves. A Keurig for coffee, pastries from a local bakery, a fridge stocked with fruits and veggies and lean protein. Packets of oatmeal and various cereals.
For the guys who were used to all forms of continental breakfasts, it was a familiar spread of items.
For me, who’d been up since four and yet to have coffee, it was a welcome—and empty—sight.
