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ELEVEN

Beck

T he sound of the siren signaled the end of the game, but not a single one of my teammates left the ice. The only movement was Landon, who skated away from his goalpost to join the five of us near the center line, where Boston’s third string and goalie were waiting on the other side.

Both teams were staring each other down.

I could feel the fight brewing, my skin tingling at the thought of hitting someone.

I could see it in the eyes of my teammates, the tension building with each one of their breaths. The anger, on both sides, hitting a peak.

Boston had made us look like a bunch of amateurs tonight. We couldn’t do a goddamn thing right.

We hadn’t fallen apart. That would have meant we’d started off strong and dissolved over time, and that certainly wasn’t the case.

From the moment this game had begun three periods ago, we weren’t able to find a rhythm, and there was no sync between any of the lines; we’d looked like a group of novice figure skaters, cleaning the ice with our fucking asses.

“Break it up, boys.” The ref, who should be leaving the rink, came over and positioned himself between the teams, his arms outstretched. “Back off. Now!”

He was quickly joined by a second ref and a third, but their presence was barely noticed, as there was so much shit talking going down between each team.

For us, it was because LA didn’t lose.

If it happened due to the other team being better than us, that was one thing. But Boston wasn’t better, even though tonight had been a shutout, and we weren’t taking the defeat well at all.

“Take your asses to the locker room,” one of the refs threatened. He skated to my side. “Weston, bring your guys in right now.” His hand was on my arm, shaking me, attempting to get me to react to him. “The league will fine you. I’m warning you.”

His words hit and bounced off. I was too busy telling Boston’s left wing what I was going to do to his fucking face.

“Locker room! Now!” another linesman shouted toward each team.

“I’m going to break your goddamn nose and cover the ice with your blood!” one of my guys yelled at a defenseman.

“Come do it, asshole,” the defenseman replied.

The ref moved in front of me and grabbed my face mask. “Do you know how many thousands of dollars that punch is going to cost you?”

“Do you know how many thousands we make each game?” one of my guys shot back.

None of us gave a fuck if we got fined. I would guarantee Boston felt the same way.

The satisfaction of hitting one of those cocky, loudmouthed, wished they were as good as us motherfuckers would be worth every dollar we had to shell out.

And we were going to be paying because the guys were closing in, the heat coming off their bodies telling me we were inches away from brawling.

There was only one person who could stop this fight.

One person my boys would listen to.

That was me.

But I wanted nothing more than to get this anger out of my body. I wanted to hurt something. I wanted to shake the guilt that was fucking consuming me by connecting my fingers to flesh.

My hands tightened inside my gloves, and I took a quick glance toward the stands.

A place I’d looked at hundreds of times tonight.

Each time searching for her.

And each time, the last text I’d sent, replayed in my fucking head.

Come to Africa. I’ll pay for everything. I want to look at those stars with you.

I turned, refocusing on the ref. The second I took these gloves off, fists would go flying. Blood would be shed. Pictures of me would appear across every news channel and online. I could see the headlines now, calling me a sore loser.

I didn’t want more attention. I already knew this evening’s warm-up would be made into a meme and get blasted across social media. Eden kept me updated on shit like that even though I had told her not to.

This fight, since it would happen after the game, would be even worse.

And it would give Boston what they expected from us at this point. What would be even better was if we beat them in a shutout when they came to LA and played us in a couple of weeks.

Goddamn it, there were times I hated myself when I made decisions with my head.

“We’re out of here,” I told the boys. “Come on.” As I skated past the line, I pointed at Boston’s captain and roared, “You’re fucking lucky.”

He laughed at me. “I can’t wait to embarrass you in front of all your fans.”

I ground my teeth together. “Never going to happen, you cocksucker. You know we’re going to destroy you. And you know you’ll never be as good as me, and it fucking kills you.”

“Weston, you think tonight showed me that you’re any good?

You’re a fucking joke. LA is wasting their money on you.

If they haven’t already realized how bad you are, they will by the end of the season, and they’ll trade your ass.

” The captain smirked. “Boston knows you don’t have any skills, so you won’t be coming here. ”

It took everything in me to keep heading toward the exit. To swallow my anger. To not turn around, change my mind, and punch that disrespectful chump in the back of his head as he took a victory lap around the ice.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get even,” my right wing said as we got closer to the exit. “When they’re in LA, they won’t know what hit them.”

“Fuck them,” I replied. “I can’t fucking stand that team.”

The door to the rink opened, and I stepped onto the concrete, making my way into the tunnel that led toward the locker room.

“What the hell happened to you?” a man voiced from above.

Several fans were hanging over the railing that looked into the tunnel. The man had to be one of them.

“Over fifty shots on goal, and not a single one landed,” the same man continued. “What happened to my team? You’re fighters. This isn’t like you, and gosh darn it, I’m so disappointed.”

I glanced up and connected eyes with the gentleman as he spoke. He had on a vintage Whales hat—the same one my father wore to games, a design that was no longer sold. He’d either paid a fortune for the merchandise or he’d been a longtime fan.

Something told me it was the latter.

And we’d let him down.

No. That wasn’t true.

I had let him down.

And he had every right to be disappointed in me.

Fuck me.

I turned my gaze to the end of the hallway and pulled off my helmet, the sweat releasing from the top of my head and pouring down my face. I used my padded arm to wipe it away, and when I reached the locker room, I took a seat on the bench.

I took my gloves off and threw them across the room. “Fuck!”

Towels were thrown in response. Sticks were broken across players’ knees. Equipment was shredded off and dropped with enough force to make one hell of a noise.

It was only a matter of time before Coach came in and chewed us apart for the way we had played, and I’d have to hear about the disappointment all over again.

Landon took a seat beside me. “What happened out there?” He was removing his skates.

“We fell apart.”

“Bullshit.”

I slowly glanced at my goalie. His question was sitting in the center of my chest, gnawing a hole around my heart.

He saw the game from a completely different angle, not even the same one that Coach did.

“We both know you were off tonight. Why?” he questioned.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Beck. Tell me what’s going on with you.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “You set the tempo for every game. You’re the nucleus that holds us together. When the nucleus is off, nothing works right.”

“There are three other lines, Landon. The guys on the second, third, and fourth—what about them? Why didn’t they have it together? Why didn’t they score? Why didn’t they stop the puck?—”

“Beck, come on, my man. You can bullshit the media when they ask—and they will ask—but you can’t bullshit me.”

My elbows went to my knees, and I held the top of my skull, the steam coming off my skin like I was in a sauna.

“Where’s your head right now?” he asked.

Where?

That was a good question.

I was tired. We’d been on the road for over a week. I craved the routine I had at home, one that helped my body feel its best. I needed a break from hotel rooms and to sleep in my own bed.

I needed some of Walker’s cooking.

But I was used to this lifestyle and being on the road for a majority of the year, and I accepted that traveling this way was part of the gig.

But that wasn’t the reason I felt lost tonight.

It was something else.

It was a feeling in my chest. A fucking emptiness. A sensation so foreign that I didn’t know what it was at first. And then, hours ago, once the game started, I realized what it was.

And that was when I first found myself looking up at the stands, scanning the faces of the audience.

Something I never did. Even when I was near the glass, I was too focused to notice who was sitting on the other side of it.

Nothing affected my concentration during a game—not the music, the clapping, or the cheering.

But from the beginning of this one, something had pulled me toward the seats; it had forced me to study the hair of each woman, looking for those wild red locks, wondering why, after everything she had said in her messages, she hadn’t wanted to go to Africa with me.

“My head is at …” My voice trailed off while I squeezed the sides of my temples. “I don’t know.”

“Can I ask you something? And you promise not to chew into me?”

The air was vibrating off the roof of my mouth every time I exhaled. “What?”

“Is it her? Is that what you’re thinking about? Is that why you were off your game tonight?”

My hands dropped, and I glanced toward him. “Who?” My brows furrowed. “Jolie?”

Of course he was talking about her.

We were in Boston. There was no one else he could be speaking about.

“Yes,” he replied.

I sat up straight, gazing at the faces of my teammates with expressions that were as miserable as mine.

I owed them an apology.

The coaching staff too.

Fuck.

FUCK.

A loss as devastating as this one, all because I couldn’t get my goddamn thoughts together.