Page 11 of Breakaway Hearts

The seriousness in my voice stops her joking around immediately. She turns in her seat to face me.

“What is it?” she asks. “What’s your idea?”

She’s got her fingers twisted together, and I know they’re probably still cold despite the heat blasting from the vents, so I reach over and catch them in mine. I rub her hands between my palms until a semblance of warmth returns to them, gazing down at them instead of meeting her eyes.

“I never told you why Sienna dumped me.” I swallow, my stomach twisting. “She said she wasn’t ready for forever with me, whatever the hell that means. That she couldn’t see herself being with me long-term. It fucking floored me, because I thought things were getting serious between us. But tonight? I think you’re right—she looked jealous. Really, truly jealous. I think seeing me with someone else made her feel like maybe she’d made a mistake by dumping me.”

“Uh-huh,” Callie says slowly. In my peripheral vision, I can see her watching me intently as she waits for me to continue.

“What I’m saying is…” I stare at our hands for a moment longer before looking up to meet my best friend’s piercing green eyes. “Fake date me for a little longer. Help me get Sienna back. Please.”

Callie makes a startled noise. Whatever she was waiting for me to say, I don’t think it was that.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” I tell her quickly, finally releasing her hands. “Just… think about it.”

For a long moment, I’m certain she’s going to laugh me right out of my own car. Tell me to get the fuck out of here with my wild, insane ideas. But either she really wants that lifetime supply of Blanton’s, or she really is the best friend in the whole damn world, because instead of doing either of those things, she nods slowly.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter4

Reese

We’re just starting a protect-the-puck warmup, and I’ve lost the puck four times and have never once been able to steal it from one of my teammates. There are three pucks on the ice, and I skate in a kind of lackluster circle around them as I try to nab at least one.

“Sutton!” Coach Dunaway shouts from the bench. “Over here! Now!”

His shaved head gleams under the lights of the rink as I abandon the drill and skate over to him. He’s in his mid-fifties, with an even temperament and perceptive brown eyes—although he’s not alwayscompletelyeven tempered. Right now, he’s glaring at me as he rubs a hand over his bald scalp, as if he’s trying to jog loose some ideas about what to do with me.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts when I reach him. “What’s going on with you, Sutton? This isn’t a difficult drill, so why the hell are you fumbling it? I know you’ve had a hard couple of months, but that’s your personal life. I feel for you, believe me, but this is your job. Get your head in the game.”

“Sorry, Coach. You’re right. I will.”

“Damn right, I’m right,” he says in his usual gruff tone. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Get back out there, and put your all into it, for fuck’s sake. Think about hockey and nothing else.”

I nod, promising that I will before skating back out to center ice.

He’s not wrong for calling me out. We’ve had a good season so far, and we might even have a shot at the Cup this season. We’re in a great position, but like every professional athlete, I’m keenly aware of how fast a series of wins can turn into a series of losses if you’re not careful. Every part of your game has to be on point every time, or you start slipping, and it’s a long fall to the bottom. I can’t be careless anymore, and I can’t let my breakup affect my game. Obviously, the team isn’t just me, but I have the second highest number of points on the team. I have the most goals and am behind only Noah for assists.

Simply speaking, I’m an asset, and I know it. Everyone knows it. Which means I can’t let the team down. Not even with my heart fucked up like this.

I rejoin the team as our assistant coach, Bradley Price, sets up a penalty kill drill. Coach Dunaway blows his whistle, and I take my position by the net, ready to pick up any rebounds or deflections.

The puck starts at the point, passed between Sawyer and Owen. They’re orchestrating the play, probing for weaknesses in the opposing penalty killers’ formation. Their passes are crisp as they glide across the ice like chess players, all of us plotting our moves in advance.

Then it happens—I get a lightning-quick cross-ice pass from Owen. Adrenaline sings through my veins as I wind up for a one-timer, unleashing a shot in a move that’s pure muscle memory by now. The puck slips past Grant’s outstretched glove and finds the back of the net.

I grin, tipping my head back and inhaling the cool air as Dunaway shouts his approval from the bench.

Hockey is like breathing, and in this moment, I remember that fact intensely. It’s natural. Easy. As necessary as oxygen.

How could I forget that?

My sister Violet and I used to pond skate almost every day in the winter. We grew up in Minnesota, at a time when pond skating was the most popular pastime in the frozen months. I still remember when she was able to beat me, but that didn’t last long. While she practiced hard, as she did in everything, I was a natural.

When I first picked up a stick and laced my skates, I felt complete.

And even if my heart is a wreck, at least I still have hockey.

---