He’d like to do that for Harriet. He’d like to ask her to share whatever she wished and see how he could please her. His hands slid down to her hips, drawing her closer, and her answering sigh made his head spin.
Vrrrrr... vrrrrr.His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Coach’s name lit up the screen.
Harriet shifted in his lap, started to move back. “You should—”
“Ignore it,” he murmured against her neck. But Coach never called this late. Something twisted in his gut.
The phone buzzed again. Harriet’s hands stilled on his chest.
“Damn it.” He pulled back, trying to focus. “I’m sorry. I have to—Coach doesn’t call unless—”
“Of course.” She slid off his lap, and the loss of her warmth was immediate. “I’ll just pause the—”
“No, no. Keep on trucking. The big rodents are next and they freak me out.”
She gave a little snort, shaking her head even as she grinned. “The big rats are 80’s animatronic robots. They can’t hurt you.”
“You act like there is logic involved here.”
He answered the call as she laughed, trying to keep his voice casual as he walked to the sliding doors to the pool, and slid out into the chilled night air. “Hey. What’s up?”
“We need to discuss the upcoming schedule,” Coach’s gruff voice came through the speaker.
Gale’s stomach tightened. “Okay, what?” His breath came out in a puff.
“There are changes to the line up. I’m just going to say it. You’re going to be a healthy scratch.”
“Hold up.” The words hit Gale like a body check. A healthy scratch meant he was good to play—not injured, not sick—but they didn’t want him on the ice. They were choosing to bench him. After five years in the NHL, hundreds of games, this was basically saying he wasn’t good enough anymore. That some rookie deserved his spot more than he did. “Is this a joke?”
“We’re trying to shake things up, give some of the other guys more ice time.”
Gale’s jaw clenched. More ice time. Right. Because his minutes weren’t worth anything anymore. One scratch could turn into two, then three, then suddenly you’re watching every game from the press box in a suit instead of on the bench in your gear. Your career bleeding away one missed game at a time.
Shit. Gale’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could feel Harriet’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He knew Coach. If Gale got mad this would only get worse. Better to suck it up. He tapped his fist against the center of his forehead, closing his eyes. “How long are we talking?”
Coach’s sigh crackled through the phone. “I’ll reassess when the time feels right. I know this isn’t the news you want to hear, but it’s what’s best for the Regals right now.”
Gale’s jaw tightened. “Yep, okay. I got it.”
“You take care.”
When he hung up, the phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the concrete. It was in a durable case. It would be fine. Unlike his fucking career.
When he looked up, Harriet was sliding open the door while smoothing down her shirt. Her lips were still swollen from theirkisses, but something in his expression made her take a step back. Reality had crept back in.
“I should get going. That was a mistake,” she said softly. “We shouldn’t have...”
“Yeah,” he managed. “You’re probably right.” The fight drained out of him. He couldn’t argue, couldn’t try to convince her. Not with his career imploding. Not when getting close to him now would only drag her down too.
Chapter Seven
As I wait for Brooke to open her front door, I take a second to steel myself. The last two visits to her place had been like walking into a sleep-deprived war zone. It’s almost impossible to believe this is the same Brooke who, just two years ago, was doing tequila shots off a cruise ship railing while screaming “I AM THE QUEEN OF THE WORLD” in a homemade toga.
She’s the first of my friends to have a baby and I’m fast learning that parenthood is not for the weak. Baby Benji might be tiny, but he’s transformed my always-polished best friend into someone who considers dry shampoo a complete beauty routine and that gummy bears count as a food group. Last time I stopped by, she’d answered the door with one boob still hanging out from feeding Benji, and hadn’t even noticed until I gently pointed it out. The time before that, she’d burst into tears because she couldn’t find the TV remote—which had been in her hand the whole time.
Not that I blame her. From what I can tell, having a newborn is like running a marathon while solving differential equations and trying to keep a very loud, very demanding tiny human alive. All on approximately thirty-six minutes of sleep.
I shift the paper bag in my arms, loaded with her favorite takeout and a coffee each. If nothing else, I can make sure she eats something with actual nutritional value today—plus a secret stash of sour gummies, because I’m not a monster.
