Chapter 28 Adrian
ADRIAN
We’re in the rage room, and Sonya takes a deep breath like she’s trying to pull herself together. “What do you mean? How do I get you to tell me things?”
Her throat bobs, and the look in her eyes is pointed, but also tentatively weary like she’s cautiously open to hearing what I’m about to say next.
My heart pounds. It’s my chance to be honest. To tell her that I’m into her and only her, and that she makes me drop the cocky act I keep up around others. How I’ve told her things I’ve never admitted to anyone else.
But I also haven’t forgotten her panic attack. It feels like if I say anything now, I’m shoving my feelings at her after she pulled herself back together.
“How are you feeling, darling?” I ask softly, careful.
It’s the wrong thing to ask. Calling her darling slips out too easily.
She goes rigid. Any vulnerability she might’ve had shut down. A door slammed.
I clench my teeth, not prepared for how much that sucks. My hands raise. “Wait, Sonya. I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re right.” She’s straightening and nodding stiffly. “I can’t stay here forever. It’s time that I get back to the real world and face it.”
She’s brushing past me, and I’m following her out, kicking myself mentally. Fuck me, why did I just do that?
“I’ll catch a cab,” says Sonya. “You don’t have to drive me home.”
I try to block her exit, but she sidesteps me, averting her gaze. “Don’t, Hughes. I need to be alone.”
Regret has me by the throat, choking me. Because, for a minute there, I was Adrian to Sonya. Now I’m back to being Hughes.
She leaves quickly, and I’m stuck behind staring at her. Feeling like a goddamn cowardly knucklehead with his foot stuck in his mouth.
“You okay, Mr. Hughes?” the front desk attendant asks me. “You’ve gone pale.”
No, I’m not okay.
For the next two days, I try getting Sonya to open up to me again.
ME
Hey! Has Madame Kozlova reached out at all? Have you thought about what you’ll do for the audition next month?
SONYA
Don’t worry, it’s all good.
ME
Do you need anything?
SONYA
I already said I was good.
ME
But are you actually good??? You can talk to me!
SONYA
Keep this up and I’ll block you, Hughes.
I debate showing up at her apartment, but I’m afraid she’ll block me for real.
So instead I’m left wandering my house like a mute, robe-wearing ghost. I don’t eat.
I don’t sleep. I’m replaying everything that happened with her—the falling on stage, being let go by Madame Kozlova, her panic attack afterward—and I can’t rest.
Worry seizes my chest.
Not that I can tell anyone else about it.
She made me promise to keep this all to myself, which fuck, I don’t know if that was the right thing to do.
In the last forty-eight hours, my hands have stayed glued to my phone.
I keep opening my chat with Quinn or Kavi, thinking I should tell them what’s going on with Sonya.
Would that feel like an unforgivable betrayal to her? Should I do it anyway? I don’t know.
Our pinky promise tortures me.
In an attempt to distract myself, I try keeping busy.
Working through the night, I put together a special skills document on our rookie, Jung.
It covers how he goes for the highest risk plays, which are fun for our fans to watch, but a nightmare defensively when they go wrong.
Jung has to fix his shot quality and spatial awareness.
There have been whispers that the GM is going after him soon. And yeah, hockey trades happen all the time, but I know Jung has so much potential.
His determination and dark hair flash in my head, nowhere close to being buzzed, yet still reminding me of…
“Meow.”
Diana has climbed onto the desk so she can lick my hand. The one that’s clenched around a pen so tightly it’s gone pale.
Forcing my fingers loose, I stretch them out and gently pet my cat.
“Sorry, D. I’m good.” My voice is hoarse. I scratch under her chin. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll take a break soon.”
Actually…
I should be on the rink training Jung. But he’s off the grid, partying hard.
That’s not unusual considering it’s our off-season, but the rock in my chest can’t help but double in size.
He’s doing what a lot of young athletes do, spending money he doesn’t have, as if he’s guaranteed to be playing forever. But if the GM releases his contract…
Diana bites the edge of my nail.
“Yes, yes, D.” I boop her nose, choked laughter straining out. “Don’t worry, I’m not spiraling.”
I fully fucking am.
But it’ll be fine as long as I reach Jung soon to warn him about the rumors of his trade. Information only management should have, and that I’d be punished for spreading but am going to share with him anyway.
Then we can work together and figure out how to prove to everyone that the Wings need him.
My cat sneezes. I pet her and also sneeze. She purrs and nudges my shoulder with her head as if prompting me to stand up.
“You know what? You’re right.” Glancing around, I take in my surroundings. The curtains are drawn, lamps are dim, and the brightest light comes from my laptop screen.
“Great advice! I should get out of here for a while,” I say, psyching myself up to get moving. “Because you can’t keep a treasure like me locked away. It’s criminal!”
Diana paw-slaps my chin as if I’m acting like a fool.
I grin and keep cuddling her. Then I get up and start getting ready.
Dinner. Drinks. Dancing. A few teammates have messaged me, inviting me out.
It’s the kind of night I always used to go for, but thinking about it, nothing stirs inside me. No excitement, no anticipation.
Fuck, am I completely broken?
I don’t make it out the front door. Because, I can’t make myself go out. Not when there’s only one person I want to see. One person I’m worrying about nonstop.
Sonya ignores my call.
There’s no choice but to text her another kind of message, right? I laugh nervously to myself. She’s going to be so mad at me.
An hour later, Sonya barges into my kitchen. I’d left the front door open, and now I’m stirring a pot of homemade tomato sauce.
She’s out of breath. Wearing a dark rock band T-shirt, black denim jeans, and boots covered in studs. Her makeup is more intense than usual around her eyes, but that’s because it’s trying to hide the fatigued shadows underneath them.
It doesn’t work.
I see them, and they destroy my peace of mind. My hand clenches the handle of my wooden spoon so hard it creaks.
“What?” demands Sonya, whipping her head around my kitchen. “You sent twenty siren emojis in a row and said it was an emergency!”
“And you came?” This feeling rises. The kind that makes me want to look down at my feet to see if they’ve lifted off the ground.
“Because you said it was an emergency,” Sonya reiterates, jabbing a finger in my direction.
“And—and—” She sputters, “I came to return the favor. To equal out the fact that you went to the hospital for me—” She looks around the kitchen again.
Her hands fold together as her mouth tightens.
“But where exactly is the emergency, Hughes?”
I smile and bring the wooden spoon covered in sauce towards her. “Taste this, darling.”
My entire neighborhood probably hears Sonya shriek. Instead of sampling my wonderful sauce, she pivots and storms away.
I move fast, going around to block her. The start of my kitchen is an archway.
By the time I’ve caught her by the waist, we’ve become wedged in there.
She fits against me so easily, her smaller frame swallowed by mine.
A lock of my hair falls forward as I let go and place both hands above her head, palming the wall.
Trying not to trap her…but also kind of trapping her.
“I’ll kick you,” she informs me, violence lighting up her eyes.
“You can gladly kick me any time,” I promise, chuckling—then just as quickly, sobering up. “But first, give me a chance to ask. Please? How’s your ballet?”
“My ballet?” Her face contorts.
“Are you still…falling?”
Sonya holds my gaze for a long moment like she’s wondering whether to say anything. Holding my breath, I force myself to wait.
Finally, I get a tiny nod. “I can’t stop. It’s like I’m blocked.”
Well, that kills me. “Like a performance block?”
Denial and panic flash in her dark eyes. “No, I refuse to think—“
“Hockey players get those, too,” I interrupt, trying to reassure her. “Any athlete could. If that’s what’s happening—“
She grips the front of my shirt. “What’s your point?”
“I don’t know. It’s just I think they don’t usually go away on their own.”
She snaps her head to the side, hiding her expression from me. Still, I see her throat rise up and down slowly, and all I fucking want to do is to hug her.
Instead I keep talking, spilling everything I know, knowing she needs only the whiff of an excuse to leave.
“Sonya, I, um, called you over to check up on you, but now I’m thinking.
One of the Wings’ trainers used to talk about something like this.
He was working with a player who went from winning the Hart Memorial Trophy one season to missing most of their shots the next.
He had a case of the yips.” I rush over my words, needing them out.
“Have you heard of the yips? It’s mostly the same thing as a performance block.
When you suddenly lose control of your skills. The skills you thought you had nailed.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. “…Okay, and did that trainer fix him?”
If I was alone, I’d drop my forehead to a wall and bang it a couple times. Anything to distract from the raw ache spearing through my chest. Darling, you aren’t something that needs to be fixed. Not now. Not ever.
“The player’s yips went away” My heart constricts. “But it took a while.”
“I have less than a month now before Bob Pepita’s audition.”