Page 132 of The Casanova Complex

“Let that motherfucker dig his own grave. We’ve got a game to play, and this is your fucking ice. Your net. Let’s fucking go.”

I’m costing us the game.

I know it, my teammates know it, Coach knows it.

My head’s not in it tonight, and I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate Gauthreaux. For allowing him to fill my head with his bullshit, to knock me off my game, forcing me to play right into his goddamn hand.

I’ve given up too many goals. Spent too much time watching the clock and not watching the puck.

I glance back over my shoulder again, my eyes scanning the seat where Merritt should be, finding it empty, just like the hundred other times I’ve looked there since I got on the ice.

The knot in my gut twists, and I swallow hard, turning back in the net as the referee’s whistle blasts.

I drop back into stance and try to focus, to calm my breathing and square up. Keep my eyes on the puck.

But I can’t stop thinking about Merritt and how she might actually have fallen for Gauthreaux’s bullshit. She might be somewhere thinking that video is recent and that I did the same thing that piece of shit did to her.

I can’t stop thinking about her being hurt. About where she is and what she’s feeling right now.

Why else would she not be here?

The last thing I did before walking into the locker room tonight was kiss her. She told me good luck, and then she walked to the stands.

And now her seat’s empty. It has been all night. The anxiety I’ve been feeling the entire game continues to multiply, and I feel so goddamn useless.

The whistle blows, and I see Coach pointing at me while Gauthreaux stands from the bench.

Fuck. He’s pulling me.

My gaze flicks to the clock. Three minutes left. He’s pulling me because I’ve fucked up tonight, and he doesn’t trust me to finish it out.

I skate out of the crease and across the ice, but I pass Gauthreaux on the way to the bench as he skates to where he’s replacing me.

He slows, and I hear him chuckle through his mask. “Damn. I’m gonna have your spot on the team and your girl. Sorry for your loss.”

I grit my teeth, flexing my glove around my stick so hard it might fucking snap.

I hope he fucking chokes.

Stepping through the bench door, I yank my mask off and drop my stick into the rack, flopping down onto the bench.

Tyler and Zach both nod my way, but they don’t say anything. They already know what I’m feeling. How pissed I am. How I’m trying to hold my shit together to make it through the last minutes of this game.

This is the first time I can ever recall in my hockey career that I’ve watched the clock, wishing that it would move faster.

We lose 2-3 with seconds left.

I don’t say a word to anyone as I walk back to the locker room. I keep my mouth shut and my head down because I’m a ticking time bomb.

I’ve let my team down.

But even worse, I’m scared that I’m losing Merritt.

That Gauthreaux did exactly what he set out to accomplish.

I head straight to my locker and grab my phone, checking my messages to see if she’s sent anything.

No texts or calls.