I should let it go. Should focus on Ottawa’s defensive setup, on the power play adjustments Barrett wants to implement.
Instead I’m thinking about how three days ago when she completely rocked my world and then wouldn’t let me return the favor.
We check into the hotel, and I’m supposed to rest before tonight’s game but I can’t sit still. Can’t stop replaying Friday night, looking for the moment everything shifted.
I grab my phone.
Need to talk.
Five minutes pass.
Marnie
About?
The night of the Colorado game.
Marnie
Roman, I’m fine. We’re fine.
Then why are you avoiding me?
Three rows away on the bus. Different elevator at the hotel. “Rain check” last night.
Marnie
Fine. After the game. My room.
Ottawa’s game is better.
We win 4-1, I get two assists, and the team’s energy is back. But I’m distracted through all of it, watching the clock, counting down to when I can get answers.
Back at the hotel I shower, change, and at 11 PM I’m standing outside Marnie’s door.
I knock before I can talk myself out of it.
She opens the door in sleep shorts and a Puckaneers t-shirt, hair down, glasses on instead of contacts.
“Hey.”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitates just long enough for me to notice, then steps aside.
Her room looks like mine—generic hotel furniture, view of the skyline, her things organized precisely. Her book’s on the bed, another shirtless hockey player on the cover.
“Reading about goalies again?” I ask.
“Centers this time. Expanding my horizons.” She crosses her arms, defensive. “What’s wrong?”
“Why didn’t you let me touch you?”
The question hangs between us and she looks away.
“At my house,” I continue. “You went down on me then shut down completely.”
“I didn’t shut down?—”
