Page 17

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Reggie

It’s been days now, and I’m struggling not to let worry consume me, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult.

Kenzie hasn’t shown up at the rink, hasn’t replied to any of our messages in the Kenzie’s Entourage group chat.

Every time I check my phone, nothing. Just our own nervous chatter, skirting around the fact that none of us have a clue about what’s happening with her.

Braden suggested we put together a care package for her, brimming with ginger ale, crackers, and the little electrolyte pops he swears by.

Ambrose seemed somewhat agreeable, but Ally quickly shut us down. She told us to back off, explaining that Kenzie had a stomach bug and needed rest, not us hovering over her like needy puppies.

I understand. We’re a lot to handle, three guys all fussing over one woman.

It must feel overwhelming at times.

But this silence? It’s unbearable.

It gnaws at me, right in the chest, like a persistent ache.

I can’t just sit around waiting for Monday. I need to see her.

I slip on my jacket, the cool leather a comforting familiarity under my fingers, and grab my keys. The frosty air outside is sharp and crisp, and my teeth chatter as I start the car.

I head toward Feather Anything from her yet?

Ambrose Nope. Ally said the same thing, that she’s resting.

My thumbs fly over the screen as I type quickly, urgency guiding my movements.

Just went by her clinic. She’s still out. They said all week. Gettin’ a bit worried now.

I watch the screen intently, waiting as the familiar little dots appear and disappear, teasing me with anticipation.

Braden responds first.

Care package time??

Ambrose Ally said NO. Let her rest.

I exhale deeply, leaning back in my seat as a tightness clutches my chest, constricting each breath.

Maybe we just text her again? Check in like normal? We might be pushing too hard.

Silence hangs heavy for a moment.

Then, those elusive dots again, appearing, disappearing, as though they’re both second-guessing every word.

Ambrose Fine.

Braden Yeah, texting is probably better.

I close my eyes briefly, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. At least we’re on the same page. Yet, a gnawing sensation twists in my gut.

Something still doesn’t feel right.

I open our chat with Kenzie, staring at the blinking cursor, the silence echoing louder than any words.

Hey, lass. Missin’ you. Hope you’re startin’ to feel better.

I hit send, watching as the message delivers, but there’s no reply. Just that empty silence, stretching on and on, a void that seems to deepen with each ticking second.

I drive home, but my mind's not really on the task. The engine hums steadily beneath me, while the radio murmurs softly in the background, playing some melancholic country tune about heartbreak and cheap beer. It's there, but it's just noise.

My thoughts are with her.

The house is enveloped in a serene quiet when I return.

Braden’s skateboard is propped up by the door, its wheels still dusty from his afternoon ride. Ambrose’s boots sit by the steps, damp traces of mud clinging to their soles.

I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter with a clatter, then sink heavily onto the couch, phone clutched in my hand.

The screen remains blank. Nothing.

I text the guys again, even though we just spoke.

No word yet.

Braden She’ll get back to us, man. She always does.

Ambrose Yeah. She’s probably just sleeping.

I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to dispel this gnawing restlessness. Maybe they’re right. Maybe she’s just resting.

But the thought nags at me, maybe she’s not.

I cast a glance around the room. The expansive sectional where we’ve all crammed together with her, watching late-night movies. The kitchen, still harboring the memory of Ambrose cooking that homemade Alfredo, the dish that made her eyes sparkle with delight. The corner where Braden once pinned her against the wall, thinking none of us noticed. She’s everywhere, woven seamlessly into the fabric of our lives now.

I want her to understand that.

I send one more text.

We’re here, Kenz. Whatever you need.

I toss the phone onto the couch, but my eyes keep darting back to it, hoping for a sign. I don’t know what we are, or where this is going.

But I know one thing for sure. I don’t want to lose her.

My phone buzzes again. The sound is jarring, a sudden intrusion in the stillness of the room.

I reach for it, suddenly noticing Coach’s name flickering on the screen with an urgency that tightens my stomach.

Coach doesn’t usually reach out beyond team business hours unless there’s something significant on the horizon.

I swipe the screen open to read the brief message.

Call me when you get a minute.

“Aye, right then,” I murmur under my breath, my fingers tapping the call button with a mix of anticipation and curiosity.

The line rings twice, a short wait before his gruff voice comes through, resonating with authority.

“MacDonald. Got a minute?”

“Aye, Coach. What’s up?” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

He clears his throat, his tone clipped yet not unkind. “Look, I want to work a few new drills into our routine. I need a leader on the ice helping me push the pace, and I know you can get the guys moving. Can you come in early tomorrow, run some of it with me before everyone else shows up?”

Pride swells within me, an immediate, warm surge that fills my chest. “Of course, Coach. Whatever ye need. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Six-thirty sharp. Appreciate it.” His words are succinct, and he hangs up without further ado, but I’m left smiling as I toss the phone back onto the table with a sense of accomplishment.

Recognition like that…it’s why I push myself so damn hard.

But my grin fades as I catch sight of the unopened chat with Kenzie, a silent reminder resting on the screen.

The worry creeps back in, a dull, persistent ache that I can’t quite shake off. I breathe deeply, trying to steady the unease.

Tomorrow’s another day , I remind myself.

Maybe we’ll get some answers.

I tap open the group chat with Braden and Ambrose, my fingers darting swiftly over the screen as I type.

Coach needs me in early tomorrow, and knowing him, late as well. Can you two check on Kenz if we decide to stop by?

Setting the phone down, I lean back into the couch.

A minute later, the screen lights up.

Braden Yeah, we got it.

Ambrose No problem. You focus on Coach.

I nod to myself. We’ve always had each other’s backs, on and off the ice.

This situation with Kenzie…it’s different. More complicated. But the core of it remains the same, we protect our own.

Still, a heaviness lingers in my chest, like a stone weighing me down.

I don’t like being left out when it comes to her. It feels as though I’m stepping away from something crucial, like a puzzle with a missing piece.

But the team needs me. Coach needs me.

I push the guilt aside, stretching out my legs, the muscles still tight and aching from practice.

The hot water in the shower pounds relentlessly against my back melting away the day's tension.

I try to clear my mind: to focus solely on the heat loosening the tightness in my shoulders, but it’s a futile effort.

Kenzie’s face keeps slipping into my thoughts. Her infectious laugh echoes in my mind, her nervous habit of biting her lip replaying like a looped video. The memory of her skin, soft and inviting under my hands that night, lingers persistently…

I exhale sharply, watching as the water cascades over my chest, rinsing away the remnants of soap. This thing with her, it’s weaving its way into my very being.

I’ve had flings before, no doubt, but this feels different.

She is different.

I crave more, and that realization sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

Stepping onto the cold tile, I grab a towel, running it through my damp hair. The towel is coarse against my skin as I dry off, but the sensation barely registers.

My mind is consumed by thoughts of her: the worry, the desire, the deep-seated ache settling somewhere in my chest.

I dress swiftly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a comfortable hoodie, then sink back onto the couch. The house is quiet, the hushed sounds of Ambrose moving around in his room the only disturbance.

I need to let this unfold, to find patience amidst the chaos of my emotions.

I pull out my well-worn notebook and flip it open. The paper feels slightly rough under my fingertips, carrying a scent of ink, glue, and leather binding.

It's a testament to years of dedicated use, pages filled with plays hastily scribbled down in the dead of night, formations brainstormed during long flights, and ideas sketched out over casual post-game beers.

Coach has put in a request for new drills, so I begin drafting with focused determination.

I jot down notes. Intricate breakout patterns, seamless defensive transitions, intense small-area puck battles. I sketch out a few setups with arrows crisscrossing over detailed diagrams of the rink, each line telling a story of movement and strategy.

The familiar scratch of my pen is soothing, a comforting routine, yet my heart isn’t fully in it.

Still, Kenzie lingers in my thoughts, slipping through every gap in my focus like a shadow I can’t quite catch.

Resolute, I push the thought aside and immerse myself in the work.

My mind sharpens, falling into the rhythmic cadence of the game. I can visualize it all, the puck snapping with precision across the ice, the sharp sound of skates carving into the surface, the crisp slap of a one-timer hitting the twine with satisfying force.

This is where my strength lies, seeing the play unfold before it happens. Anticipating the gaps. Exploiting the weaknesses.

But off the ice? With her?

I'm just winging it.

I exhale deeply, closing the notebook after an hour of intense focus. My eyes burn from the strain, but the plan is solid, and Coach will be pleased.

I only wish winning Kenzie over were as simple as diagramming a perfect drill.