Page 115 of Here We Go Again

“Yeah, at seven.”

He runs a hand up and down my back. “I won’t stay long,” he says. “I just missed you.”

I lift my head and lean up to kiss him. “I missed you too. Congrats on the win.”

He stiffens the slightest bit. “Yeah, the guys did great.”

“Sarah was surprised you didn’t play. She said Carter thought you⁠—”

He cuts off my words with another kiss, then gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Can we not talk about hockey?”

I study his expression. There is so much I want to say. I want to reassure him, to make sure he’s okay. I also want him to be able to talk to me. About his fears and his concerns and his worries.

But maybe that isn’t what he needs right now. Maybe what he needs is an escape. A safe place to think about something other than his job.

I lift a hand to his cheek, rubbing my palm over the scruff of his five o’clock shadow. “Of course,” I say, then I kiss him until I’m certain hockey is the last thing on his mind.

31

THEO

“Dude. Theo. Where is your shot, man?” I lift a hand to acknowledge Jordo’s comment as I skate back to the other side of the rink. The power play drill we’re working on shouldn’t be a challenge for me. Create the screen. Find the open lane. Pass the puck. But my pass keeps going wide, which wrecks the whole play, and then we have to start all over again.

No player is ever going to hit every shot.

But I’m better than this.

At least, I should be better than this.

I skate back to the bench and pull off my gloves, then reach for my water bottle. Carter comes over and steps off the ice, dropping his helmet onto the bench beside me. “What’s happening out there, man?” he says. There’s only concern in his voice, no judgment, but the comment still makes me prickly.

Half my fingers are numb, and my grip keeps slipping. That’s what’s happening. But I’m not about to admit it out loud. Carter will have Nico over here looking at my hand the second the words are out of my mouth, then they’ll pull me from the ice and probably send me to the hospital for more imaging, and that’s the last thing I need.

Coach didn’t play me in our first exhibition game last week.

I wouldn’t usually be concerned about that. Veterans sit out more than they play. But considering my injury, I expected Coach Kimzey to want me on the ice.

My performance today can’t be helping my case, which only makes me more frustrated.

Every time I see Becca, I’m reminded of just how much is riding on the start of this season.

“Nothing’s happening,” I say to Carter, finally answering his question.

“Right. Sure,” he says dryly. “So you’re missing passes you could make when you were still in juniors because everything’s fine?”

I clench my jaw. “I’ll find my shot,” I grind out. “I’m just out of practice.” Coach Kimzey skates over and locks eyes with Carter, who gives his head a quick shake, making Coach nod and retreat in the opposite direction.

That’s the level of Carter’s influence. He even has the coaching staff listening to him.

“How bad is the pain?” Carter asks.

“It’s manageable,” I say.

“On a scale of one to ten,” he says.

“It’s manageable,” I repeat, emphasizing the word so he recognizes he’d better stop pushing.

He glares at me, then tugs off his gloves and reaches for his hockey stick. He tosses it at me with enough force that I know he’s frustrated. “Grip it,” he says.