Page 214 of Playing the Pucking Game

She tugs her wrist from my fingers and spins away, her ponytail swishing behind her.

Fuck.

She rolls her shoulders as she approaches the medical staff, and as she turns slightly, I catch the wide smile she gives them. The complete opposite of the reaction I got.

My heart aches as I study her, but that quickly changes when I watch Mitchell study her for a few seconds before lifting his gaze and immediately finding me.

Double fuck.

She’s just protecting herself and her position, Storm.

She’s right. This isn’t about you.

It’s about her.

Exactly as it should be.

“Come on, man. Now isn’t the time. We’ve got a game to win,” Kodie says as he practically drags me out of the hotel.

The second I’m seated on the bus, I pull my cell from my pocket.

Linc: I’m sorry, that was selfish of me. I hope you have a good day.

Linc: I missed you this morning.

I stare at my screen for a few minutes in the hope she’ll read my words. I’m not expecting a reply; I’m not that fucking delusional. But knowing she’s seen my apology would be nice.

But when nothing happens, I pull my AirPods out, pull up my game day playlist, and attempt to focus on what today will bring.

“Where the fuck are you going?”Fletch calls after me when I immediately turn in the opposite direction to everyone else as we get off the bus.

“I’ll be ten minutes, tops,” I call over my shoulder as I take off running.

The whole way here, all I could think about was my reaction to Parker’s attempt at professionalism this morning. I’m not going to be able to focus until I’ve put things right. I’m not an idiot; a message isn’t going to cut it.

Actions.

Actions speak so much louder than words. And luckily for Parker, I can do actions.

Thankfully, there’s a coffee shop right around the corner. My foot taps on the floor as I wait for the two customers in line to place their orders.

I keep my head down and just pray no one notices me. I didn’t plan for this. I don’t have a cap or even any sunglasses to hide behind.

Everything is fine until I look up at the barista waiting for my order.

The second our eyes connect, she squeals.

Literally fucking squeals.

“Oh my god, it’s Lincoln Storm. Fuck. The actual Lincoln Storm.”

Fuck. Maybe this was a mistake.

I should have just ordered it.

“Can you sign something for me?” she asks in a rush. “And can we have a photo?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” I mutter as she searches for something for me to write on.