“Is he home yet?” she asks, popping up from the couch. She grabs my hand to pull me off with her.
“No clue,” I reply, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her in for a hug. “But I’m going to go sit on his porch step until he comes home.”
“Now that’s romantic.” Lucy laughs as she squeezes me tight. “If he doesn’t get home until like midnight, he’ll be blown away by that gesture alone.”
God, I hope he’s not gone that long.
Because I need to hurry up and get him to accept my apology, then get him to come back home.CHAPTER 19SteeleI glance around The Sneaky Saguaro—quickly so as not to make eye contact with anyone—and take another sip of my beer. We’ve had several moments of blessed peace where the fans have decided to leave us alone to eat and drink our beers.
We’re on the second floor at a high-top round table, Bishop to my left and Tacker on my right. We’d met with Coach at the arena, sitting in the team meeting room where the big drop-down screen rolls out from the ceiling. We watched clips of game video—not of other teams—but the Vengeance first line playing together. I can’t even imagine the hard work the AV guy who works for the team put into this, selecting the best footage pieces to showcase the various plays Tacker, as the center, Bishop, as the right-winger, and Dax, as the left-winger, had mastered over last year and the start of this one. Coach sat in the first row, Bishop, Tacker, and me behind him. He used a remote control to slow the action to highlight something about a play he wanted me to take note of, and sometimes, he used a red laser pointer focused on the screen.
And take notes I did. Pages in a notebook I’d brought along with me. Bishop and Tacker offered commentary, then we suited up in practice gear and hit the ice.
Honestly, it was a bit magical. Watching the films had helped. Having Tacker and Bishop explain how they communicate on the ice had, too. The rest was just my fifteen years in the league, along with the muscle memory that comes from playing on a fluid line.
Tomorrow morning, we’ll meet at the arena again, this time adding our defensemen, Erik and Aaron, to the mix. We’ll then go head-to-head with a practice squad.
I’ll be ready for the game Wednesday.
That gives me little happiness right now. I should be exhilarated I’m on the first line playing with the two best players on the team. It’s a big honor to move up to the first, and while I’m confident Dax will recover and most likely take back his spot at some point, I’ll have the opportunity to battle for it. Opportunities like this usually motivate me like nothing else. The chance to be a key player in pushing victory is what juices up any professional athlete.
But the truth is… I’m not excited by any of it.
That’s because of not only the fight I had with Ella today, but also the fact she sent me a text about half an hour ago that has me filled with dread.
Where are you? she had inquired.
The shortness of her words put me on the defensive. I had simply written back: Sneaky Saguaro with Bishop and Tacker.
I’m not sure if it inferred anything to her. Maybe I wanted to show her that I wouldn’t be at home moping over what happened between us. Perhaps I wanted to show her I could go on, despite her tearing my fucking heart out again.
Her text back was immediate. We need to talk.
And because I was feeling like more of an ass than ever and I’m fairly sure the talk she wants to have probably includes her decision to part ways, I replied: I’ll call you tomorrow.
I waited to see what she would say and when nothing came through, I set my phone down. I didn’t feel settled at all, and now I’ll obsess about what she wants to talk about.
So I sit here, listening to Bishop and Tacker talking game strategies while trying to pay attention, but my mind slips back to my argument with Ella today. I push my food around on my plate, deciding I don’t want any more as my stomach feels like there’s a lead ball in it.
“Okay, dude,” Tacker says, and my gaze moves from my phone to him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” I reply casually, taking a sip of my beer. I look down at my carne asada, only half-finished, and push it away from me.
“You should be riding high on what a great time we had on the ice this afternoon,” Tacker replies with a pointed look. “That was an amazing session, and we all know it… With you on our line, we’re going to kill the Cold Fury on Wednesday.”