Page 32

THIRTY-TWO

Blake

We’re back in Vegas for game seven, and it’s hard to focus on the game when it feels like my entire world is crumbling around me.

The last two days have been miserable.

Much worse than the last time she left me.

Honestly, I don’t know who left who this time, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I should have told her about Boston, but I still don’t know anything.

I don’t know how I managed to fuck up my relationship with Rowan for the second time so badly.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in the game tonight.

I don’t know where I’m going if we lose tonight.

I have no idea where I’ll be over the summer or in the fall or anything else.

My parents are still here, following me around like lost kittens, and I don’t have the time or inclination to worry about them.

“Who kicked your puppy?” Bodi demands as we sit down for the pre-game meal in Vegas.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He opens his mouth but closes it again.

He’s back on the roster tonight, so he’s in a great mood, but the last thing I want to do is talk about Rowan. Or how she dumped me. Or the clusterfuck that is my life.

“Is it… a girl?” he asks quietly.

I chuckle but there’s no humor in it. “It was. But now it’s not.”

He winces. “What happened?”

“I already told you—don’t wanna talk about it. Leave it alone.”

“Okay.” He shrugs and turns to Connor, asking him about the new car he’s planning to buy with his first-round bonus.

The first-round bonus wasn’t huge, but enough to get me through the summer. Or, if I can get my training job back, it could pay for a semester or two of school when I decide to go back.

If we win tonight, the second-round bonus will be more substantial.

Enough to set me up for next year, no matter where I wind up.

Unfortunately, I’m still reeling from the break-up and it’s hard to think about hockey. It’s hard to think about anything except Rowan.

I understand her anger that I kept a secret from her, but what I don’t understand is her complete unwillingness to talk things out. Yes, our situation is complicated as fuck. That stupid no-fraternization clause is a real thorn in my side. But we had options. We were going to find a way to make it work.

And she just let me walk away like I meant nothing to her.

That’s the part that hurts the most.

I’ve bared my soul, bent over backwards to show her who I am, that I’m not the same as I was ten years ago. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Apparently, it’s never been enough. I’m not blameless, but this isn’t all on me. Not this time.

By the time the puck drops, I’ve managed to compartmentalize the breakup so I can focus on the game, but the fire—the proverbial itch—isn’t there.

And I’m struggling.

There’s a missed pass in the first period that pisses me off, and I almost drop the gloves with the same guy I went at it with in game six. I force myself to walk away, but frustration is brewing. Building. Like a volcano getting ready to erupt.

Normally, I can put everything aside on the ice.

This is undoubtedly the most high-stakes game of my career.

And yet, I can’t seem to muster up any fucks.

I just want to hit people.

So I do.

I check harder and more frequently than I ever have in any game I’ve played in my life.

But it isn’t enough to quell the darkness threatening to overtake me.

I’m angry. Hurt. Disappointed.

So many emotions I’m not familiar with.

Well, I’m probably a little too familiar with disappointment, but I’m generally an even-tempered guy so I don’t get mad that often. I certainly don’t let things hurt me if I can help it. Except my dad.

And fucking Rowan.

She can hurt me like no one else.

Having her standing just a few feet away makes it so much worse.

This is probably why they have no fraternization clauses.

Because how the hell am I supposed to put her—and us—out of my mind when she’s five fucking feet away?

We go into the third period down by one.

It’s do-or-die, and I’m not sure I can make the magic happen.

Not tonight.

And I hate myself a little for it.

Because this is what I do.

I play my ass off, and then, when the chips are down—just like in senior year of college—I drop the ball.

I need to score, set up a play, do something…anything at all… to help win this game.

And it’s just not happening.

The time is winding down.

If we can’t get going, notch another goal, the season is over.

For me, that means a fuck-ton of uncertainty.

My next shift is better, but not enough to score, and I can’t help but watch the clock.

Less than five minutes to go.

Less than five minutes until my life changes in ways I can’t control.

This playoff game is all I have left and it’s about to slip through my fingers.

Just like the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Fuck.

I’m back on the ice, and I can’t seem to find my footing. Coach left me on the first line, and I feel like I’m not pulling my weight but I can’t seem to figure out where I’m supposed to be. Just like my life, everything on the ice is spinning out of control.

Until—

The puck lands on the blade of my stick and instinct takes over.

I truly can’t say there was skill or hard work involved—it was nothing but a reaction.

A flick of my wrist that sends the puck sailing.

Right between the goalie’s legs.

And it’s fucking tied.

I barely feel it as my teammates lift me off the ice, patting me on the back and bumping helmets with me.

My gaze travels to the bench and I see Rowan.

Watching.

Nodding.

Her eyes filled with…regret?

Fuck.

I don’t have time for this right now.

We’re still in it.

And when the buzzer sounds, ending regulation, it’s time to dig deep.

Nothing matters but keeping our playoff hopes—and my only lifeline—alive.

Just a little longer.

But overtime is a slog.

Fifteen long minutes without scoring.

By the time we get to the second overtime, we’re hyped but also tired.

Gabe is favoring his left knee; Rowan worked hard on it between periods.

Marty took a hit, and the doc doesn’t want him to go back out.

If I’m honest, my left shoulder is tweaked.

But there’s no time for weakness.

We have to pull out a win.

I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if we don’t.

My lungs are screaming, my knees are shaky, and still, no one scores.

One minute left.

Part of me is praying to just squeak through so we can rest and hydrate, but I also want to finish it. Get the win and move to the division finals.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Anton Petrov, one of the star forwards on the Sidewinders, rips a slap shot right through Gabe’s five hole.

The red light goes on and my world drops out from under me.

It’s over.

We fucking lost.

Mother. Fucker.

The Sidewinders are off the bench, forming one big pile on the ice as they celebrate.

And the rest of us—the Phantoms—can’t move.

Gabe looks defeated, his head hanging.

I’m rooted in place, trying to force my legs forward, so I can get to the bench.

Canyon is coasting, stick hanging limply from his right hand.

Connor looks like he wants to cry.

I can’t blame him since I do too.

It’s over .

I lift my gaze, searching for Rowan, and there are tears in her eyes as she stands there, next to Coach Vanek.

We have to get through the handshake line, and then we’ll lick our wounds in private.

This is quite possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

Usually, you take a loss with grace and professionalism. You have to.

But I really don’t want to.

Not tonight.

Not when so much more than hockey is on the line for me.

The other guys have next season.

Right now, I have nothing.

No job security, no Rowan, no nothing.

When we finally file back to the locker room, it’s quiet.

Deathly quiet.

Because our season just flatlined.

Along with so many hopes and dreams.

There doesn’t seem to be anything to say.

It’s just… over . Done.

We fought hard, but it wasn’t enough.

The Sidewinders were simply the better team.

“Gentlemen.” I look up at the sound of Harper’s voice.

She’s probably pissed, but she’s hiding it well.

In fact, she’s smiling, which is weird.

What’s wrong with her?

Is this some fucked-up pregnancy thing?

Why the fuck is she smiling in light of what just happened?

“I know you’re disappointed,” she says. “I am too. But I’m also so, so proud. I can’t tell you how proud I am. Of every single one of you. This playoff run has been the single most exciting thing I’ve ever experienced professionally. You—every person in this room—made the impossible happen. You made a dream come true for me. And not just for me, but for my late husband, Edward. He would have been proud of you too.”

I see tears in her eyes.

“Just before he died, he told me his only regret in life was not seeing the team make it to the playoffs. He left that legacy to me—and thanks to all of you, I fulfilled my last promise to him.” She pauses, digging a tissue out of her purse. “I know you feel awful right now, but you have nothing to feel bad about. We started this series with a fucking bus accident that could have killed us. Both literally and figuratively. And yet, you all stepped up and found a way to win that series. Even without a few key players, we beat the Blizzard and we came this close—” She holds up a hand, her thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart. “—to defeating the Sidewinders. I hope none of you are beating yourselves up too badly. You made me proud. I love all of you, and I’m so excited about next season. Thank you.” She stops talking and bursts into tears. Gabe is immediately up, pulling her close, and the rest of us start to clap.

She’s done so much with this team in just one season. A woman with almost no hockey experience. But she did it. I don’t know much about her late husband, who left the team to her, but it doesn’t matter to me. I have a lot of respect for her, and the team came a long way this year under her direction.

She has a lot to be proud of.

Me, not so much.

I’m going back to Phoenix with my tail between my legs.

At least, that’s how it feels right now.

Tomorrow I might feel differently, but right now, there’s nothing but disappointment, frustration, and… pain.

The worst part is—I don’t know what hurts the most… losing the game or losing Rowan.