Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
CALLUM
- Present Day -
Cal: I need to see you
Cal: It’s been a week. We need to talk after . . . what happened
Cal: Please
*message unread*
I wait anxiously, glaring at the “message read” indicator so hard that I’m surprised the glass screen protector doesn’t break under the sheer force of my nervous energy.
One minute passes, then five. . . still no response.
I know this is the right phone number. Lena finally gave in and gave it to me as a way to make up for our earlier argument.
So I know Sutton had to have received my messages.
She’s just choosing to ignore me. Great.
With an inward sigh, I dejectedly shove my phone back into my bag.
It’s been just over a week since I last saw Sutton.
A week of unread texts and calls being ignored.
And a week of having to share the same air with the broody motherfucker now sitting across from me as we wait for Coach O’Reilly to give his typical pre-game speech.
The same broody motherfucker who has gone out of his way to be a dick every chance he‘s gotten during our torturously long series of away games. The same series of away games that have also prevented me from dropping everything to camp out on Sutton’s doorstep until she has no other choice but to talk to me.
I have made more mistakes than I would like to admit when it comes to Sutton.
Yet, in all of the years since I first screwed up the best relationship that could’ve ever been mine, I have never once felt as awful as I do right now.
To make matters worse, the passive aggressive asshole who has made my life hell over the last week, the one person I can’t stand, might just be the only person that could possibly give me any real insight into what is going on in that beautiful head of hers.
Or maybe even convince her to give me another chance to talk.
After the third night in our series of away games, the third game in which Newbie managed to “accidentally” nail me with a puck to the back of my helmet during our warm-up drills, I finally gave in to my desperation and tried having a conversation with him about what happened, hoping that if I could talk it out with Davies that maybe, albeit begrudgingly, I could gain some traction in getting Sutton to hear me out.
Instead, the goddamn motherfucker has doubled-down on his assholery, taking cheap shots at me any chance he gets while outright pretending I don’t exist the rest of the time.
I know it’s my own damn fault. Somehow, once again, I have managed to fuck up.
This is on me, and I am painfully aware of that fact.
Aware of the reality that despite my best efforts, I always manage to push away the best thing that has ever come into my life.
And now that I’m actively trying to fix the mistake, I have not one, but two people blockading my best efforts.
No matter. Tonight is our first game back on home ice, and while I am sure she can’t stand the thought of having to see my sorry ass right now, I know she won’t miss being there to support her.
. . god, I can’t even think the damn word. Motherfucking asshole .
One way or another, I am going to see her tonight.
She can’t avoid me forever. I just need one chance, five minutes to talk to her, and I know that if I can get her to hear me out, I know she would understand and I might have an actual chance of winning her back for good.
Voices echo down the hall as several guys from the team make their way towards the locker room, startling me out of my reverie.
A quick glance at the clock reassures me that the torturous wait is almost over.
Just a few more hours until I see my girl. A few -
My phone buzzes, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
Reaching out with lightning-quick reflexes, I instinctively swipe to check my messages.
The kernel of hope that was trying desperately to spring to life stutters out with a pitiful whimper, waving its white flag in defeat and my heart sinks when I see it’s nothing more than a social media notification.
Last year, the Sabretooths’ new PR manager – Raemie– insisted that we all change our notification settings to alert us of any time one of our illustrious team members popped up in the news or was tagged on socials, thanks in no small part to Adamare.
After helping bring his longstanding team to the finals and ending third overall in the Pacific Division, Adamare’s trade from Calgary to Seattle blindsided longstanding fans, adding new layers to the bitter rivalry between two of the top Pacific teams. Add to that the ensuing drama that came about from the puck bunnies who practically held a funeral for the man once they found out he was officially off the “single and ready to mingle” market, yeah, it’s no wonder revamping our news presence became a top priority for team management.
Insert Raemie, crisis mitigator and PR consultant extraordinaire.
With her wicked curves, spiky pink hair, and piercings all over, the vibrant skater girl was definitely not what I would have pictured for this role.
Although I must begrudgingly admit, while her tactics are a major pain in the ass, they seem to be effective.
“Alright, listen the fuck up you overgrown donkeys on skates.” Coach’s voice interrupts, “I don’t know what has gotten into you over the last week but we are leaving it all the fuck out on the ice.
I don’t give two shits about who we lost against on Tuesday, or who fucked who back in Boulder, or who shot a fucking puck to the back of Robinsky’s head -” A series of snickers fill the room while someone coughs “Newbie” under their breath, and I glare at the fully geared-up goalie sitting across from me as he just winks – fucking winks - in my direction.
Fists clenched tightly, it takes all my effort not to throw myself across the room and deck the smirking motherfucker in his good-for-nothing-pretty-boy face.
“Shut it!” Silence fills the space as Coach continues.
“Enough is enough. Whatever the bullshit is that has been leading you all to play like a bunch of piss-poor asswipes, it ends now. Here. In this locker room. We are gonna get out on that ice, we are gonna give them hell, and then we’re gonna show them whose house this is. Got it?”
A series of cheers and shouts of “yeah” fill the air in response.
“Whose house is this?”
“Our house!”
“Whose fucking house is this?”
“OUR HOUSE!”
“And what do we do in our motherfucking house?”
“Win!”