Page 43 of Rookie Attraction

I remind myself that Sel can do whatever, and whomever, he wants.

Today, I hold off texting him because I’ll see him on the ice in no short order. Maybe I need to ease off a bit, give him space. It’s best for me too. Hockey is why I’m here, and I can’t lose sight of that. I need to focus all my energy on the game. Going pro was my dream, and now my career, and I take it seriously.

With that in mind, I hit the locker room, only it turns out that I’m the last one to arrive. Not a good look for a rookie.

Set your alarm twenty minutes earlier next time.

No one says anything, but I don’t want them to think I’m a slack-ass and that I’m taking this opportunity for granted. Without fail, I scan the room for Sel and find him talking with Berg and Tullmore. Instead of making my way over to join them, I haul my late butt to my stall, grab my stuff, and start suiting up.

When I’m finally tying my skates, Sorensen sidles up to me.

“Kirkland seems to be in a better headspace this week.”

I don’t want to think about why.

“How so?”

“He looks relaxed and he’s talking more.”

Conversely, I’m quieter and tense as fuck.

Sorensen nudges my shoulder. “I’m guessing he went out and had some dirty fun, right?”

“Yeah, probably.”

I glance across the room again, but Sel doesn’t look my way or wave or anything. I get that sinking feeling in my gut, but decide I’m being dramatic.

You don’t need to have all his attention, all the time. Chill the fuck out.

“What’d you get up to on your days off?” I ask Sorensen, changing the subject.

“Slept. Ate. Played video games. Ate. Ate. Worked out.”

I chuckle.

“Same. Sel and I reviewed the game day clips, ended up watching football, and stuffed in so many calories that I’m still full.”

Shit, me and my big fucking mouth. I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Then again, fuck it. If Sorensen doesn’t like it, too bad.

“So, you guys hang out?”

I nod.

“Yeah. We have friends in common, so it’s all cool.”

“Maybe I can join you next time?” Sorensen adds as he takes a swig from his water bottle.

“Join who, where?” Makela interrupts, suddenly appearing in front of us. “What is it you’re talking about? Sex clubs? Orgies?”

Sorensen shoots water out his nose, and it hits Makela’s jersey with a loud splat. I can’t help but snort too.

“Gross,” Makela grunts as he steps back.

“We’re talking about a post-game hangout with me, Kirkland, Sorensen, and whoever else wants to come,” I explain. “We analyze the game, eat a week’s worth of food, and then watch football so we can criticize other professional athletes.”

Makela offers me his fist to bump. “I’m in. I’m sure Kuz will be too.”

“My place? Friday?” I offer.