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I’d taken the coward’s way out, texting her when I should have been man enough to look her in the eye and explain everything.
I couldn’t do it, though. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the disappointment in her eyes—the heartbreak.
The anger.
Aurora deserved someone who could put her first, who wouldn’t make her life any harder than it already was.
I wasn’t that guy.
Behind closed doors, we were fucking perfect together, but Connor was right; out in public, we’d create a storm. One I wasn’t sure Aurora could weather.
He slammed his glove against my shoulder. “So pull your head out of your ass and get in the game, okay?”
I nodded. Because what else could I do?
“Okay, bring it in,” Assistant Coach Walsh yelled, whispering something in Coach Tucker’s ear as we all glided toward the huddle.
“Mase, Aiden, Connor, looking good out there. Noah, son, I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I hope to God you fix it before the exhibition game tonight. Everyone else, good effort. Hit the showers.”
I went to skate off, but a hand landed on my shoulder. “Not you, kid,” Coach Walsh smirked. “You and I are going to run a little one-on-one.”
“Practice is done.”
“Practice is done when I say it is,” Coach Tucker shot me a withering look. “He’s all yours, Carson.”
“Let’s go, hotshot.” Coach Walsh grabbed his stick and skated out to the center rink.
“Whatever you think you’re doing, it won’t work,” I said, facing off against him.
“No? Because you looked tense out there just now. Like you were holding back, and it was making you sloppy.”
“I… I’m fine,” I gritted out.
“Then you’ll have no problem beating my ass in a little one-on-one.” He grinned, baiting me.
“It’s your funeral.”
“That’s a whole lot of trash talk you got there for someone who failed to score a single goal in practice.”
Fuck.
He had me there.
“Three. Two. One—” He dropped the puck between us, and we scuffled to gain control. He was quick, but I was faster, swiping the puck ahead of me and taking off, hot on its tail.
I heard Coach Walsh close in behind me, but I didn’t take my eye off the puck, hooking the toe of the blade around it and controlling it with the stick as I skated toward the goal.
Like lightning, Coach Walsh whizzed past me and dropped back to defend the net. “Take your best shot,” he taunted through a cocky smirk, making himself big and imposing.
I pushed every thought out of my head. Every memory of Aurora. Every stolen kiss. Every touch. Every smile and laugh.
Every regret.
As I approached the goal, I didn’t allow a single thing to penetrate my laser-sharp focus.
Pulling the puck toward my body, I transferred my weight onto my outside leg. The second it hit my midline, I pushed my top hand away and snapped down on the puck, sending it flying toward Coach Walsh.
The buzzer rang out, a smug grin tugging at my lips as I sailed past him, doing a victory lap, flipping my stick to my side and pulling it down sharply as if holstering it.
