Page 26

TWENTY-FIVE

Joey

I close the door behind me then move to the table and lean back against the edge, not loving the look on Storm’s face. “Everything okay?” I ask softly.

His lips press flat then he nods, exhales. “I’m good. I just wanted to make sure you were after that crap the refs pulled tonight.”

That takes me aback for a minute.

Because he’s worried about me?

“Um…” I begin.

And there I falter.

Because what the fuck?

“I just—” His eyes slide to mine and then away, and the sinking feeling in my stomach grows as the pieces click into place. Damn.

I knew this was coming.

I just…

Hoped if I kept ignoring it, kept a careful distance between us…it would just go away.

Because that worked so well between Damon and me?

I resist the urge to rub at the throb in my temple and stand still, waiting for him to finish.

Bracing for him to finish.

“Well,” he says, fidgeting with the tie on his hockey pants. “I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re good.”

My fingers clench on the table’s edge, hard enough to cramp, and I try to be gentle when I say, “I appreciate the sentiment, Storm, but it’s not your job to check on me.”

His brows pull together, hurt rippling across his face. “We’re supposed to be a family, aren’t we?”

A dysfunctional, incestual one clearly—no matter how hard I’ve been trying to fix it.

“Yes,” I agree. “And like I said, I appreciate the check in, but you should be focusing on yourself and the rest of the team, not worrying about me.”

His throat works, gaze coming to mine before sliding away. “It’s just…Mitch”—the ref whose shenanigans were the worst tonight—“was a dick and I’ve never seen you that upset?—”

I go for light, pointing at my hair. “I am a redhead.” My lips twitch. “I do have a temper.”

He grins. “Well, while it was the first time I’ve seen it, I’m seriously impressed by your use of the f word.”

“Considering some of the stuff I’ve heard out of your guys’ mouths, that’s a serious compliment.”

He chuckles.

I smile.

And then silence falls between us again.

I’m scrambling for a way to bring this conversation to an end, one that won’t make things between us uncomfortable and awkward for the foreseeable future, while at the same time racking my brain to start erecting some professional barriers, but?—

I don’t get that far.

Because he steps a little closer, eyes sliding to mine and away again. “Coach…” A shake of his head. “I mean, Joey?—”

Shit.

“I know this is unconventional and probably crosses more than a few lines, but—” He moves closer, takes his hand in mine, squeezing lightly. “I was wondering if you might like to go out to dinner sometime.”

Fuck .

I pull my hand free, slip free, and step to the side?—

His face.

Fucking hell. His beautiful, innocent face.

“Storm,” I say quietly. “I can’t. I…” I take a breath because again, I don’t want to hurt him and I need to be measured and controlled in my response. But…this cannot be.

Not ever.

“Look,” I tell him. “You’re a good kid?—”

He flinches.

“A good man,” I correct, trying to go gently, but knowing there’s no way to actually make this better. “But even putting aside the fact that I’m your coach and you’re my player, I…I don’t feel the same way about you as I think you do about me.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Long enough that I’m dying a slow death inside, inch by painful inch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shoving a hand through his hair. “ Fuck . I’m sorry,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t have—” He clamps his mouth together. “Forget I said anything, I?—”

He turns away, chin dropping to his chest, not speaking for long enough that my skin starts aching and I’m desperate to get the hell out of here.

But he’s between me and the door and…

He needs time to process this isn’t what he hoped it was in his head and heart.

That it can’t ever be.

So, I wait in silence, give him that quiet, that time…since I can’t give him what he wants.

Eventually, he turns and looks up at me, his expression drawn, his eyes sad. “Just forget I said anything, okay?”

I nod, reply softly, “Okay.”

A jerk of his chin before he starts for the door.

Then he stops again, turns back, his eyes connecting with mine over his shoulder, and drops a bomb on me.

“It’s because of Damon, isn’t it?”

* * *

I sigh as I sink onto the bed, completely exhausted.

And yet, I’m wired, ready to take on the world—or at least ready to create my plan for the game the following night.

The plane ride was a short one, the mood quiet with most of the guys getting a quick nap in before touchdown—the single members of the team needing their energy to go out and tie one on, taking advantage of the free day tomorrow by staying up late and partying hard. Those in relationships usually hang closer to the hotel. They might go out for a drink or a late dinner before heading up to their rooms and calling home.

But they’ll be tucked into bed snoozing well before the others make it home.

Me?

I spent the flight getting ahead of tomorrow’s work.

Now I’m in my room.

Alone.

And it’s hard not to think of Storm’s face when he said, “ It’s because of Damon, isn’t it?”

Harder still to not think of how his expression changed when he read whatever answer was in mine.

Hurt.

No, anguish.

And, fuck, but I spent several years in that same agony.

I hate that I’ve made him feel the same way.

So, yeah, maybe my restlessness is less to do with being ready to make my plans for tomorrow and more about…

Guilt.

Yup. I feel like an asshole.

Sighing, I push up out of bed again and reach for the menu on the bedside table. I need empty calories, preferably ones made up of simple sugars…like those I might find in a giant ice cream sundae.

With extra hot fudge and cherries.

Thank God, they have it on the menu.

A bath, a sundae, and maybe…

I’ll text Damon.

Our eyes had connected on the plane, but then he’d been pulled into a conversation with the assistant GM, and Tommy had wanted to check in, and because the flight wasn’t long, we hadn’t shared more than that look.

But there was something in his eyes.

Something… off.

So bath, sundae, and maybe I’ll tackle whatever that off means in the morning.

Because I know that’s the most logical course of action, I crawl out of bed, snagging the receiver and hitting the button for room service.

It rings once, a woman coming on the other end, and just as I’m completing my order—with a firm emphasis on extra whipped cream and cherries—there’s a knock at the door.

My pulse speeds, fear and anticipation mixing.

Clashing.

Not Hiller, not ever again.

Which means…

That anticipation grows, takes over.

The knock comes again.

Along with a voice.

“Let me in, Red.”

Smiling, I hang up and hurry over to the door.