The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

Fuck. Can he be talking about Grace?

I quickly tune out what the guys are saying. It’s none of my business anyway.

I push myself harder. Sweat courses down the side of my face, but I keep pushing harder, trying to quiet my mind, but I can’t let go of that conversation and I hate that it bothers me. I spent one afternoon with Grace—the brief run-in with her at the coffee shop on Monday doesn’t count—and all we did was go to fucking Target. How can she possibly be under my skin this deep?

“You’re gonna regret that in the morning,” one of the senior guys says, coming over to stand beside me and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’t worry about me,” I say.

“Here,” the guy says, holding out a towel. “It’s clean. Promise.”

I take the towel from him and mumble a quick, “Thanks.” I wipe the sweat off my face, cursing myself for leaving my bag back at Coach’s office. It has all my stuff in it, including my water.

“Michael Thomas,” the guy holds out his hand. “I just want to say, I really admire what you do on the ice. I don’t think you get enough credit.”

I look up at the guy. He’s tall, slightly taller than me, and wide like a wall. He has close-cut brown hair and brown eyes, and he sports a near-beard.

“Thanks,” I say. “Are you a senior?”

“Junior,” he answers. My eyes widen, the guy is huge so I just figured he was already in his final year. “Hoping to get drafted this year.”

I nod. “Good luck.” I start to leave.

“Maybe you could train me?” he calls out questioningly.

My feet falter. “Uh…” I pause, not knowing what to say. I laugh lightly. “There’s not much I can teach you that you don’t already know.”

“Yeah, but you made it. You’ve been there—on the big stage. That counts for something.” Michael’s eyes light up.

I sigh and lean against one of the pieces of equipment. “I’ll be out on the ice with you, practicing like I’m one of the team—I’m sure you guys are going to teach me more than I can you, but yeah, I’ll do what I can.” I shrug. It would feel good to give back in a way. I was these guys only a few years ago with stars in my eyes—dreaming of being drafted. I would’ve shit my pants to work with a pro—even one as fucked up as me.

“Thanks, man.” Michael holds out his fist for me to bump mine against.

“I’m going to hit the showers,” I tell him. “See you tomorrow.”

He nods, lifting two of his fingers to his forehead and saluting me.

I go to Coach’s office to grab my bag and stop when I hear my name. “Are you fucking crazy? Letting Bennett James train with us? What were you thinking?”

“I will not be reprimanded by you,” Coach says in a steely-calm voice. “You might be the team captain, but I’m the coach and you never address me that way ever again or you’re off the team.”

“But, Coach—”

“No buts.”

I grab my bag and haul ass down the hall to the showers before Coach or the team captain spots me. I knew some of the players were bound to not want me here, but to have the team captain be the main one isn’t going to be good, and something tells me he’s going to set out to make my life a living hell. After all, you never really leave high school.

I head out of the gym and toward the garages. I need to get out of here. It’s late and I need a fucking drink. The last thing I need to do is get drunk at a bar and have it show up in a magazine, but fuck it.

I shove my hands in the pockets of my jeans, hunching my shoulders as I power across campus.

I become distracted when I notice a girl standing at one of the coffee carts. She’s dressed in a blue skirt and white blousy thing with long dark hair.

My gut tells me it’s Grace even if I can’t see her.

I should keep going, ignore the urge to speak to her, but I can’t, and the conversation the guys were having back at the gym comes flooding back to me.

I hesitate for one second—warring with myself—before I veer to my left and over to where she stands in line. I settle into line right beside her. “You have a thing for hockey players, don’t you?”