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He skates to the front of me and looks me dead in the eyes. “I think you should maybe take it easy on Charlotte and on yourself.”
Easy on Charlotte? What the actual fuck?
“Why is that?” I huff at his audacity.
He looks around, and curiosity piques my interest. “Laura mentioned that she’s going through some stuff right now.”
“Like what?” I ask, hating how my anger immediately subsides and concern takes over.
“Look, man, I don’t know much more than that. But I think you are being too hard on yourself and too hard on her,” he continues, giving me unsolicited advice.
He has this look on his face like he knows a lot more than he’s saying. His lips are pinched together in a slight frown, his brows are furrowed, and he’s restless.
“Spit it out, for crying out loud,” I bark.
“Reed, I don’t really know anything more than that, honestly. Just take it easy on her for now, all right? Focus on you, and if you need someone to talk to, I’m here for you.” He skates off before I can stop him.
“I’m here for you.”
I think I hate when people say that. Like, is that supposed to make me feel better? Should I just start dumping on them right then and there?
No, of course not. I don’t want that, and I doubt they want that either. So, where do I go from there? Should I call them when I can’t sleep at night because I know that Charlotte should be in bed next to me? Should I call them over to me when I am losing my mind and temper on the ice?
Coach Carrington blows the whistle, ripping my mind out of the never-ending spiral of questions.
I skate over in front of the bench where the team is gathering. Our head coach and his two assistants are waiting for us.
The guys are mumbling about moments during our last game, about a skill or trick shot they are learning, and a couple of other things I can’t make out. But regardless, none of it matters right now. Because how in the hell are they not as trapped in their head as I am? I can’t look anywhere without searching for the blonde-haired stunner who is now my ex-fucking-girlfriend—almost ex-fucking-fiancée if she had waited to break my heart until after I proposed.
She was supposed to be my fucking wife! Our story was supposed to be forever and always, never what might’ve been. But I haven’t given up on our forever and always even if she has.
“Finally,” Coach Carrington snaps as the last of us join the huddle, “split into your two scrimmage teams, five on five.”
We obey immediately, dividing ourselves into the same scrimmage groups we typically practice in. With my stick in hand, I skate to the center of the ice, knowing that my line will be first up in our group.
I don’t want to be here right now. I try to push Charlotte out of my mind and focus on the task at hand, but it’s damn near fucking impossible.
Coach Carrington blows the whistle and drops the puck. Kos wins the face-off, as he usually does. He has one of the best face-off win percentages in the entire league.
He leads us down the ice and into the zone. Costy gets the puck and fires a shot at Macky, who blocks it.
We continue to scrimmage for the next twenty minutes, switching lines in our group after each shift. This isn’t helping me get my mind off of Charlotte at all.
JD bumps me with his stick as we get back on the bench after our turn on the ice. “Hey, where are you at, man?”
Smacking my stick against the board, I sigh. “Not here. I can tell you that.”
He chuckles. “Well, that much was obvious.”
Glaring at him, I smirk. “Asshole.”
He shrugs, and his eyes follow the play happening in front of us. “Just go talk to her, man. It’s clear you’ve got some unresolved shit.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“And? You need to talk to her, and she needs to listen. Get all the junk that’s been weighing you down off of your chest. She at least owes it to you to listen,” he says. Then, he yells at one of our teammates, “You should’ve grabbed that!”
“I don’t know if talking to her would help anything,” I admit, scared that if I did vent to her, her rejection would destroy me all over again.
