Page 168 of Unravel Me

Tampa’s left-winger races down the boards, around our exhausted defenseman. Jaxon took a careless penalty a minute ago—the result of someone chirping in his ear—so we’re down one man, and I’ve been throwing myself all over this net to stop the countless shots.

Tampa’s captain soars across the blue line, into our defensive zone, calling for the puck. The winger sends it across, right through the legs of my defenseman, and the captain winds up, firing the puck at me at lightning speed. I dive to the right, my glove coming up right on time to catch the puck before it can hit the back of my net. The whistle blows, I drop the puck in the ref’s hand, and grab a drink of water as our lines change.

“Jesus fuck,” Carter mutters, clapping a hand to my head as he circles my crease.

“You’re not letting a single thing by you tonight.”

“Nope.”

He gives me an assessing once-over. “You okay?”

“Nope.”

I haven’t seen Rosie in forty-eight hours, and aside from a couple texts, we haven’t had the chance to talk. She worked all day yesterday, had twelve hours of clinical today, and she’s been driving herself up the wall studying for the NAVLE, her veterinarian licensing exam in January.

As I look around this arena, all I see are ways I’ve added to her stress.

Where do I send my application for baby mama #3?

I’ll let you shoot ’n’ score & I won’t ask for more!

I’ll take 2 minutes for hooking if it’s with Woody!

Jesus fuck, who lets these girls in here with those signs? For the first time this season, I hope Rosie isn’t watching.

Carter follows my gaze. “She knows better than to put any stock in those signs.”

“Doesn’t mean they won’t make this harder on her.”

I toss my water bottle back in my net, getting into position at the edge of my crease as everyone lines up for face-off. The whistle blows and the puck drops, and I slide left and right as the play moves around our end of the ice. The shit-disturber centerman trying to block my view of the puck is pissing me the fuck off, so I slip forward and shove him out of my way.

“Get the fuck out of my net, Marchanbo.”

“Feeling testy tonight, Lockwood?” Dark eyes flick to the women slapping the glass, shoving their signs against it. “I thought you let just anyone score these days.”

I track the puck as it passes between players, around the back of my net, as Garrett pins someone against the boards, trying to dig it free.

“That’s why you’ve got two baby mamas, right?” He glides in front of me, and I shove him out of the way as Jaxon’s penalty ends and he jumps out of the box. “How many more do you think are out there? I bet women have been poking holes in condoms for years, trying to get a piece of the golden boy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I like the one with pink hair. Seems spunky. And that ass?Oof. Love me something to grab on to.”

I chuck my stick and gloves to the ground as I get in his face. The play around us skids to a halt when I grab him by the collar. “You shut your goddamn mouth.”

“Think her kid will call me Daddy?”

My fist rears back before I hurl it forward, a lot like I did the last time we saw Brandon, when he made sure Rosie knew how disposable she and Connor were to him. Because here’s the thing: everyone thinks I’m some sort of golden boy, that I’m docile and sweet all the time. But the second you open your mouth and insult the two people I love more than anything in this world, you’re gonna see a whole new side to me, one that’s anything but docile.

Marchanbo wipes the blood from his cracked lip, chuckling under his breath, a sound I barely hear over the roar of a crowd who loves to see fists fly. “Guess you’re not all that golden,” he murmurs, right before he launches himself at me, tearing off my helmet.

I catch his fist in my hand before it can connect with my jaw. Right before I let mine fly again, another body collides with Marchanbo at full speed, crushing him into the boards.

Jaxon’s chest heaves as Marchanbo slumps to the ice at his feet. “Don’t touch my fucking goalie.” He tosses my mask at my chest. “Here. Your face is too pretty for black eyes.”

* * *

It feels like I have them anyway, two black eyes. Everything hurts, a throbbing ache behind my eyes and in my temples that hints at the exhaustion running rampant through me, dragging me toward the ground as I head back to my hotel room. All I want to do is bury my sorrows in a bucket of beer and a platter of deep-fried pickles, then collapse in my hotel room with Rosie’s face smiling back at me from the other side of my phone. But I don’t have any of those things.

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