Page 36 of Cherry Picking
“We all have bad days. It happens. We’re down a player and all a little bit worried.”
I step up and grab my own ball which goes straight into the gutters before it even gets halfway down the lane.
“Problem is, our GM is stressed about losing Riley for the season. He wants to bring in some fresh players.”
Another gutter ball as I physically recoil. “They can’t trade him.”
Hawks grips both hands onto my shoulders and tips his head back to look me in the eyes.
“They aren’t thinking about trading Riley, Foster. They’re thinking about trading you.”
My jaw drops open, and while I shouldn’t be surprised because trading me around like a collectible is par for the course, I didn’t realize things were that bad.
“Because of a few bad games?”
“Because we need a new powerhouse and Roman is playing better than you right now.”
Roman is our backup goalie, who has seen a lot of ice time since I abandoned the team at the end of the match Riley got hurt in.
“They can’t trade me, Hawks.”
Not because I think I’m some invaluable player—I’ve proved in my seven years at the Minors that I’m nothing special—but because trading means I have to make a choice:
Hockey or Riley because there’s no way our relationship survives secrecy and distance at the same time.
“It’s a damn good thing you’ve got a couple more games to prove why getting rid of you would be a bad idea.”
My shoulders slump as Hawks drops his hands back to his sides, shoving them in his pockets. “Play my ass off. Stay on the team. I can do that.”
“Don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet. Coach is talking about benching your ass and making you the backup.”
I curse under my breath as he goes back for his turn with the bowling ball. “Dammit, I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted.”
As if on cue, my phone pings, and I pull it out to see a text from Riley to our team chat telling us they’re taking him back. I check the time, and yup, there it is. Hawks managed to get me out of my head just long enough to forget my boyfriend is about to go into surgery, and I’m not fucking there.
“We’re all worried about him,” he says softly as he plops into one of the seats.
It’s my turn, but instead of picking up the ball, I collapse into the spot across from him. “Yeah, I know.”
It’s not like I can open up about how fucking scared I am. About how tight my chest feels at the thought of anything happening to Riley.
“He’d kick your ass if he knew how bad you were slacking.”
I laugh, but it sounds fake. “Oh, he knows. He goes over the plays with me every night and gives me a good lecture.”
Hawks smiles and pulls his own phone out, tapping it on the table. “You’ve got about three hours until Riley is coherent enough to put up with you. So let’s finish this, and then I’ll let you go.”
“What makes you think I’m going to see him?”
He stands and shakes his head with a secret smile. One that makes me pause.
“Wait. You know.”
It’s not a question, and the hand that lands on my shoulder and squeezes confirms it. “I’ve always known. From that first look you shared in the weight room.”
“How?”
Hawks goes quiet, walks up to the lane—picking up his ball from the return—and knocks down every single pin with one throw.
