Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE

SAWYER

I fucking hate Colorado.

I hate even more that we lost by the smallest margin and the winning goal was down to me. This place makes me lose my damn mind every time we travel here, but tonight, I was barely present on the ice.

“I need to get out of this arena and back to the hotel.”

Jack pulls up alongside me, removing his mouthguard, looking kind of doubtful. “I mean, we can definitely head back to the hotel and hide and order room service.” He tips his head over his shoulder. “But first, they need you in the mixed zone.”

Fuck.

At my expression, he taps a gloved hand against my helmet. “Just play nice with the reporters. We don’t need a repeat of last time.”

The dynamics between me and my center would lead anyone to conclude that I was the rookie and he was the captain. But I have an excuse for my bad mood and disdain for this place each season—this is where I was when Sophie passed away. The pulmonary embolism in her lung had taken her quickly while I was deep into the second period in this very arena. Playing here fills me with a sense of unease and anxiety as I wait for the next thing to go wrong.

“I need to get out of my gear and into the weight room ASAP,” I tell him.

I’m off the ice and heading for the locker room in seconds, Jack following close behind.

Most of the guys are silent as we change, and some head for the showers or straight for a cooldown.

I’m pulling on my sneakers when Archer flops down on the bench next to me, Jack on my other side.

“I don’t need you to tell me that final goal wasn’t my mistake. Because it was. I took my eye off their winger and should’ve anticipated the assist.”

“Yeah, true,” Archer says.

I turn my head to face him, finishing up on my lace. “Don’t hold back with the honesty, Moore.”

He just smiles at me.

I take a look around and see most of the guys have now filtered out of the locker room. “Anyway, you got an update for me on the …” I trail off on adding more detail since Jack’s sitting on the other side.

“He hasn’t told him yet,” my center confirms, he must’ve been clued in on what went down last week with Shane’s girl.

I stand, hands propped on my hips. “And do you plan on taking my advice or letting the guy marry a cheater?”

Archer throws an exasperated hand out in front of him. “I’ll tell him. I’m just not that hot on the idea.”

I know my mood has everything to do with how I feel about this series and nothing to do with my goalie, but I can’t shake my irritation.

“You were hot on her when you took her home, though, weren’t you? Playing around means, sometimes, you have messes to clean up. This is undoubtedly one of those times.”

Archer grumbles, picking up his towel and heading for the locker room door. “Always so fucking judgy.”

When the door slams behind him, I turn to Jack.

“I don’t need any kind of smart-ass comment right now …” I blow out. “Especially not one about how I’m a grumpy old man.”

I love this kid, truly. But the incessant smile he wears makes me want to wipe it straight from his face. And he knows it.

Jack’s smile fades, replaced with an empathetic look. He knows I’m struggling right now, and he’s all too aware that I’m reaching the limitations of my patience. He opens his mouth to say something when the door swings open and our coach, Jon Morgan, strides in.

“Bryce, why aren’t you in the mixed zone, giving the scheduled interview?”

I look down at my training gear. “I was headed for the weights room and then for a shower. I need to cool off first.”

He pushes a frustrated hand through his hair. Jon is a former NHL star, and several seasons back, he was the captain for our rivals, the Seattle Scorpions. He’s also Jack’s stepdad.

“The interview is due to take place in five minutes. They want to run this one earlier, so you’ll have to cool down and shower later.”

He braces the locker room door open, asking me to follow him.

I drop my head between my shoulders. I’ve been captain of the Blades for a long while, and most of the responsibilities I enjoy, though talking with the media is not one of them.

“I’ll be right out.”

Five minutes later, I’m in front of a multitude of cameras and reporters, waiting for their usual quick-fire session.

I look around the room and pick up a bottle of BodyArmor, taking a pull when the first reporter speaks.

“Disappointing result for you tonight. Walk us through it and what went wrong.”

I smirk and pull at the back of my neck.

Isn’t it fucking obvious? Jesus, who pays these people to ask such moronic questions?

Linking my fingers, I rest them under my chin, shouldering a professional demeanor. “The team put in a great performance, and the game was hard-fought and as intense as we’ve come to expect when we travel to Colorado. I take responsibility for the final goal; I was a second behind the play and didn’t anticipate the forehand pass Reid made. I should’ve cut it out, but I didn’t.”

I lean back in my chair and take a sip of my drink as Coach answers a question from a female reporter.

Despite the room being packed with people and cameras, my attention drifts momentarily to Collins. I can’t lie and say she hasn’t been on my mind since that night a week ago, and the regret of only getting her last name and not her number has settled in my gut. That said, who am I kidding? I had to practically pry her identity from her, never mind getting her digits.

And what exactly would I message?

Hi there. Thanks for the one-time sex we shouldn’t be acknowledging. You told me it was adequate at best, but I can’t stop thinking about the way your mouth fell open when you came. I want to fuck you again sometime if that’s okay?

“Do you believe it’s achievable?”

I snap back to reality, registering only the last part of the reporter’s question.

“Sorry. Can you repeat that?” I ask with a headshake.

The reporter pauses and checks his notepad. “The playoffs—do you believe this loss will set you back in your pursuit to qualify, or do you believe it’s achievable?”

I fold my arms across my chest, throwing Coach a look.

“It’s not even November; we’re barely a month into the regular season. I’d argue it’s way too soon to start making calls on the playoffs.”

The reporter looks like he’s about to disagree, and I cut him off with a raised hand.

“There isn’t anything more to say. It was a ridiculous question thirty seconds ago, and it still is.” I run my gaze across the room. “Next question.”

All conversations fall silent as the reporters look between each other.

I take another sip of my drink, already done with this interview.

From the back, a red-haired male reporter raises his arm. I don’t recognize him as a regular in the mixed zone, and he looks kind of hesitant.

“My question is for Bryce.”

He clears his throat. I do not like the look on his face or where this is going.

“An hour ago, some photos surfaced on social media. You were pictured with a pink-haired woman we hadn’t seen before. You looked pretty cozy as you walked through Cobble Hill. Can you comment on these images, and is this woman a new love interest? I know you lost your wi?—”

“Are you being for real right now?” I growl.

I sense Coach shift in his seat next to me, but I couldn’t care less.

The reporter stares straight ahead, waiting for me to speak again.

“Why are you bringing personal questions into a professional interview?”

It’s a rhetorical question, and he knows it. But regardless of my rage, panic swells in my gut.

Where did those photos come from, and why are they only appearing now?

What happened was supposed to be private. We agreed to keep it between ourselves.

I bring my attention back to the room. Whatever it is that’s circulating, no doubt posted by some random person after their five minutes of fame, it needs to be squashed.

“I was making sure a woman got back to her place safely that night. We don’t know each other, and I don’t expect to see her again.” I push back my chair and stand, grabbing my drink bottle and hating the way it feels to deny any knowledge of Collins in my life.

Leaning down to the microphone set on the table, I add, “If you want to engage in press conferences with me in the future, I suggest you refrain from speculating on my personal life. That includes anything related to my late wife or other women you know fuck all about.”