17. Oreos, Soul Mates, & Fuckups #2
See her? She can’t even fucking look at me. This is nothing like the reunion I had in mind.
Everything about this fucking sucks.
* * *
I’m stomping off the ice in my skates before the buzzer finishes ringing, throwing my gloves off the second I shove my way into the change room.
“ Fuck !” Tearing my helmet off, I make my way to the sink, where I let the water run past the point of frigid before splashing it over my sweaty face. My skin feels like it’s sizzling, and every bit of tension I’m carrying knots in my back, my chest.
“ Beckett !”
My head drops at my name, the person who barks it. My grip on the sink tightens until my knuckles turn white, though I knew this was coming.
“Over here. Now!”
I follow my coach through the change room, past the apprehensive stare of my teammates, until we round the corner, giving us a fake sense of seclusion. They may not be able to see us, but I know from experience that they’ll be able to hear every single word of this verbal beatdown.
“What in the hell has gotten into you?” Coach’s eyes blaze with ire, face red and twisted. “We’re only twenty minutes down and you’ve spent five of those minutes in the goddamn penalty box again!”
I know better than to hang my head in shame; it’ll get me nowhere with Coach. Own my mistakes and commit to not repeating them, that’s what I need to do. “It won’t happen again, sir.”
“Tell that to your fucking team. You’re their leader and you’re letting them down. We’re down a goal because of the shit you pulled out there!”
His anger is justified. My head’s up my ass tonight. I’m distracted, even more so than I’ve been this last week. Seeing Olivia on the video call two nights ago, how she couldn’t get away from me faster, it fucked me up more than I care to admit.
I’ve been making a conscious effort to turn away every woman postgame at the bars.
I’ve been trying so hard, been so good, in hopes that she’s watching, that she’ll see me changing and her fear will disappear.
It’s not working, and the fact that she’s becoming such a distraction to me despite the distance makes my head such a cloudy, jumbled mess of a place to be.
One night. One damn night with this girl and I’m fucking wrecked. Why the hell can’t I shake this?
I don’t know what Coach sees on my face, but there must be something there—defeat, probably—because his gaze softens.
With a gravelly sigh, he scrubs a hand down his face.
“Look, Carter, I can tell something’s going on with you.
This isn’t you. You’re more levelheaded than this on the ice.
You never fail to lead, but lately…lately your head isn’t there.
” He pats my shoulder as if that’ll offer me any comfort. It doesn’t. “You gotta shake this.”
I’m fucking trying.
“I don’t know if you’ve switched up your routine or something, but whatever it is, go back to what you were doing before. That was working for you. Find the Carter Beckett we all know and love.”
But what if I don’t love that version of me? What if I don’t want to be that Carter Beckett anymore?
That’s what everyone wants though, so that’s what I give them.
I head back to the ice for the second and third periods, and I whip my ass into gear. I manage to stay out of the penalty box, score a goal, and get an assist, leading our team to another victory. Coach is happy after the game, even if I’m not.
“Carter! Can we grab you for an interview?”
I’m hellbent on ignoring the hoards of reporters waiting in the hallway as we make our way back to the change room after the game has ended, but Coach wraps his hand around my padded elbow, stopping me.
“He’d love to chat. Wouldn’t you, Beckett?”
Burying my groan becomes near impossible as recorders and cameras are shoved in my face, denying me privacy.
“You struggled there that first period, Carter,” one reporter says. “Seems like you’ve been struggling a lot.”
Dragging a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, I sigh. “Uh, yeah, I’ve, uh, been feeling a bit off lately. Getting over a bit of a bug.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue. “Trying to get my butt in gear though,” I add with a forced grin.
“You turned it around in the second and third. What changed?”
“Um, I—”
“Is it Olivia?”
My hand stops its skim of my jawline at the mention of her name. “Pardon?”
“Olivia. The girl from a few weeks ago. You dedicated your goal to her and were seen dancing together the same night. It looks like she was the same girl you had with you at the fundraiser for The Family Project, but she hasn’t been seen since.”
My jaw tightens. “What’s your question?”
“Did you two break up? Were you dating? Or was she just another flavor of—”
“I’m not talking about Olivia.”
“Can you tell us her last name? Who is she to you? What does she do?”
“Un-fucking-believable.” I squeeze my eyes, a dark chuckle rumbling beneath my breath.
With a step forward, I tower over the reporter who has the nerve to keep pushing.
I don’t like being pushed, and the way he stumbles backward a half step tells me he finally sees that.
“Olivia’s personal life is none of your damn business.
Drop her name, because I can guarantee you my bite is as vicious as my bark. ”
The crowd clears as I push through to the change room. “Interview’s over.”
My warpath doesn’t end there, though. In fact, with each passing moment, my frustration amplifies, my anger, my fucking confusion. I hate this, and I don’t know how to change it.
This isn’t me; my coach is right. I need to do something to fix this, and I need to do it quick. That’s why I make a beeline for Cara as soon as I step inside the bar after the game.
But Emmett beats me to her, spinning her around as she takes his face in her hands and kisses him. Just over a year together and they haven’t lost that spark yet. I think they’re one of those lucky couples who never will, the easy kind where everything falls into place right from the get-go.
Cara sets her phone down before the two of them head off to the bar, and I slide into her spot.
I’m not entirely proud of myself as I scoop her phone up, ready to pluck Olivia’s number from it.
Maybe luck is finally on my side, because the screen is already opened to a message thread with the fiery brunette.
Cara: Ur date rope you into breakfast tomorrow or what?
Olivia: Duh. Is it even a real date if it doesn’t end with breakfast?
Blood drums in my ears, the words in front of me sending a raw ache through my chest as awareness settles over me.
She’s moved on, on from whatever the hell this was, or whatever it wasn’t.
Because it wasn’t ever anything, was it?
Nothing more than undeniable chemistry and physical attraction, paired with some foolish notion that a relationship might be something I wanted, that Olivia and I might be good together.
Why the hell did I ever think this was a good idea?
Coach was right. This new me isn’t working. I need to get back to the old Carter Beckett. That Carter wouldn’t give two shits about this right now. He’d bury his feelings in something hot and wet.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
My gaze sweeps the bar, bouncing around all the hopeful stares until I find what I’m looking for.
Tall. Platinum blonde. Rail thin. Wiggling her fingers at me with a wink, swinging one hip out in a dress that looks more like the leftover scraps of a sewing project gone wrong.
The exact opposite of Olivia.
“Mr. Beckett.” She trails a glossy black nail down my tie before slinging her arms over my shoulders and sinking her fingers in my hair. “Don’t you look handsome.”
My eyes close at what I’m about to do, like they don’t want to see this train wreck of a decision go down. “Wanna get outta here?”
“What do you wanna do?”
Christ, I don’t have time for this shit. “You know what I wanna do.”
She wraps my tie around her fist and hauls me closer. The perfume she’s wearing is suffocating. “I got a new tattoo,” she whispers.
“Cool.” I don’t fucking care. “Can’t wait to see it.”
Another repeat offender. Brandy or Mandy or fucking Candy.
I don’t know or particularly care. All I know is I’ve fucked her before and it was decent enough.
Hopefully decent enough to knock me off whatever this hellhole of a roller coaster I’m stuck on is, because I don’t wanna ride this fucking ride a second longer.
“Let’s go.” I hate myself the second I clap my hand over her ass, and even more when I slip my hand into hers and tug her out the door.
This winter is fucking kicking my ass. Mountains of snow and frigid air that slaps at your cheeks, neither of which are typical of a west coast winter.
Part of me keeps equating the way I’m feeling to those winter blues people talk about, but as I stalk down the sidewalk with Candy Brandy’s hand in mine, I know it’s because this hand doesn’t feel right.
None of it feels right.
I don’t have a single clue what I’m doing right now, why I thought this might be the right way to deal with the way I’m feeling.
No fucking shit Olivia didn’t trust me to change, to be different than I’ve been.
This right here proves I’m the same guy fucking his problems away.
The feeling that my dad would be so utterly disappointed in me hits me like a truck.
My condo comes into view up the road, and panic races up my spine at the sight of cameras waiting to see who I’m bringing home tonight.
I’m so tired of having my picture splashed everywhere, having my private life up for everyone to see.
I don’t want to be this person anymore, so careless, reckless even.
I want to be the steady person someone can count on. I want to be the person I can count on.
I shove my fingers through my hair, tugging at the ends as I come to a stop. “What the hell am I doing?”
Brandy— Mandy? —slides her palm beneath the collar of my coat, lashes fluttering. “Me, in about two minutes.”