Page 10 of Defensive Zone (Chicago Thunder #3)

Chapter Nine

Zach

This fucking sucks.

I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when I finally got the balls to tell Carter about how I was feeling, but it certainly wasn’t this.

And shouting at him, too? Fuck, that definitely wasn’t how I wanted to tell him either.

I didn’t want the moment I told him that I was in love with him to be in the midst of frustration and hurt, because fuck . Seeing the pain on Carter’s face almost killed me. I don’t ever want to see that look cross his handsome face ever again.

In the few hours between him arriving and me needing to leave for the arena for tonight’s game, he became withdrawn. Gone was the laughing, smiling, happy-go-lucky guy I’ve known all my life, and in his place was a hollow shell who could barely look me in the eye.

For the first time in our lives, we were like strangers, awkwardly dancing around each other and making small talk. He sat as far away from me as possible on the couch and turned down my offer for food. Hell, when I asked if he wanted to come to the game tonight, he kept his gaze downcast and nodded with a quiet, “Yeah, okay.”

I don’t know why I was so surprised to see him on the other side of the door because he always came here after his season ended. I don’t know why I questioned it. He’s just been through the worst season of his career—why wouldn’t he come here? Knowing Carter as well as I do, he’s probably hypersensitive and came to me seeking comfort, and I went and threw my feelings in his face like a weapon and told him to leave.

I’m the worst fucking friend.

The atmosphere between us was tense and so unfamiliar that I was too chickenshit to deal with it and ended up leaving a little earlier than normal. Putting it down to the snow and catching a ride with Elliot and whatever other weak-ass excuse I could come up with because I couldn’t stay there any longer. The guilt has been eating away at me ever since.

What the fuck have I done?

I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t want to break his heart, but it’s exactly what I’ve done. And I can’t help but think—have I made a colossal mistake?

Yes, you asshole.

The thing is, I don’t actually want him to leave in the morning. I just assumed that was the best way to protect my heart and protect us , when in reality, it’s done the polar opposite. I’ve probably blown up our friendship with my own selfish stupidity.

But maybe I can make this right. Maybe we can talk when I get home from the game later and we can have the conversation I wanted to have, rather than the one that went down.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Right?

Movement in my periphery catches my attention where I’m pedaling on the stationary bike, and I greet Jackson with a jerk of my chin as he gets on the bike next to mine. I pause my playlist and remove my earbuds.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you good?” he asks, starting at a steady pace.

I let out a long exhale and shake my head. “No, not really. Carter arrived earlier. I ended up telling him how I felt.”

“Oh, shit. I take it from that sigh that it didn’t go very well?”

“No, it couldn’t have gone worse.” I tilt my head to look at him, my brows pinched. “I yelled at him and told him it was best if he left.”

“You yelled at him?” Jackson’s eyes widen. A moment of silence passes as he simply blinks at me, jaw slack. “You? Yelled? As in raised your voice?”

I nod, grimacing.

“Holy shit. I didn’t think it was possible for you to raise your voice. Even Isabela calls you the quiet giant.”

I chuckle under my breath. His daughter is adorable. Whenever she sees me, she always wants a piggyback ride, and she often paints me pictures. But he’s right. It was so out of character for me to raise my voice like I did. Panic took over as my feelings came bursting through the flood gates at the sight of him, catching me off guard.

“I feel like shit about it. He was so… upset. I’ve never seen him like that before. Even when his ex-girlfriends broke up with him, I’ve never seen him as distraught as he was today.”

“I’m sorry, man.” Jackson’s smile is sympathetic. “Do you want him to leave?”

“No, I don’t, but he said he’d leave in the morning. I… I don’t know what to do to make it right.”

My confession is left lingering in the air as we pedal. A few of the other guys have come to do their warm-ups before we head out into the corridors to play soccer. My gaze bounces around to where Ethan’s jogging on the treadmill and Peyton hops on the machine next to him. Elliot’s on the floor doing his insane mobility stretches while Blaine does side lunges next to him.

“Are the kids okay?” I ask, unable to cope with the silence anymore but not wanting to talk about me.

“They’re good. They enjoyed spending time with their mom while she was in town, but Isabela is back to being clingy now that her mom’s gone.”

Jackson has told me all about how his ex-wife is a news journalist and received a promotion that would take her outside the US. Despite them being split up, he didn’t want her to turn it down, but between him being on the road and his ex-wife being away with work, he didn’t want the kids being left with a nanny either. So, they agreed he would move to Chicago with Ryan and Isabela and get help from his parents, who take care of them when he’s away to give them some stability, and she visits in between her work assignments.

From what he’s said, they now get along better than ever.

“That’s tough. Are they here tonight?”

“Yeah, but my mom will probably take them home before the second period since they have school tomorrow. Knowing Isabela, she’ll get so excited and worked up during warm-ups watching Elliot she’ll be asleep by the time the puck drops.”

I laugh, not surprised in the slightest.

Jackson chews on the inside of his lip in thought as we slow down to stop. “Could you talk to him tonight when you get back? Just be honest and explain things, see if you can work it out,” he suggests. “I know we’ve only known each other for a year, but I know how important this time you have together is for both of you.”

Hearing him echo my earlier thoughts brings me a sense of relief. I can make this right, even if it means having an uncomfortable conversation and laying my heart out.

I reach over and squeeze his bicep. “Thank you. For listening to me ramble and giving me solid advice.”

“Anytime, brother.” He grins, slapping my shoulder. “It’s time to put Carter to the back of your mind for now because we’ve got a game to win.”

“We cannot let them get the better of us,” Ethan states, pacing the locker room floor. He hasn’t sat down since we trudged back here after the first period. He’s like a caged lion, fists clenched at his sides, angry and ready for the attack.

Washington is sitting just below us in overall standings, and while Vancouver is a team I enjoyed playing against, Washington is one I dislike the most. They have come to fight tonight, literally, and they’re not afraid to get a little dirty. Something Blaine’s learned firsthand, as he’s already received two penalties, and I wouldn’t put it past the refs not to make them his last.

The hits are always harder. More intentional. We might be in different divisions and conferences, but we’re still competition.

They want to hurt us, and they will try anything to get under our skin and make us crumble.

“If Volkov comes near me one more time, I’m going to punch him.” Blaine grunts.

“That’s what he wants,” Peyton replies. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to you. Do you think Alex will want you to go home with your pretty little face all bruised up?”

Blaine grumbles something about how it would make him feel better and how Alex will nurse him back to health anyway.

My gaze flicks to Elliot, who has been surprisingly silent the entire time. He’s staring at the floor, his mouth open slightly. He’s in a trance, and it seems everyone knows not to disturb him. He’s been on fire tonight, stopping shot after shot, and considering he’s only let in two out of twenty shots on goal, he’s playing incredibly.

When we get back out onto the ice for the second period, it continues to be fast-paced and all action. We’re racking up penalty minutes quicker than Coach can tell us to keep our heads in the game. Despite the words of wisdom Peyton gave Blaine not long ago, Peyton found himself watching from the penalty box after getting a double minor penalty for roughing and instigation. At least when Blaine gets his third penalty of the night for tripping, he’s not alone in there.

It definitely seems the refs have it out for us tonight because they’ve allowed Washington to get away with almost every call.

The tension is building up on the bench too. The anger radiating off Ethan is palpable. His dark eyes are menacing while he tracks the puck as the second line fights for possession. He’s dangerous when he gets this worked up, and I feel sorry for whichever player is brave enough to provoke him—I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the other side of Ethan Parkes’s aggression when it’s unleashed.

The bench begins to vibrate as his leg starts bouncing. He’s just as eager to get back out onto the ice as I am, and the second we hear the video game power-up-style chime signaling the end of Blaine’s penalty, we make a quick line change to join Blaine out on the ice.

The next two minutes go scoreless, and one of Washington’s wingers cross checks Peyton the second he steps out of the penalty box, and it goes uncalled by the refs. Again.

“This is such bullshit,” Kendrick snaps, hitting his stick so hard on the top of the board in rage that it snaps in two.

It is, but there’s nothing we can do about it except try to keep our heads cool. Judging by the smart-ass grins they’re sporting on the bench, Washington is succeeding in what they wanted to achieve.

Riling us up.

I’m back on the ice in time to take possession of the puck as it goes sailing up toward the defensive zone. I’m aware that Mueller, one of Washington’s defensemen, is breathing down my neck, but I know Kendrick is clear for the pass. I hit it around the back of the net, and I shift on my skates to turn, but Mueller isn’t stopping. He hits me with such force, I’m lifted off the ice. He slams me hard into the boards, my head bouncing off the ledge of the boards like a pinball. A shooting pain rips up my arm from where my wrist is crushed beneath me, and the bright lights of the arena are the last thing I remember before I fall and my head hits the ice.

Suddenly, everything goes black.