Kane (Arizona Vengeance 8)

Jim is in hot pursuit, and it takes a full second or two to occur to me that I need to get back on fucking defense.

Christ, that was a disaster.

A third-grader could have made that shot.

Play is whistled to a stop before I can even make it to the other end of the rink, and the second line heads off. There’s a TV timeout, so the third line hops onto the ice, but just chills against the boards for a few minutes until play resumes. I walk through the swinging gate, then sit down in a huff.

Ironically, in right about the same spot I proposed to Mollie two days ago. Jim plops down beside me, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he leans his forearms on the board and starts talking to Vance Gather, one of our third-line defensemen. I’m not sure if he’s doing it to avoid talking about how much I sucked out there, or if he’s truly engaged in something vital.

Whatever.

There are only about forty seconds left in the first period, and my line won’t be back on before the end of it. I slump down, staring at my stick, and try to push away the thoughts of my last conversation with Mollie.

After my proposal gone horribly wrong—where instead of accepting my ring, she informed me she wanted to spend a year in Australia and I said I wouldn’t wait for her—things went downhill very fast without the ability to put the brakes on.

We rode home in awkward silence, then puttered around my condo, avoiding each other. It was Mollie who finally approached to break the stalemate by asking, “You seriously won’t wait for me to make this one last trip?”

I was hurt and pissed, so I threw it right back in her face. “You seriously won’t turn down that offer so you can stay with me?”

“We have the rest of our lives together,” she groused. “This is only one year.”

She had a point.

But you know what… so did I.

“You know what I think?” I said, moving closer as we stood in the living room. “I think I was a safe haven for you when you were scared of Matthew. I think it made it easy for you to let this move past friendship because it made you feel protected. But the minute that threat was removed, you didn’t need me anymore. Not like you did when Matthew was on the loose. And now, I’m not your number-one priority… travel is. So tell me, Mollie… why should I wait? I mean, what the hell would I really be waiting on? Someone who doesn’t feel for me the same way I feel about her?”

That had enraged her, that I would dare even suggest she’d used me. It’s not really what I meant, but, at that moment, it felt good to have gotten a jab in. I hoped it hurt her as badly as she had me.

She ended up storming off to the guest room, Samson on her heels, while I went to my room. It was a lonely, cold bed that night. I’d barely slept.

When I woke up yesterday, I found Mollie in the kitchen, finishing a cup of coffee. I couldn’t miss noticing her bags were packed and by the door, Samson waiting there with his tail wagging as if he knew they were getting ready to go on a trip. He had the travel bug in his system, too.

It was almost poetic the way she put her cup in the sink, walked over to me, and raised to her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek.

“Goodbye, Kane,” was all she’d said.

I didn’t say anything in return, only watched her walk out. Just like that… ten years of friendship and a relationship that had all the potential in the world was gone.

The buzzer goes off, indicating the end of the first period. I had been so absorbed in my pathetic memories I hadn’t even realized that play had resumed. The team skated to the gate that would lead us to our locker room. We all trudged there, taking up spots around the open space the lockers bordered as we waited for Coach Perron to address us.

It’s what he did at the end of every period. If we were playing poorly, he’d cuss us out. If we were doing great, he’d be effusive in his praise. Tonight, we’re playing well—not counting my horrific miss of a goal—and we’re up by two. The speech he gives is validating and short. He’d rather us rest until we have to go back out. Intermission is seventeen minutes long, but it goes by quickly.

I sit on the bench in front of my cubby, back to the rest of the team, and re-check the tape on my sticks.

“What in the fuck is going on with you?” I hear, immediately recognizing Jim’s voice. When he sits beside me, I give him a sidelong glance but don’t reply. “If you had taken that same shot a hundred times, you would have made that goal a hundred times.”