Page 117 of Here We Go Again

My hand is throbbing, but it’s not the first time I’ve played through pain, so I dial in my focus and ignore the white-hot pain shooting through my hand and up my arm.

Two minutes in, I steal a puck from the opposing side and carry it behind the net. I wait while my team moves into position, then I tighten my grip on my stick, wincing as another spasm makes my hand twitch, and skate up the boards. I make a pass to Jordo that’s golden, exactly what it needs to be, then he sends it back as Sanders moves into position to score. We make eye contact, then I send the puck flying, but I lose my grip mid-pass, and the puck skitters off my stick in the wrong direction.

Fly swoops in and grabs the loose puck, hauling it down the ice and slicing a goal over Holly’s shoulder and into the net.

I swear and toss my stick into the boards, where it cracks and splinters into two pieces.

Coach Kimzey blows his whistle. “Williamson. Take a break,” he says to me. “And let Nico take a look at that hand.”

I pull off my helmet and skate toward the bench. Sanders is already standing there, and he eyes me coolly. “Nice shot, Butter Fingers. Why don’t you just toss it to me next time?” His eyes drop pointedly to my left hand. “With your good hand.”

It’s a cheap shot—one that none of my teammates would ever make.

I lunge at Blake, gripping his jersey and giving him a solid shake. “You think that’s going to earn you any friends on this team?” I practically seethe.

“Is that what we’re supposed to be?” he says back, his demeanor icily calm in a way that reminds me of his older brother. “Friends?”

There’s a hint of something sincere to his question that pricks at my brain in a way I can’t quite sort out. And then I remember all at once.

We were supposed to hang out last weekend. I told him I’d call him, and I completely forgot.

I’m supposed to be stepping up. Thinking about how a captain might act. But I’ve been so focused on my hand, so stuck in my own head, I haven’t followed through on any of it.

I let go of Blake’s jersey and swear under my breath. But before I can say anything else, Coach Kimzey calls Blake back onto the ice, and Nico shows up behind the bench.

“I know you don’t want to, man, but we really need to talk about that hand.”

32

BECCA

I don’t immediately worry when Mia mentions she saw Theo at the hospital down in imaging.

With how his hand has been bothering him, it makes sense his doctors would want another MRI. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for them to order it.

I don’t even worry when he doesn’t respond to my text asking if he’s okay. He’s probably with his trainer and his doctor, having very serious hockey conversations. He probably hasn’t had time to update his girlfriend.

I do start to worry when, four hours later at the end of my shift, he still hasn’t responded. Not to my original message or any of the ones I’ve sent since.

Not that I need him to immediately reply.

But he’s been off the last few days. More tired than usual and spending a lot of time in his own head. I can tell he’s frustrated and that he’s hurting, but whenever I try to bring it up, he gets cagey and tries to distract me with a joke or by talking about something else.

Anna and Malia said training camp was brutal, but this feels more significant than the normal stress of a new season. And I don’t love that he’s pulling away from me instead of letting me in. Instead of talking to me about whatever is going through his head.

I don’t want to overreact. And I’m keenly aware that I might be … hypersensitive after the way our relationship ended previously. The man is allowed to deal with work stress without having to talk to me about every single tiny thing.

But my intuition is telling me there’s something bigger going on. If he got bad news about his hand today, he might not want to talk about it. But he shouldn’t have to process on his own. And I think I’m done letting him try.

I drive my car from the hospital back to the condo in record time, then park in our usual spot before walking the two quick blocks to Theo’s building. He still hasn’t responded to my texts or answered my calls, but he shared his location with me when we were in Florida, so I can see that he’s home.

Unfortunately, the doorman is not interested in letting me inside the building.

“I understand what you’re claiming,” he says, polite but firm, “but out of respect for the privacy of the building’s tenants, policy dictates that I can’t let you in unless a tenant gives you express permission and notifies me directly. You haven’t been the first person to claim a relationship with a tenant, and you won’t be the last.”

A surge of frustration pushes through me. “No, I understand, and I’m sure all your tenants appreciate the policy. But I really am his girlfriend. And I’m worried about him, and I just⁠—”

He holds up his hand, palm out, and silences my rebuttal.