But I can't escape thinking about him. About the way he looked at me this morning, telling me he wanted to do “us” for real.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Liam.
Liam: Morning skate went well. Ribs are sore but I can play. See you tonight?
Careful planning and strict boundaries. That’s the only way this will work.
Me: I'll be in the press box. Focus on your game.
Liam: Always do. But I'll still be looking for you.
The flutter in my chest grows.
Me: The flowers are beautiful. Thank you.
“Avery?” Matt's voice comes through my office door. “We've got another situation. Someone leaked photos of Liam being carried from the accident scene.”
I'm up immediately, following him to his desk. The photos are grainy, clearly taken on someone's phone, but they show Liam on a stretcher being wheeled into an ambulance, blood on his forehead.
Relief floods me. For a second, I’d worried that between me leaving Liam in the morning and now, he’s done something else.
“This will work in our favor. It’ll elicit sympathy.” I stare at his forehead a bit longer. Memories from last night come flooding in. I’ve never been so scared in my life.
My phone buzzes as I return to my office. I glance down, expecting another media request.
Instead, it's Liam.I wasn't sure if you'd like them. Wanted you to know I was thinking about you.
I press my hand to my chest, where my heart is racing.
I'm so screwed.
16
Liam
We lost 4-1.
Four. Fucking. One.
I played the best game I've had in weeks. Two assists, countless chances, defensive responsibility that would make Coach weep with joy. My ribs are screaming, but I pushed through every shift like my life depended on it.
Because Avery was watching.
And we still lost.
Detroit's play was lethal tonight, and our defense was shit. But all I can think about as the final buzzer sounds is that the first game Avery watches me play, we get our asses handed to us.
The locker room is silent except for the sound of gear being stripped off and skates being unlaced. Coach gives his post-game speech. Something about regrouping, learning from mistakes, coming back stronger, but I barely hear it.
“Media's waiting,” someone says.
“Fuck that.” I yank my jersey over my head, wincing as the movement pulls at my bruised ribs. “I'm not talking to anyone.” I grab my suit from my locker, not bothering to shower. I need to get out of here. I need to see Avery.
The worst part is we had already been talking about going out tonight. Victory drinks at Club Falcon, celebrating the win we were sure we'd get. Guess we jinxed ourselves.
“You still coming out?” Ryan asks as I'm halfway to the door.
“No.”
