Kane (Arizona Vengeance 8)

“Don’t say that,” she cries, but I don’t hear any conviction in her denial. She knows what I said is true.

Turning to sit straight on the bench, I put my elbows to my knees and lower my head to rub at my face.

“I swear, Kane,” she says almost urgently. “Just this one last trip. A year will fly by.”

“Maybe for you,” I reply flatly.

There’s a long silence between us as my mind starts spinning with all the ways this could end. I do love her and want her to be happy, but I also don’t want to lose what we’ve built. And say whatever, but a year is far too fucking long for me. It’s why I’ve never really considered seriously making a move on Mollie, because, deep down, I always knew I couldn’t handle her career and the distance it would put between us.

“If I go,” Mollie says hesitantly, “will you wait for me?”

I lift my head, bleakly scanning the ice. The white-blue sheen and the chill that wafts off it. It’s how my insides feel right now.

Twisting, I meet Mollie’s eyes. They look expectant and hopeful.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, eyebrows knitting together.

Sighing, I shake my head again. “I took a leap of faith with this,” I begin, picking the ring box up from the bench. “Knowing our friendship could have been ruined if things went wrong. But they went very right, and I’m ready for the next step. I’ve fallen way too deeply, Mollie, and I can’t do a year away from you. I’d rather cut the cord now than have resentments fester as time goes by without you.”

Her face sags, mouth falling open. Completely stunned. “I thought I’d have your support. I thought you loved me enough to let me do this.”

“And I thought I had your support,” I counter sharply. “I thought you loved me enough to want to stay.”

She blinks in surprise at my statement, opening her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but then snaps it shut again.

Because really, what more is there to say?CHAPTER 28KaneThe arena is packed, the fans are at a fever pitch, and we’re in the midst of a fierce battle with the Vancouver Flash. We’d taken them on in the second round of the playoffs last season, and while we swept them, they’re still a formidable opponent. We’re in the regular season now and every win counts, so the pressure is on.

Too fucking bad my head is up my ass rather than in the game. Usually, when I step out onto that ice, I’m focused like a laser beam. I play beyond my physical limits for every single second, and I never give up.

But tonight, I can barely keep my shit together. My passes are sloppy, my legs filled with lead, and I’m cranky as hell, so I’m sure I’ll end up in a fight before the end of the night.

Of course, it’s all fucking Mollie’s fault.

Or maybe it’s mine.

I’m not sure at this point.

All I know is she’s gone. For the first time in my hockey career—college and pro—I’ve lost my mojo.

First line comes off the ice, and my line is up. I hop over the board that separates our bench from the rink, catch the edge of my blade on the edge, and almost topple over. I catch myself, taking off to get into position as we move to defend our net.

The Flash enter our zone cleanly—puck before players—and spread wide to open up the passing lanes. The attempt to pull us out, open up the front of the net, doesn’t work at first. We stay tight, making pokes for the puck and waiting for the jump when they make that one bobble or slow pass.

It comes quicker than I thought, the center having gone to his left-winger, who immediately shoots it back. The center isn’t ready. It barely catches the tip of his blade, and Jim and I both jump fast. Well, Jim faster than me at first because Mollie fucking broke my mojo, but he streaks down the near side, me on the far side, and the Flash center trying to keep up.

It’s going to be a classic juke to pull the goalie off to one side. Back and forth, Jim and I pass it. Just as the goalie commits to Jim at the last second, opening the net on my side, Jim snaps it to me.

I wind up while it’s gliding over the ice toward me, intent on a clean slap shot into a nearly open net. It’s an easy goal.

Except, I can tell the minute the puck hits the slight curve of my blade that I miscalculated ever so slightly. I watch in dread as the puck hurtles toward the net, the Flash goalie still falling in Jim’s direction without a chance of stopping it, and I almost vomit as the puck clangs off the post and ricochets away. It’s immediately recovered by a Flash player, and he’s now the one streaking down the ice.