Chapter 34
BENNETT
Iwake up hungover for the first time in months. Dry mouth, pounding head, eyes that feel like sandpaper.
Fuck.
Then I drag myself to a god-awful practice.
I’m slow off the line. A half-step late on every read. Overcooked cross-ice passes, my lungs burning with every effort.
“Steele!” Keller waves me over, scowling.
I skate across the ice, legs heavy and the rink lights glaring.
Keller pins me with a look, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on? You look like a damn rookie.”
I toss my stick from hand to hand, avoiding his stern gaze.
“Bad night of sleep. I’ll recover.”
Lies.
I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from this. But I’m sure the fuck not admitting that to Keller right now.
“Get out of here. Go to the trainer. Talk to Sparks. Do your deep breathing bullshit. I don’t care. But get it together before tonight. Otherwise, you’re riding the bench.”
He stalks away, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the ice.
Shit.
I need to get my head out of my ass.
But I don’t know how.
Helmet dangling from my fingers, I grab my gear and stalk toward the locker room.
The trainer can’t help this situation. And I’m not sitting across from Dr. Sparks and rehashing last night. Confessing how I feel about Tori — and that she clearly doesn’t feel the same way.
I rake a hand through my sweaty hair. It’s the hangover talking. That, and the bad practice on the heels of a fucking awful night.
Add in wounded pride. Because Tori watched Eleanor MacDonald humiliate me and didn’t say a word.
I’m still pissed about it.
But I miss her.
Her perfume on my skin. Her dark eyes sparkling when she laughs. Her body melting into mine when she loses control.
The way I catch her looking at me when she thinks I’m not watching — like I’m someone worth looking at.
I scrub my palm across my jaw, the realization hitting me harder than a bodycheck, no pads.
I’m in love with Tori Prince.
Fuck.
Not good.
Why her?
Because she’s everything. Smart, funny, the most beautiful challenge in the world.
And she makes me better.
A better man. A better player.
A better person.
And I can’t have her.
She made that clear last night. We don’t work in the real world. I’ll never be more than a bonus project she was forced to take on.
I still haven’t heard from her. Not a text, not a call, not a lousy fucking check-in.
Nothing.
I can’t admit that to Dr. Sparks. Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
Chest tight and head pounding, I shove into the locker room. Mercifully, the space is empty, the rest of the team still out on the ice. Leaving me alone with my depressing as hell thoughts.
I strip out of my sweaty practice gear and hit the showers, the hot spray spreading like stinging nettle across my back.
At least I fucking feel something. It’s better than being numb, like I’ve been since last night.
I lather my body, trying to wash away the bitter disappointment. Rinse, towel off.
I’m at my locker getting dressed when the door slams behind me.
Dammit.
I wanted to get out before the team piled in. Luck’s not on my side today, that’s for damn sure.
“Hey.” Callum’s low voice breaks the silence.
I give him a quick nod, then duck inside my locker to avoid his piercing gaze.
“Rough practice, huh? I saw Keller corner you.”
I shrug, pulling my bag out of my locker. “Yeah. I didn’t sleep great. I’m gonna catch a nap — I’ll be fine by the game.”
Callum narrows his eyes at me. “Is that all? Usually you power through. I’ve seen you score three goals after pulling an all-nighter.”
My gut rolls, heat creeping up my neck. I don’t say anything, just shrug.
“Where’s Tori? I haven’t seen her around.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, kicking around what to say. “No idea. She’s off my case.”
“Huh.” Callum doesn’t push it, standing still and waiting for me to break first.
“Yeah. And I’m pretty sure she’s staying at her apartment, not the hotel.”
“Pretty sure?” He arches a brow, head tipped like a bloodhound.
“Yeah. What’s it to you?” Anger seeps into my voice and I instantly regret it. I may as well wave a fucking banner admitting I’m in love with her.
“Just an observation.” Callum reaches out, touching my forearm. “Want to talk about it?”
Sometimes it sucks being a triplet. I can’t get anything past these motherfuckers.
“Not really.” I shove a hand in my pocket, kick at the concrete floor. “The donor event last night didn’t go great.”
“What do you mean?”
My ribs squeeze as I flash back to the conversation with Eleanor MacDonald and the investor guy.
Errant hockey player. Probation situation.
The way Tori’s gaze flicked to mine, her cheeks staining pink. Like she was embarrassed to be with me.
I can’t admit that. Even to my brother.
“There was a dust up with someone from Tori’s past. I walked away, let her handle it.”
Callum nods. “I see.”
I flex my knuckles, the familiar gnaw of aggravation nipping at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not to be a dick —”
“Which means you’re absolutely going to say something dickish…”
“I know me and Wes gave you shit about Tori. But I’ve seen how you look at her. And how she looks at you. You’re…different when she’s around. Calmer.”
I gnaw the inside of my cheek and stare at the bench. Callum’s not wrong.
He clears his throat. “Sometimes you have to fight for things worth having.”
His words land hard, straight in my chest.
“For what it’s worth — Tori’s worth fighting for. Don’t screw that up, Bennett.”
“Dude —” I hold up my palm. “Why do you assume I screwed things up?”
He bites his lip, blinking. “You smell like last call, for one thing. Your eyes are bloodshot, you were late to practice. Kinda the tell-tale signs of a Bennett spiral.”
“Fuck off, Callum.”
“Just think about what I said.” He punches in the code to his locker without another word and I storm out of the locker room more pissed off than before.
I try to sleep, try to eat. Try to do anything other than obsess over Tori.
And fail miserably.
I still haven’t heard from her. She didn’t check in with me and wasn’t on the bus.
At least the game’s about to start, and I can go take my aggression out on the puck.
Keller holds his hand up and a hush falls over the noisy locker room. I lean on my stick, adrenaline already buzzing through me.
“This game means a lot to the franchise. We’re back in New York and they’re going to boo you the second you touch the puck.
Let ‘em. We’re not here to win a popularity contest — we’re here to win a hockey game.
We’ve got a shit ton to prove. To ourselves.
To the other team. To the city we left behind.
Now go play the best fucking hockey of your life. ”
Keller locks his steel gray gaze on mine and I absorb those words, feel them deep in my bones.
Play the best fucking hockey of your life.
Done.
We stream out of the locker room and through the tunnel, taking the ice. Nerves ping through me and I’m ready for action.
Ready to prove who I am and what I can do.
The puck drops and Weston slaps it my direction. I go to settle it, but their winger gets there first. Stick on my blade, shoulder on my hip—just enough to knock me off my line. The puck skips past my reach and I have to chase.
Lungs burning, I race to recover.
And lose.
The Sounders score a goal in the first fucking minute. Gold lights flash, the horn blares, and the crowd erupts.
Motherfucker.
I glide toward the bench, jaw clenched.
I’m already screwing things up.
And that’s when I see her.
Two rows up, behind the glass. Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, white sweater and jeans, lanyard tucked in her pocket.
Casual. Unofficial.
Not supposed to be here.
Still here.
My pulse stutters as I hit the bench, trying to breathe.
She came.
Not because of her father.
Because of me.
Maybe there’s still a chance.
“Steele! Don’t make me regret putting you back in.” Keller taps the boards and I lock in, chewing my mouthguard.
I hop the boards and skate back out, my focus narrowing to gleaming white ice and black jerseys. The puck comes up my side. I step into their winger, finishing the check.
Clean, square.
But hard enough to rattle the glass.
Harder than necessary.
The boards shudder and the crowd boos. I peel off fast, glancing up on instinct. Catch her eye.
She doesn’t flinch.
Her fingers work the gold chain, her scarlet lips tight.
Not impressed.
Not thrilled.
Not buying my act.
Like she can see right through the hit to the reason behind it.
I’m pissed at the world right now — and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.
Optics.
My gut tangles as I skate past the bench, Keller’s glare burning into me.
Assessing.
Last chance, Steele.
The score’s still 0–1, Sounders, and there’s only three minutes left in the period.
Fix it. Now.
I take the puck on my next touch and don’t look for the safe play. I look for the highlight.
Threading through traffic, I cut inside and accelerate.
Wild.
Reckless.
I’m in alone before anyone can stop me.
Time to prove who I am.
The goalie squares up, knees bent and glove twitching. I slow just enough to sell the forehand.
He bites.
I drag to backhand and slice it toward the goal.
Glove.
The hard thwack, then the snap of leather shutting mid-air.
The arena explodes as the rebound kicks wide. I coast past the crease, icy disbelief lodging hard in my heaving chest.
Robbed.
Above center ice, the jumbotron flashes to life, SOUNDERS SAVE OF THE DAY in bold black-and-gold block letters. My miss in slow motion. The fake. The pull. The glove swallowing the attempt like it was nothing.
Once.
Twice.
Three fucking times, and the crowd gets louder with every replay.
“New city, same Steele. Lots of flash — no finish.” A voice at my shoulder chides.
I turn and face their grinning defenseman, the one I beat. His hand flies out and tugs my jersey.
“Highlight reel.” He nods at the screen. “Too bad it’s not yours.”
Heat roars through me, the edges of my vision going black.
I don’t think — I shove him first.
Hard.
He shoves back, gloves up and the grin still plastered on his face. Like he’s enjoying this.
Control. Ride the wave.
“Same bad temper, too.”
That fucking does it.
I drop my stick and drive into him, forearm high across his chest. He answers with a punch to the shoulder pads and now we’re tangled, jerseys twisted, skates scraping for leverage.
The whistle shrieks and officials crash in, Weston right behind them.
“Steele! Enough!” Keller’s voice cuts through the racket, and I shove away. Chest heaving and sweat beading on my brow, knuckles itching to punch that dickhead in his smartass mouth.
“Keep it cool, Bennett,” Weston mutters under his breath, yanking me away by the back of my jersey.
The defenseman grins through the linesman’s arm. “You gonna whine? Or you gonna take a penalty like you always do?”
I wrench free from Weston’s grip and drive a gloved fist into the guy’s chest. One last stupid shove.
The ref’s arm snaps up. “Roughing. Two minutes!”
Of fucking course.
I don’t look at Keller.
I skate straight to the penalty box and drop onto the narrow bench. Chest still heaving, I shove my stick at the attendant and gnaw on my mouthguard.
Two minutes.
Two minutes to watch my team try to clean up my mess.
I glance up, to the spot where I clocked Tori. She’s still there.
For one heartbeat, our eyes lock through the plexiglass. Her gaze steady, unreadable.
Controlled.
Then she blinks and the moment’s gone.
Slips away, like the goal I didn’t make.
She bites her lip, her fingers tightening on that gold chain.
Then she steps out and walks up the aisle without looking back.
And I’m trapped behind glass, watching her leave.