Page 4

She nods in understanding and then toward the showers. “Come on. Let’s grab a shower and head out for a while. Even if the game was nothing to celebrate, I say we slip in a cocktail or two. Fuck men.”

A laugh bursts out of me, but I can’t help the feeling of sadness as it coats my insides.

When I reach the showers, I turn the faucet and throw my towel over the top of the door. I stand back from the cold spray, but small droplets hit my skin as I wait for the water to heat up.

I know exactly what Jenna is thinking—I’m being too soft on a guy who has made little to zero effort on maintaining our relationship since we moved here last year. I can’t say that I disagree with her since all the signs point to it being one-way traffic. It’s me who texts first in the morning. It’s me who invites him over for dinners, which he then cancels on at the last minute. It’s me who suggested we move in together when we came to New York. It was him who said no and he wanted to take things more slowly, that we were young, and he didn’t want to get too serious, too soon.

And you know what? I believed him.

The water is warm, bordering on too hot when I step under the stream, but I don’t adjust the temperature. The jets act like a hug around my aching body.

I spent all of last night trying to remind myself of the reasonswhyI’d gotten with Tyler in college, but I came up empty. He was the star center and the popular guy around campus, and I was the impressionable girl who got overexcited when he showed even a little bit of interest in me. If I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think much has changed since I got with him. If anything, his absence from our relationship has only grown worse. I might’ve put up with it when I was eighteen, butat twenty-two, I’m increasingly convinced I’d be better off single. I thought we were forever, and each time we talked about the future, I interpreted his lukewarm responses as way more enthusiastic.

And that’s why I followed him to New York.

Squirting way too much shampoo into my hand, I begin massaging it through my hair, more strands coming away easily—my body’s response to stress.

I’ve clung on to whatever it is between us for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be wanted. And that’s not me—that’s never been me.

These days, staying with Tyler is as much about proving to myself that I made the right decision in turning down a pro contract in London, playing in front of Super League crowds, as it is hoping that I haven’t been kidding myself all these years.

“Hey, babe. Have you got that massage bar you brought with you last time? My calf is aching like a bitch!” Jenna shouts from the other shower stall.

I drop my shoulders, remembering that I left it back on the bench. “In my gym bag!” I reply back.

It’s even down to things like this—concentrating so much on what’s going on with Tyler, like what he does on nights out that he doesn’t tell me about, that results in every aspect of my life and career coming a distant second to him. And not in the good way, like with my mom and dad.

My life shouldn’t revolve around a boy who doesn’t seem to be concerned about me at all.

CHAPTER THREE

JACK

With a thud, I replace the Olympic bar on the rack.

My spotter and also goalie, Archer Moore, flicks his eyes over to a few of the guys as they make their way back to the locker room, all of them laughing and joking around.

Chalk clouds fill the space between us as he rubs his hands together, and I sit up on the bench and grab my towel, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck.

I tip my chin in the direction of Tyler and our teammates, raising a brow at Archer. “What’s the score there?”

Archer grabs his Dri-FIT shirt from behind him and tucks it into the waistband of his shorts. He passes me mine, but I’m still too hot to put it on, so I wrap it around my shoulders.

“My best guess is, they’re headed out tonight for a few drinks. Probably to Lloyd’s in town. It’s kind of a tradition.”

I stand from the bench and pick up my water bottle, popping the cap and taking a sip. “And we’re all going, I assume, or is this tradition by invitation only?”

He grins at me. “Oh, we’re all going, including you, rook.”

It would take an internet search of around zero-point-fiveseconds to easily conclude that Archer Moore is a playboy—and a prolific one at that. His activities and hookups dwarf even what Jon did back in his day. Goalies are known to border on the crazy side of sane—I guess they’d have to be willing to stand in the way of pucks—but Archer pushes even those boundaries.

Still, in a short space of time, I’ve concluded I like him. He has zero agenda when it comes to team dynamics—that much is clear. His only priorities are shutouts and girls, and I appreciate his straightforward approach.

“Morgan.”

I’m about to follow Archer into the locker room when I spin around at the sound of Jon’s voice.

On his way over, he watches his goalie push through the door and turns his attention to me. “First night of preseason, the guys go out. It’s something the Blades have done for years, so I suggest you go with them.”