“It’s my fault he’s off his game.”
“First of all, no. We are not responsible for how our guys play,” Lexi says definitively. “Second, if anyone is to blame, it’s that shithead ex of yours.”
I know she’s right. Logically, I do. But as I try to track the puck on the large screen in front of me, as I watch Bash struggle to stop another shot attempt, I can’t help feeling like I am responsible. I am to blame.
He got hit that first game we went to because he was distracted by my presence. He’s distracted now because drama and bullshit follow me everywhere.
I’m the common denominator.
“She’s right,” Megan says with gentle authority. “Hockey is as much a mental game as it is muscle memory and skill. But there are a million things that can throw a player off before the game even starts. We learn to push through it. And if he’s not succeeding at that tonight, that’s on him. It could just as easily have been a player from the other team trying to get in his head or something their coach said in the locker room. It’s not on you.”
I nod, because what else can I do? But as the first period gives way to the second, and the second gives way to the third and Bash lets three more goals through, the weight of it all feels crushing as the final buzzer sounds and the Rogues lose four to two.
I may not be the entire reason the Rogues got their third loss of the series, but I certainly contributed to the defeated expressions and hanging heads of the guys as they leave the ice.
Guilt consumes me.
I’m trying notto hyperventilate as the phone rings.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Bash’s voice is dull when he answers, and I screw my eyes shut.
“Hey, handsome. How are you?”
“Been better,” he says with a sigh. “The more important question is, how are you?”
Of course, he’s worried about me. But is he also worried I’m going to walk away? “I’ve also been better. I’m assuming you read the article?”
“Yep. Unfortunately, I saw it right before the game.”
Of course he did. Fucking Ryland. I’m going to castrate him. “I’m so sorry, babe.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I can’t believe that asshole said any of that.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I hold it for a beat before asking a question I’m scared to hear the answer to. “You don’t believe any of it, right?”
“No,” he answers instantly. Vehemently. “Absolutely not, sweetheart.”
Thank god.
“Were you worried I would?” His words are softer now, any frustration giving way to a gentleness that makes me even angrier on his behalf.
Neither one of us deserved to deal with this today, but he’s the one who is paying more dearly for it. The commentary surrounding his performance tonight has not been kind. The interview with Ryland started going viral after the second Shark’s goal. By the time the Rogues had lost, it was everywhere. Of course, that means he and the rest of the team were dodgingquestions about it every other question during post-game interviews.
I haven’t escaped the fallout. As soon as online commentary started, my friends banned me from all social media, and I’m well aware that the things people are saying about me are less than kind. But they’re only insulting me. They’re questioning Bash’s skills, his accomplishments, and whether the Rogues should pull him from upcoming games in the finals if they want to have any hope of making a comeback to win the Cup.
Because, after tonight, they’re down three games to one, which means they have to win every single remaining game to earn the Cup.
“Indie?”
“Sorry. I… I don’t know if I was worried. Things with us are still so new, and I did walk away from you ten years ago, and I…” Sucking in a deep breath, I try to calm my rapid pulse and whirring thoughts. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were questioning me.”
“Hey. No, I’m not. I don’t. Fuck.” He blows out a breath that sounds like static through the phone. “I hate that I’m not there.”
“Me too,” I whisper. I grab the extra pillow off my bed and hug it to my chest. After the game, Lola brought me home to our rental, and after changing into pajamas, I climbed into bed and haven’t moved since. Paralyzed by worry and a consuming anger at Ryland, all I could do was stare at my phone and wait for my boyfriend’s name to fill the screen.
We lapse into silence, and I focus on his rhythmic breathing. It’s not difficult to imagine his expression when his breaths are harsh and jagged. I wish I could run my fingers over his brow to smooth the furrows I know must be there. If only I could kiss his stubbled jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
