“Ignore them,” Jake says.
But they don't stop. They keep talking shit, getting louder, more aggressive. Something about how we're overpaid, overrated, how Detroit owned us.
“Hey, Nova,” the main guy yells, pointing at me. “What happened out there? Your little party boy lifestyle catching up to you? Too tired from fucking Instagram models to play hockey?”
Something in me snaps.
I'm up and over the VIP rope before anyone can stop me. The guy barely has time to look surprised before my fist connects with his jaw.
Then all hell breaks loose.
His friends jump in. My teammates jump in. The club security is there within seconds, but not before I land two morepunches and take one to my already bruised ribs that makes me wince.
Security pulls us apart, physically dragging me back to the VIP section while the Detroit fans are escorted out.
“What the fuck, Nova?” Jake is in my face immediately. “You want to get suspended? We just lost a game, and now you're starting fights?”
“He was asking for it,” I say through gritted teeth.
“He was drunk and talking shit. You're supposed to be better than that.” Jake grabs my arm. “What is going on with you tonight?”
I shake him off. “Nothing. I'm going home.” I text Hudson, and within minutes, he texts me to let me know he’s outside.
In the car, my ribs feel like they're on fire. I pull out my phone. Avery still hasn’t called. I call her again. It goes straight to voicemail.
This morning, everything felt possible.
Now, twelve hours later, I've lost a game, gotten in a bar fight, and I can't even reach the woman I'm falling for.
Maybe I'm not cut out for this. Maybe I'm just the same fuck-up I've always been, pretending to be someone better.
My phone buzzes. Hope surges in my chest. Except it’s Jake.
Get home safe. We'll talk tomorrow.
The puppies swarm me when I walk in. Princess immediately senses something's wrong, whimpering and pressing against my legs. I sink onto the floor, letting them climb all over me.
“At least you guys still want me around,” I say, scratching behind Trouble's ears.
Minutes later, I haul myself off the floor with every muscle protesting. My ribs are screaming, and my knuckles are swollen from the fight. I’m fucking exhausted.
I check Avery's phone one more time before heading to bed.
Nothing.
I fall into bed fully clothed, too tired and too frustrated to care. Sleep comes eventually, restless and filled with dreams where I'm searching for Avery but can’t find her.
Hours later, my phone buzzes, dragging me from sleep. Early morning light filters through the curtains. I grab my phone, squinting at the screen. Avery has texted. Relief surges through me as I jab at the screen.
Good morning. Sorry about yesterday. My phone died, and I didn't realize until late. Are you okay?
The relief is followed by irritation. What kind of an excuse is that? Her phone died? For twelve hours?
The conversation we need to have cannot be done over text. I need to see her.
I type back quickly:What's your address?
There's a pause. Then:Why?
