Page 52 of You’re The One (Saints Hockey #2)
FORTY-SEVEN
My body is at the first day of training camp, but my mind’s still where it’s been the last couple of weeks—back in bed with Mia.
We left the bedroom, sure, but never went far. Walks around the neighborhood. Quick bites at local spots I’d somehow never tried. Mia had a call with her therapist. I checked in with mine. Logan stopped by once to make sure we were still alive.
I even did the whole meet-the-parents thing when we swung by their house to pick up a couple of Mia’s things, just enough so she’d be comfortable at my place.
Hopefully one day it can be ours . Soon.
As soon as I figure out how to ask her. For now, she’s agreed to stay until the season starts back up.
We’re making the most of it before the schedule keeps us apart.
The rest of our time was spent in bed. On the couch. Once on the kitchen counter, for old time’s sake.
My need for that woman knows no bounds.
And after weeks of filming, with eyes and lenses on us twenty-four-seven, we needed the break. Time for us. A chance to settle in.
Which might take me the rest of my life. I’m good with that. Anything less would sell us short.
Helm cuts in front of me, looking like he could run this drill another dozen times. “Looking kinda slow, Foxy.”
“We’re not making that a thing, Rook,” I call after him. His only reply is laughter.
Fuck. I’m out of shape. It feels like there’s sand under my blades instead of ice. The first day of camp is never forgiving, but this year I’m paying for every second of training I traded for time with Mia.
Worth it. Every damn one.
Finally, Coach blows his whistle, a short blast that signals mercy. If he’d pushed us through another round of suicides, I would’ve ended up flat on the ice.
Exhaustion drives me to the locker room bench before my legs give out. I yank my helmet off, shake out the sweat-soaked hair plastered to my forehead, then peel off my practice jersey. My lungs strain for air as I sit.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my cubby. I don’t need to check the screen to know it’s Bodhi. He’s been calling nonstop about the reunion, and I’ve dodged every one. I look anyway, just in case it’s Mia. Nope. I was right. I let it ring through, and a text follows immediately after.
Bodhi:
Reunion?!?
Call me
You think he’d take the hint by now.
The guys move through their post-practice routine. Gear thuds into bins, showers hiss to life, laughter and ribbing carry over the sound of running water. By the time I’ve stripped down and pulled on fresh shorts, most of my teammates are already toweling off.
“Fox looks like he’s been to hell and back.” Helm grins, not even a flush on his face.
“You gonna make it?” Volk adds, also looking like he could’ve gone another round.
I glare at them both.
“If we’re going for the Cup this year, you better get your shit together,” King piles on.
Going for the Cup is ambitious, considering our performance last season. Still, every year we hope this’ll be the one we bring it home. It doesn’t matter how many years of evidence say otherwise. Hell, I’d be happy just making it to the playoffs.
“Me? I’m not the one who missed half of last season on injured reserve,” I shoot back.
“I’m good as new,” King replies, slipping into his sneakers.
Logan drops onto the bench beside me, shoving a bottle of water against my chest. “Drink up. Don’t want you keeling over before your big TV debut.”
I’m tempted to swat it away, but hydration wins.
The truth? I’ve been dreading tonight since filming wrapped.
Not just the edit. Not just what they’ll keep and cut.
But the fact that once it airs, it’s not ours anymore.
Those moments with Mia… they’ll belong to everyone else.
Strangers will dissect them, twist them, meme them, decide what we meant when we were still figuring it out ourselves.
I don’t care what they say about me. They’ve been spinning stories for years. But I’ll be damned if it happens to her.
King leans against his cubby, arms crossed and smirking. “What time’s the viewing party?”
Guess that doesn’t extend to saving her from my friends, who show love by roasting me.
“You’re not invited.” I manage between gulps, then look at Lo. “Neither are you.”
“Ha!” He loops an arm over my shoulders, giving me a shake. “Bud, you’re crazy if you think we aren’t going to bear witness to this. I already texted Hannah. I’m sure the whole gang will be there.”
“Is it not odd to watch your own love ”—Volk spits the word like it curdles in his mouth—“story on playback? Like game film. It must have been painful enough having the first-hand experience.”
“You know who’s in town, Volk?” Logan beams. “Natalie.”
“I will spare you the embarrassment, friend.” Volk slides farther down the bench and pats my knee. “I will not come.”
“Oh no.” King points at him. “You will most definitely be there. I’ll make sure of it.”
“If you have snacks, I’ll be there,” Helm calls, finally tugging on a shirt.
“I’m not sure we want you to come.” I toss my empty bottle into the bin.
“He’s coming around, boys,” King shouts.
“Will Emma be there? She could be snack enough.” Helm waggles his brows.
“No.” I deadpan. “And even if, by some illogical reason, she was, I’m pretty sure she’s taken.”
“Summer?” He’s not deterred.
“Do you just want to date one of his exes?” Lo asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“They’re not really my exes,” I say over King’s huff of, “Probably.”
“You’re all assholes.” I stand, grabbing a clean towel and turning toward the showers.
“So, what time’s the party?” Helm jingles his keys.
Volk swings his bag over his shoulder. “Guess I’ll see you later.”
“No,” I call at his retreating back.
King scrolls through his phone as he pushes the door open. “We’ll bring beer.”
“No.”
“And snacks,” Helm adds. “Can’t have a party without snacks.”
“No.”
“See you soon, neighbor.” Logan tosses a grin over his shoulder, the last one out.
I drag a hand down my face. “Can’t wait.”