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I get the hell out of there.
* * *
ELI
As soon as I walk through my front door I slam my bag on the floor and lean against the wall, banging my head against the painted brick.
I’m a fucking idiot. I want to punch something, probably myself. What the hell was I thinking, touching her.
You weren’t thinking. Or at least your brain wasn’t.
I toe my sneakers off and kick them against the other wall, all too aware that throwing a hissy fit at forty-years-old is fucking stupid. Not least because if I dent the wall I’ll have to repair it myself.
Having a tantrum is less exciting when you’ve learned to have some modicum of responsibility.
Still pissed with myself, I stomp into the kitchen and open up the refrigerator to grab some fresh water.
This is bad. Really bad. I actually feel worse than the day I was told I couldn’t play in the NHL again. More angry than I was at fucking Hart for deliberately fouling me.
I put my fingers to my face and fuck if they don’t still smell like her.
And there’s the other thing. I’m horny as fuck because I somehow cock blocked myself and all I can think of are those little sounds she made as I ran my finger along her wetness.
She mewled like a damn kitten. The memory of it sends blood rushing where it shouldn’t. I think about her wide eyes and the softness of her fingers as they raked through my hair and I think I might be losing my mind.
To top it all off, we lost the first game of the season. Funny how that’s not the first thing on my mind right now.
And it should be. I’m the coach. I should be watching the game and making notes, ready for our early start tomorrow because I’m the idiot who insisted on early training every time we lose.
My phone rings and my brother’s name appears on the screen. I tell myself to get a grip and slide my finger across the glass.
“Hey. Aren’t you working?” I ask him. Holden’s the brother closest to my age, and also a doctor in New York. I’ve never gotten my head around his shifts, but nearly every time I talk to him he’s working.
“On call,” he said, clearing his throat. “I saw the final score. I’m sorry.”
I pinch my nose. I don’t want to talk about this now. I don’t want to hear the empathy in his voice. “Yeah. We played like shit.”
“You went to overtime. That isn’t shit.”
“That’s like saying you took somebody into surgery but couldn’t save their life,” I tell him. Holden always understands medical metaphors. He doesn’t understand hockey at all.
My older brothers – by a couple of years – Liam and Myles – have already sent me messages saying they watched the game on television and they’re sorry.
I haven’t responded to them yet. I will when I calm down.
“It was always going to be a tough match,” Holden says. “Especially as it's your first.”
“Third.”
He clears his throat. “The other two were pre-season, they don’t count. You have time to turn things around.”
“Sure.” I lean against the kitchen counter. “So what’s up with you?”
“Nothing. Just working.”
“You’re always working.”
“That’s because I’m a doctor,” he says. “It’s what we do.”
