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Right?
“Nothing’s going on, Coach. Swear.”
“Is it drugs? Alcohol? Something else?” he presses. “It’s not just tonight. You been outta your head for weeks?—”
Buzz… Buzz… Buzz…
My hip vibrates. Coach gives me an exasperated look as I pull out my phone. It’s another string of messages from Olivia. Excitement breaks through the irritation that I’m faced with.
Driscoll takes notice.
“Oh. It’s a girl.” The annoyance is heavy in his voice. “You gotta get your head back in the game, Reese. Some girl really distracting you that bad? You really willing to risk everything for some tail that you’re not even going to keep up with after a few weeks?”
Something about the implication pisses me off. Sure, my track record isn’t anything to celebrate when it comes to women. But Coach doesn’t know about Olivia. He doesn’t know the situation.
He doesn’t know that she’s different.
I shake my head. “The real problem here is Bastian, Coach. He’s the one that’s?—”
“He’s not the one that was playing like his head was in his ass tonight!” Coach snaps. “He’s damn near the only one that seemed to have half his shit together.”
“Come on,” I groan. “If you’re gonna pull that, then I’m not the only one who should be getting reamed?—”
“You’re the only one that’s a problem on and off the ice though, ain’t you? Get your shit together, Reese. Drop this chick and pick up the attitude. I don’t have a problem benching you and putting Bastian in your place. Remember what I said the last time. I meant it. You won’t get any more chances if you blow this one.”
43
OLIVIA
I know very little about hockey. The good thing about watching a game is that there’s always commentary to keep me in the loop. The bad thing? None of the commentary for the Bulls’ game against Detroit sounded good at all.
The talking heads pounced on mistake after mistake and Reese’s name stayed on their lips like a curse. After the game, you’d think it was a funeral by the way they were analyzing things, not a hard-fought regular season win.
Maybe it was my fault. I’d sent him naughty pictures before and after the game. He’d responded to the first set with a never-ending parade of drooly-faced emojis, but not the second. In fact, I get radio silence in the night and day that followed.
I check my phone again and again until I can’t take it anymore and I send off a message to Paula.
OLIVIA: Hey, Paula. I don’t mean to bother you, but can you reconfirm with me when Reese will be home?
My interactions with Paula have been limited. I’m thankful for that, especially ever since that morning when she nearly walked in on Reese and I waltzing about two steps away from an HR problem. Now that Reese and I are actually having sex, I avoid her even more when she’s around. There’s something about her that feels like she knows your secrets just by looking at you.
I don’t like it.
I wait and wait for her to reply to me. After a half hour, I assume that she’s not going to reply to me at all, when a message finally comes in.
PAULA: Eight tomorrow night.
Alright. That gives me enough time to plan something nice for when he comes home.
* * *
The next day, I have everything in the making for a little welcome home party. Dinner inspired by tailgating, which may or may not be a part of hockey culture, I dunno, I’m just rolling with it. Hot dogs and hamburgers, with homemade fries and a store-bought lemon meringue pie for dessert.
The real surprise is what I have Violet dressed in. I scoured every store I could possibly find for it. It’s the cutest little onesie imaginable, designed to look like a hockey jersey for Reese’s team. For twenty bucks, the shop even printed Reese’s name and number on the back for me.
The woman who checked us out thought it was adorable. She asked if I was a fan. It would have been less flustering when I said yes if I wasn’t also holding Reese’s child and thinking about how much I missed the feeling of his lips on my inner thighs.
None of that matters now as I check and recheck my phone for the time.
