Chapter 12
BENNETT
The Yacht Club gala was three days ago and I’m still riding the high. Practice is going great, I’m faster and stronger than ever. Coach seems happy, so I’m happy. A few more days and this stupid probation thing should be behind me.
And then there’s Tori.
Since that night, she’s played a starring role in my dreams. Those dark eyes, her long lashes. The way her hair flows over her bare shoulders.
That freckle.
I spend almost as much time thinking about her as I do hockey.
My phone buzzes on the counter and I grab for it, thinking it might be her.
Goalie Boy: On my way over with pizza
I stare at the message, trying to decide if my stomach’s growling or sinking. I go with growling, mainly because that’s easier.
Bennett: Thanks bro
Ten minutes later, Callum’s sitting on my sofa eating a slice of pizza. I grab two glasses of water and sink down next to him.
“You looked good at practice today.” Callum shoots me a sideways glance, his eyes doing a quick survey.
“Thanks. I’m feeling great. Can’t wait to be back out there.”
“I’ll bet. Should be any day now, right?”
I nod. “I’d think so, yeah.”
“How was that thing you had to go to for Prince? The Yacht Club thing?”
I swallow, take a quick sip of water and avoid eye contact. “It was good.”
He pauses mid-bite. “Good, huh? Didn’t expect to hear that. Not when you had to spend the entire night with the Ice Queen.”
My shoulders stiffen at the nickname. “She’s not an Ice Queen. And I know I’m the one who called her that first. But she’s not like that.”
“Hmm.” Callum swipes at his mouth with a napkin, grabs another slice of pizza. He doesn’t push — he never pushes.
I clear my throat, stretch out my legs, an awkward silence stretching between us. “She’s different than I thought.”
One of his brows shoots up, but he stays quiet. So I keep talking.
“Better. She’s funny. Smart as hell.”
“Pretty.” Callum points out the obvious, although he actually undersells.
“Smoking hot, man. You should have seen her in that dress. Fucking gorgeous.”
He brushes his hands together over his plate, dusting off the crumbs. “It’s good to see you more settled, Benny. But be careful, okay? She’s still Prince’s daughter.”
Like I could fucking forget.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, blow out a long breath as I stare out the window at the ocean. “Yeah, I know. It’s not a thing. We’re not a thing.”
No matter how many dreams I have about her.
Callum doesn’t comment, dropping the subject of Tori, and we move on to easier topics—hockey, Morrison, Weston and Harbor. After dinner, we watch some film, then play Call of Duty.
Around nine, he stands up and stretches.
“I gotta go. I’m gonna be beat at practice tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I should get to bed, too. Thanks for coming.”
He smacks me on the back, a big show of affection for him. “You bet. I’ve been missing having you around. Hardly any shit to pick up with you gone.”
I grin. “I’ll stop by, leave some dirty dishes in the sink. For old times’ sake.”
“Don’t.” He shoves a hand in his pocket, strolling to the door. “See ya.”
As soon as he’s gone, I text Tori:
Bennett: Going to bed
Alone, sadly.
Sunshine: Sleep well
Bennett: You too, Sunshine
I click off the message and smile until I fall asleep.
I’m walking out of the gym when Coach Keller stops me with a quick tap on the shoulder.
“Bennett. My office. Now.” He tips his head at the door and a cold dread slithers through me.
Shit. Now what?
I followed all the rules, did everything right. What the hell’s the problem?
Heart lodged in my throat, I shuffle behind him down the hallway. The trek to his office feels like an eternity. Finally, we’re outside his door. He unlocks it and gestures to the empty chair.
“Take a seat.”
I do as I’m told, sinking down and folding my arms over my chest. The AC kicks on, blowing hard on my neck and I shiver.
Coach takes off his Coastal Crushers ball cap and tosses it on the desk. Leaning back, the ergonomic chair creaks beneath his weight. He levels his gaze on mine.
“Our first away game of the season is tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You’re not going.”
My gut clenches as I squint across the desk at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
I huff out a breath, anger coursing through my veins.
I can’t fucking believe this.
“Why? I’m doing everything right.”
“Optics, Bennett. You’re still suspended. The team doesn’t want the liability, especially on the road.”
I slam my hand down hard on the desk, rattling the stapler and the jar of pens next to his computer.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Keller frowns. “This is what I’m talking about.”
He’s so calm it’s annoying. The guy never gets flustered.
Meanwhile, I’m breathing hard, chest heaving. An awkward pause stretches between us.
I do a quick shoulder roll, trying to ease the tension between the blades. Then I take another deep breath, blow it out.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is low, subdued. Trying to appease the coach.
“I get it. I’d be pissed if I were in your shoes too.” Keller shoots me a sympathetic look. “Stay home, train hard. We’ll be back in two days. By then, the league will likely have released you for play.”
I hear what he’s saying, but I still don’t like it. Unfortunately, there’s not a whole helluva lot I can do about it.
So I nod and play nice. No sense screwing things up with Keller.
“You got it, Coach.” I wipe my slick palms on my shorts and stand up, eager to leave. I’ve had enough humiliation for the day.
Coach Keller’s eyes flick to mine. “For what it’s worth, Bennett, I like how you’re training right now. You’re working hard. Keep it up and you’ll be scoring again in no time.”
“Thanks.” I mutter the word, but the feeling of gratitude’s definitely not there.
Then I dart out of the office before I say something I regret.
Blood roaring in my ears, I stalk down the hall toward the locker room. I want to grab my stuff and head home before the rest of the team comes in to get their gear for the away game. The last thing I want to do right now is face my teammates. I can’t take any more punches or jabs. Or worse — pity.
I can’t believe Coach would sideline me like this. I’ve followed all their stupid rules. I even went to fucking therapy. And for what? To sit at home like a damn rookie.
Fists balled, I stalk into the locker room — and run straight into Weston.
“Hey, man. Where’s the fire?” He brushes off his arm where we collided, arching his dark brow.
“No fire. I’m pissed.” I rush past him, slamming open my locker door. Metal vibrates against metal as it bounces back and I catch it with my hand.
Weston follows me, leaning against the lockers, clearly concerned.
“What happened?”
I shrug, the tension I tried to dislodge in Coach’s office still taking up space between my shoulder blades.
“Coach called me in to inform me I won’t be traveling with the team for the away game.” My jaw ticks as I stuff dirty workout clothes into my duffel.
Weston blows out a breath. “That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”
He reaches out and pats my shoulder, but I shrug him off, irritated.
I shouldn’t be mad at him. He didn’t have anything to do with my suspension besides the fact that I was defending his girlfriend. He didn’t ask me to punch the asshole bar owner. That was all me.
But I’m still kind of sore about it.
I shove the last of my shit into my bag and slam the metal door shut, the clang echoing loudly off the cinder block walls.
Weston grabs my elbow. “I am sorry about all of this, Bennett.” He locks his eyes with mine. “And I appreciate what you did for Harbor. So does she.”
The tightness in my chest eases a bit at his sincerity.
“It was the right thing to do.” I swallow hard and stare at my brother. “Don’t tell the league, but I’d do it again.”
Weston grimaces. “Please don’t.”
I sling my duffel over my shoulder. “Do me a favor. Go to Denver and win the damn game. But don’t let Morrison try to take my place. I’m coming back after this and I’ll be ready to fight.”
“Deal.” Weston pounds my fist and I start walking away.
“Bennett—”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Behave. We’ll be back soon. The ice will be waiting for you.”
Twenty-four hours later, I’m still pissed. Anger pulses through me with every pump of my heart, fueling the rage.
I do as I’m told and stick to the routine: ice time, gym, more weights at home. Working out’s all I’ve got right now. I push myself harder and faster until I’m physically exhausted.
Yet, I’m still amped as I flick on the television and tune into the game. Watching my team play like a motherfucking spectator.
It sucks.
I crack open a beer and kick my feet up on the coffee table. Watch as Weston slaps the puck straight into the net, an easy goal for the Crushers. The score’s 1-0 at the end of the first period. I’m keyed up and bored at the same time, an odd combo.
Because there’s no one here to stop me, I amble to the fridge and grab another beer and a bag of chips. Then I crash back onto the sofa, feeling sorry for myself.
I should be out there. Scoring goals and throwing shoulders.
Not sitting alone in this condo like a sullen teenager who broke the house rules.
Fucking bullshit.
I tip the bottle back and take a long, cold slug. The bitter liquid doesn’t help my mood, so I set the drink on the table and rip open the bag of chips. I typically stick to a high-protein diet, but what the hell. Right now I’m practically a layman, not a pro athlete.
I shovel a handful into my mouth and chew, barely tasting anything. Swallowing mindlessly, I stare at the screen as Callum makes a block. The second period’s over. Score’s 2-0, us. Well, the Crushers.
My personal score is two beers and one bag of chips.
Fuck my life.
During the commercial break I scroll through my phone. Social media’s full of painful reminders of what I’m not doing right now – the media photos, messages from friends about the game, a few dirty DMs from women looking to hook up after the game.
Dammit.
This fucking sucks.
Slightly buzzed, I rip off my shirt and drop to the ground. Palms flat beneath my shoulders, I bang out fifty pushups. My stomach swirls from the exertion combined with the beer, but I don’t care. At least the adrenaline’s pumping again.
I pump out another fifty, peering at the game out of the corner of my eye. Callum makes two more saves, then Morrison skates down the line and slaps the puck into the goal. 3-0, Crushers.
The team didn’t even need me tonight.
The realization hits me like a fucking Mack truck, my chest squeezing hard. Lips pressed in a tight line, I rip another fifty pushups, then flip onto my back and do one hundred sit-ups. Russian twists, crunches, bicycles until I’m breathing hard and sweat’s dripping into my eyes.
The game’s over. Crushers win, 3-0.
Weston chest bumps Callum, wide grins lighting up their faces. The crowd cheers and lights flash blue and white.
Inside, I’m numb.
I should be there tonight. Suited up, out on the ice, celebrating with my team.
Instead, I’m in this fucking condo. Alone. One minute I’m angry, the next I’m lonely. Then I’m empty, a hollow feeling deep inside my chest.
God, this is fucking depressing.
And I’m not journaling that either. I don’t need Dr. Sparks picking me apart, analyzing my damn mood swings.
I collapse back on the floor and glower up at the ceiling, the white swirls blurring together the longer I stare. A dull heaviness sits on my chest, the wood floor biting into my hips.
Good. Bring on the pain.
At least I know I’m not dead.
Buzz, buzz.
The sound breaks my trance and I sit up, reaching for my phone. It’s ten pm. I missed check-in and I don’t even give a shit.
Sunshine: You okay?
She doesn’t bother asking if I’m home. I’m sure she tracked my location. Plus, Bishop or Knox would have ratted me out anyway.
Bennett: Sure
Elbows on my knees, I stare out the window into the black night. No moonlight shining, just darkness.
Sunshine: You didn’t check-in
Bennett: Sorry
I don’t have enough energy for a snarky comeback. Two seconds later, there’s a knock on my door. With a sigh, I force myself to standing. Unlock the knob and crack the door open an inch.
“Yes.” My voice is flat as I stare through the gap at Tori. She’s wearing a matching cream sweatsuit, with her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“Wellness check. Can I come in?” She arches a brow and I’d really like to tell her to go away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I ease the door open and step aside. She marches in, her head swiveling as she surveys the mess. Empty beer bottles, the discarded bag of chips, piles of unfolded laundry stacked on the kitchen table, unopened mail strewn on the counter.
All in all, looks pretty bad.
“Pardon the mess. I didn’t know I was having a dorm check tonight.” I shove a hand in my pocket and her eyes rake over my bare chest.
“Have you eaten anything substantial today? Like dinner?” She glances at the now-warm, half-drunk protein shake sitting on the counter.
“Nah. Wasn’t hungry.”
“Go shower. I’ll throw something together for us.”
“I said I’m fine. Leave it.”
She glances up at me. “I’ve got it.”
Torn between irritation and gratitude, I shrug. “Fine.”
Pivoting on her heel toward the kitchen, Tori scoops both beer bottles on the way. She doesn’t harp on the ‘no drinking rule,’ just tosses the empty bottles into the recycling bin with a clink. I bend down and grab my T-shirt from the floor, feel her eyes on me.
Assessing.
For once, she’s quiet. Taking care of the mess, like I’m worth taking care of.
And that scares the hell out of me.