I don’t say anything. He knows I know what’s at stake.
“I know you’re still pissed you lost the chance at playoffs last season. I’m asking you to keep your head straight and in the game this season. I don’t want to see you lose ice time.”
“Careful, it sounds like you care, Coach.”
He growls. If he were holding a pen, he’d be snapping it between his fingers right now.
“I have my players’ backs, but I can’t keep telling them you’re fine when it’s clear you’re turning into an arrogant prick who’s more stuntman than player and focused on booking hisnext endorsement deal. We’re all playing with the Cup in mind.”
I drop my hand, my shoulders set. “I have plenty of time left. You know that.”
“Maybe. After last season’s hit, you need to be careful.”
I keep my face neutral. “I’ve been cleared to play.”
He scratches the back of his neck, then levels me with a stare that needles its way under my confidence. “I know you love the life being a player affords you, but do you want it anymore? Are you going to put in the work to be the best you can, and not just be the pretty boy on the team hawking underwear and watches? Because right now every time you do something right on the ice, there’s some off-ice bullshit drowning it out. Your personal life is becoming a bigger story than your game. You’re getting messy, Murphy.”
“I look good in those campaigns!” My smile falls when I notice it doesn’t earn me a laugh. Fine. “Your feedback is noted, and I’ll prove to you I’m here for you and the team.”
He nods, but I know he doesn’t buy it. I don’t know if I do either.
We head to the locker room. Bosko hypes up the team with another one of his legendary speeches, and by the time he’s done, we’re ready to head out to the ice.
“Uh oh, Murphy’s in trouble again,” Connor Fitzgerald jokes.
I check the tape on my stick one last time. “It’s fine.” I can’t find it in myself right now to make a joke. I play damn good hockey. What does it matter what I do off the ice if I’m bringing us to championships?
“Someone’s panties are in a bunch because he hasn’t gotten his rocks off.”
I glare at the rookie, Noah Chaplin. “Ready to go home to Montana yet? You know you have to score to get ice time.”
Chaplin smiles around his big bite of beef jerky. It’s always a weird flavor like horseradish or peanut butter chili crisp. Then he winks.
Alex stretches. “Murphy, suddenly celibate?”
“Ever since that auction, he’s been preoccupied. Got a crush on that bookstore chick.” Chaplin squirts water into his mouth from his water bottle, waggling his bushy brows at everyone.
I don’t have a crush. I’m not in high school.Jesus.
“Chick?” I nearly growl. “You’re just jealous you still sleep in your mom’s basement.”
Laughter erupts around me, and I ignore it, pushing to my feet. I’m going to have a great season. I know that.
As I head out onto the ice a few minutes later, my heart drumming loud enough to drown out my thoughts, everything finally calms.
I can play hockey, and I can fuck. And I can do those two things well. But at the end of the day, neither feels like enough anymore.
I drop to the ice and stretch, cracking a joke with my defenseman, before I skate past the seats I lined up for Ethan tonight. Still empty.
Shit.
“I’ll race you,” another teammate taunts. It pulls my focus, and I do, winning easily, before I crash into the board just as Jason Winthrope drifts past and clips my shoulder.
Winthrope, the prodigal forward for New York, and former fiancé of Sloane.
“Watch it, Murphy.”
“I know you’re not looking to start shit with me. Didn’t think you knew how to pull out.”
