Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
BASS
There's a rule in hockey that every player learns early: Never skate distracted.
Distractions get you hit. Get you benched. Get you bleeding on the ice while your teammates skate past you. And distractions lose games.
But tonight, I broke that rule. Hard.
This game should have been a lock. We're at home, the VCU crowd is roaring their support like we've already won, every seat filled with fans wearing our colors. Neo's locked in like a machine. Shane's steady as always. Claude's talking so much trash, he's pissing off the other team more than usual.
But me?
My head's not on the ice. It's in the fucking stands.
Because Kai's up there—sitting where she always does for home games, third row behind the penalty box, laptop balanced on those crossed legs in sleek black slacks that should be illegal in this Vegas heat.
Her hair's pulled back in that no-nonsense ponytail she wears when she's working, and even from down here on the ice, I can see her fingers flying across the keyboard, documenting every play like her grade depends on it.
Which I suppose it does.
But two rows over? Gia.
Of course, it's Gia. Because why the fuck wouldn't it be? I’m just saying. The universe has a cruel sense of humor, and apparently, I'm the punchline.
She’s sitting there like she owns the place—carefully coiffed hair cascading over one shoulder, full face of makeup, wearing a crop top that shows off her abs.
And that expression on her face? That's not the look of a casual fan enjoying a game.
That's the look of someone who is dying to share something that I don't want her to say.
I have to be honest with myself, though, I’m to blame for this shit show.
Every time Kai shifts in her seat or laughs at something Sue says beside her, or leans forward to type a note, I catch Gia watching her. Studying her. Like she's a problem Gia's trying to solve.
And that tight, crawling feeling in my gut? That's not pregame nerves.
That's panic.
The whistle blows, snapping me back to reality. I skate to center ice, crouch low, stick poised, waiting for the puck drop. But my focus? Gone. Completely fucking gone.
I miss the first faceoff—lose it to their center, who’s got at least thirty pounds on me, but shouldn't be able to out-think me.
Then I miss a pass from Neo that hits my stick and bounces off like I'm made of rubber.
Then another turnover when I try to clear the zone and put it right on their defenseman's tape.
"Morelli!" Coach Dixon's voice booms from the bench. "Get your head in the game!"
By the end of the first period, I've racked up more turnovers than points, and I can feel every set of eyes in the arena on me. The fans who usually chant my name are quiet. My teammates are giving me space on the bench like whatever I've got might be contagious. And I can feel Kai’s eyes on me, but I won’t look.
"What the hell is wrong with you tonight?" Neo mutters when we hit the locker room for intermission.
"Nothing."
He gives me that look—the one that says he's known me long enough to smell bullshit from a mile away. "Don't lie to me, dude.”
"I said I'm fine."
"You're playing like someone who's never seen a puck before. It’s embarrassing.”
I yank off my helmet, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “What the hell are you embarrassed about? I’m just having an off night. It happens."
“I’m embarrassed for you, not me, fucker.”
“Off nights don’t happen to you,” Shane joins the conversation, leaning against his locker. "You've been weird for weeks, but tonight? Tonight's different. What's going on?"
For some reason, I can't tell them, and I usually tell them everything. I can't admit that I'm distracted by a girl I'm not supposed to be sleeping with and another girl who knows about it and might be planning to blow up my entire life.
So I do what I always do—deflect. "I'm fine. I'll shake it off second period."
But I don't shake it off.
Because between every shift, I look up at those stands and see them—Kai's calm, focused expression as she documents the game (and looks a little worried about the outcome), completely unaware that two rows over, Gia's watching her like a predator sizing up prey.
When Kai glances in Gia's direction—just a casual look—my stomach drops so hard I almost miss my line change.
Dammit, she's going to talk. She’s going to tell Kai every dirty thing we’ve done.
I know it. Gia's going to corner Kai somewhere, say something slick, probably make it sound worse than it was, or maybe exactly as bad as it was, and either way, Kai's going to believe her.
Why wouldn't she? Gia's got receipts. She's got history.
She's got proof that I'm exactly what Kai was afraid I'd be. If this all blows up in my face, I’ve got nobody to blame but myself.
And just like that, all the progress I've made—the trust I've built, the comfort she's started showing around me, the laughter we share when we're alone, in bed—gone. Destroyed. Like it never existed.
Fuck my life.
Second period, I manage to pull myself together enough to score one goal. It's sloppy—a garbage goal that bounces off my shin pad and somehow finds the back of the net. The crowd cheers anyway because they don't care how it goes in, just that it does.
Kai smiles up in the stands, no longer typing but paying close attention to me, and for a second, it almost steadies me.
Almost.
Then I make the mistake of looking back to where Gia's sitting.
She's not clapping. Not even pretending to be impressed. Just sitting there with this slow, deliberate smirk on her face. Like she's already won a game I didn’t realize we were playing.
The third period is more of the same disaster. I'm a step behind every play, my passes are off, and when their right wing checks me into the boards, I don't fight back. Don't even chirp at him. Just skate back to the bench like a ghost of myself.
We lose 4-3.
A game that should've been ours—should've been easy—slips through our fingers, and it’s my fucking fault.
Coach Dixon doesn't yell at any of us after the game, which is somehow worse than if he'd screamed his head off. He just looks at me, shakes his head like he's disappointed in ways words can't express, and storms out of the locker room.
I attempt to man up. “There’s nothing y’all can say to make me feel any shittier about what just happened than I already do. Tonight was my bad.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Neo strips off his gear without looking at me. Shane does the same. Claude, who usually can't shut up, says nothing.
I shower fast, letting the scalding water pound against the back of my neck, trying to rinse off the tension. Trying to wash away the feeling that everything's about to fall apart.
It doesn't work.
“Hey,” Claude approaches me at my locker. “No one blames you, man. Hockey is a team sport. But it just wasn’t your best game, and I think some of us are a little worried about why.”
I bet they are.
Typically, when I spiral out over something, I become physical– especially on the ice. I look for a fight where there isn’t one. But tonight was different. I wasn’t physical at all. I was completely checked out. And that’s not me. I’m just not sure what I’m going to do about it.
By the time I make it to the parking lot, most of the crowd has dispersed. The Nevada night is cool for once, a breeze cutting through the heat that built up during the long day.
And Kai's waiting by my car.