14. Matt #3
Oh my God, Matt, get it together.
“Hi.” Her lips twitch with amusement, but she pushes it away and flattens her smile. “Goodbye.”
Spinning on her heel, she takes a large stride, walking quickly away from me.
My legs are already moving, chasing after her. “Shay, wait.”
“For what?” she asks without turning around or slowing in the slightest.
I scoff, “Well, I think you know for what.”
Shaking her head, she continues to live in denial. “Nope. We aren’t talking about it.”
I catch up to her stride, falling into place beside her. “I definitely think we should talk about it.”
“I disagree,” she sings, turning toward the elevator.
Gently, I grab her arm and swing around in front of her, stopping her in her path. “Shay.”
She sticks her nose up slightly, a distance in her stare. “It’s Coach Rooney to you.”
Wetting my lips, I try to refrain from biting down. “Yes, ma’am. You’re in charge.”
Her nose and lips wiggle ever so slightly. Even her body is unable to resist the pull to me as much as her mind may fight it.
“I’m going home. You’re going home. We are not discussing this. End of”—I smirk, and her nostrils flare—“discussion.”
Begrudgingly, I step back, out of her pathway, and let her through. “Good night, Coach.”
With one last quick glance out of the corner of her eye, she strides off without another word, only turning back to face me when she’s secured in the elevator, meeting my eye, that same distant longing in her gaze.
She circles the air in front of her forehead and points at me with a smirk. “You look like you’ve got some bruising forming.”
“I hate you,” I scoff, mindlessly reaching up to my sore face.
She giggles as the doors seal shut.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, feeling … everything.
The timing of the universe to have us come together during the most important moments in our lives is almost cruel.
But it doesn’t take away any of the truth that I am falling so hard and fast for Shay.
I don’t think I can stop it, even if I wanted to.
Earning her love is gradually becoming just as important, if not more, as winning the Cup.
My mind is running rampant the entire way home, thoughts of her carving a permanent pathway in my brain.
Usually, I crash after a night practice like tonight, but I can’t seem to shut my mind off, no matter how hard I try. Falling asleep has never been my problem. Until now.
“Ugh,” I audibly groan, mindlessly reaching over and grabbing my charging phone off of the nightstand.
I don’t think I’m going to fall asleep anytime soon.
Swiping up on the screen, I open Instagram and gravitate toward the same things I always check—my notifications, my stories, and my tags.
My recent post—a carousel of images from away-game travel, mixed with professional photos from one of our team photographers—is performing great.
The comments are full of praise, which immediately boosts my confidence.
The imposter syndrome is real some days, but knowing that everyone else thinks I’m doing good is an instant fix.
In the last few hours alone, I’ve been tagged in over fifty posts. Some are random bot accounts, tagging as many people as they can. Some are hockey pages, dedicating everything to the playoffs right now. And some are fan accounts or good ol’ fans sharing about our recent win and our upcoming one.
After reading my fill of ego-boosting love, I go back to my notifications and refresh. My heart jumps into my throat when I see Shay’s name pop up. I fly up in bed, rolling over onto my elbows as I read it again and again to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Shay Rooney liked your post.
Oh my God, what a flirt. If she wanted to ask me out, she could have just called.
I click on her profile, finding a new post that I immediately tap. It’s pictures of her life as of late. There are photos of the city, of her cute dog that I now know is named Kyle, a gigantic stack of packaged sticky notes, and a few selfies—which I, of course, spend a little extra time studying.
Between playoffs and the whirlwind that is being in her orbit, I forgot about the sticky notes I saw in her hotel. I’ve heard of people doing positive notes before. I assume she’s probably doing a similar thing.
Everyone has their own shit they’re working through, and everyone has their own way of navigating it. No two people’s life experience or healing journey is exactly the same. If buying enough sticky notes to keep those businesses afloat helps her, then that’s great.
Wait, I think I might have a pack somewhere.
I’m flying out of bed before I can blink, strolling out of my bedroom and into my kitchen to the junk drawer that is a catch-all for things like that.
Ruffling through the egregious amount of pens, tools, and miscellaneous things, I spot them—a scuffed, poorly cared-for stack of orange sticky notes. I lift them out of the drawer like they’re made of gold, my smile lifting my cheeks.
Let’s give this a go. If she likes it, maybe I will too.
Grabbing a Sharpie before slamming the drawer closed, I walk to my kitchen island and lean over the top of it, rocking the marker back and forth between my fingers.
What the hell am I supposed to write?
Hers were a mix of affirmations and backhanded positivity. That kind of sums her up. I chuckle at the thought. She’d probably slap me with a smile on her face if she heard that. But that might prove my point even more.
Uncapping the marker, I take a breath, sighing. “Fuck it.”
If I hate it, I can just do a different one. No point in overthinking this all night.
I am good.
But not at this …
I peel it away, slap it on the counter, and glance back at the blank one.
I am a good goalie.
Next.
I am healthy and strong.
Next.
I am going to win the Stanley Cup.
Next.
My dad is happy and healthy.
My dad is perfect just the way he is, even with his mind fading.
My dad is the best dad there ever was and ever will be.
My dad is my best friend.
Okay, nope, I think I hate this game actually.
I grunt, slapping the marker down. I imagine this is part of the whole healing process, which is stupid. Why did I think this was a good idea? Now I’m just thinking about my dad, and my skin is trying to crawl off of my body.
I hate that thinking about him now immediately brings up the thoughts of his condition.
He’s literally the best dad in the world.
He’s been my biggest support, just like my mom, my entire life.
He took me to every practice and spent hours helping me improve.
He learned how to skate just to be able to help me.
He taught me how to tie a tie. He taught me how to be me.
And with all of those moments and his impact, the only thing I can think of when he pops into my mind now is that I’m losing him. Maybe not physically, but losing all the same.
My eyes burn, and something hits the sticky note beneath me, pulling my attention downward. Shit. And now I’m crying.
Good going, Shay. This is what your little sticky notes have done to me.
Digging my phone out of my pocket, I go back to her Instagram to try to distract myself. I deep-dive through her profile, scouring every post until there’s nothing left. So, I move on to her tags, and when I see how drastically different hers looks to mine, my heart aches.
While mine is full of positivity and everything good about the Nighthawks right now, hers is full of compilations of injuries, of people talking about that game where she got hurt.
Fuck. I can’t imagine having a constant reminder like that.
A place that helps me get out of my head and relax likely does the opposite for her.
I don’t stop reading at the first few posts. I keep going, anger and disappointment taking over with every new scroll. She shouldn’t have to see this shit. I want to report them and make them all disappear, but I know that new ones will only surface, and it would be pointless.
So, instead, I go to our messages and send her one.
You’re a badass, Shay. I’m in fucking awe of you.