Chapter 11
ELEVEN
The three dots jump across the bottom of the screen.
My gut does that thing it does on a breakaway, weightless right before it drops.
When the dots disappear, I stare at the phone, willing them back. C’mon.
“King!” Coach’s voice cracks through the visitors’ locker room, and I slap my phone into my cubby.
“What’s gotten into you?” he barks. “Warm-ups started already. Get out there.”
“Sorry, Coach.” I grab my stick and hurry up the tunnel to join my teammates. I’m the last one out, which is unlike me. I’m always first on and last off the ice.
I take a few laps in our end, loosening my legs, grab a puck, and take a shot on Volk. He kicks it away. I drift off to the side and run through some quick stretches.
I’m halfway through when Logan skates up beside me, stopping short of clipping my shoulder. “Hannah wants to know if you’re coming next Thursday.”
They’ve invited everyone not going home for the holidays over for Christmas dinner.
Normally, I make a trip home to see my parents and sister, but this year I booked my parents on the Alaskan cruise they’ve been not-so-subtly hinting at since the summer.
They deserve it, and I like spoiling them.
And it’s my sister’s year to do Christmas with her in-laws.
She invited me, but I decided to stay in Chicago.
“I’ll be there.” I drop into a side lunge. “Oh—hey, mind if I bring someone?”
Might as well extend the invite to Summer.
“You seeing someone?”
Based on his face, I’m guessing Fox hasn’t told him about my roommate situation.
“Nah. Just a friend.” The word still tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Sure. The more the merrier.” He skates off as warm-ups end.
We all file back into the locker room to wait for puck drop. I tell myself not to check my phone, but I do it anyway. There’s a new message waiting. I’m not sure I’ve ever opened one so fast.
Summer:
Sure
One word.
That’s it. And still, my chest does that weird too-big, too-small thing.
Summer:
Oh, and good luck
I’m grinning like a fool as I turn into my stall and brace a forearm on the top shelf, head dipped. I stare at the screen longer than strictly necessary, then tuck my phone away before anyone can give me shit.
I drop onto the bench, plant my elbows on my knees, and lock in.
Ten minutes later, I shake out my arms and head up the tunnel again. This time, I’m the first on the ice, in position outside the face-off circle.
We win possession off the draw, and seven minutes later, Knolls buries one in the back of their net. The guy’s not the team favorite, but there’s no denying he’s been an asset.
He came in as a trade last season, and there’s old shit between him and Logan. It’s tangled up in Hannah’s past with them both. So, naturally, we all pick sides.
In the second period, we’re still up by one, and we carry the lead deep into the third. Volk is locked in, hungry for a shutout. Everyone’s grinding, even though we’re beat from traveling this morning. Four minutes left on the clock, and it feels like we’ve got it.
We get a little too confident, though, and the other team makes us pay. Our second D-pair has a misread, opens a lane, and Volk gets beat five-hole by a shot that sneaks under his pad.
He stares up at the replay on the jumbotron, gives his head one short shake, then squirts water into his mouth and resets. That’s the thing about Volk—he gets pissed, but then he gets straight back to work.
We’ve got under two minutes to score. Or, at least, not let them do it again. Overtime will give us five more minutes to steal it, and the chance to finally break our losing streak is enough to sharpen everybody up.
The buzzer sounds, and we crowd around the bench. The TV timeout gives us just enough time to breathe and regroup.
“We’re taking this one,” I say, looking around at the guys. “One more shot is all we need.”
It takes three minutes and forty-seven seconds, but we get it. I hit Fox with a pass in the high slot, and he rips it blocker-side into the back of the net before their goalie even finishes his slide.
We swarm him with hugs and hollering.
“That’s fucking right!” Helm yells directly into my ear, probably killing off half my hearing.
We’re quick off the ice, run through the post-game routine in record time, and load onto the bus back to the hotel.
The good thing about this trip is we’re playing four teams in the Metro Division, three within about ten miles of each other, and Philly, two hours south. Which is where we’re headed tomorrow.
I pull my phone out to check the time and, fine, to see if I have any messages. It’s pushing eleven here, but Chicago’s an hour behind. If I’m lucky, Summer’s still up. I should’ve confirmed a time to call, but I was just happy she agreed to talk.
After the silent treatment this weekend, I was starting to worry these would be the most awkward months of my life. I want what we had that night at Sully’s—the ease, the laughter, the way everything between us just flowed.
Fox drops onto the seat next to mine and slings an arm over my shoulders. I slide my phone back into my pocket.
“Who you talking to, buddy?” He grins too wide.
“None of your business.”
“My ex?” he presses.
“It’s weird when you call her that,” I grumble. “You two never really dated.”
Something in my tone must slip, because his smile fades. “You’re right. I’ll stop giving you shit.” He pats my back, then sinks into his own seat. “But it was Summer?”
Sneaky fucker.
I tug at my cuff and shift my gaze to the window. “Just checking the time.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure.”
“Hey, you guys never… kissed or anything, right? Off camera, I mean. They never showed it on the show, but—” Christ, now I’m rambling.
“No. Definitely not,” he huffs, looking amused before he slides his earbuds in and pulls out his phone.
I let my head fall back, staring out the window for the rest of the drive.
By the time we get to the hotel, my legs are still shot, but my brain’s wired. I grab my bag, half-hear whatever Helm calls out, and head straight for my room.
I’m shoving the key card into the lock when Logan mutters, “Who lit a fire under his ass?”
The door swings shut on the guys’ laughter.
Ten minutes later, I’m in sweats, propped against the headboard, laptop on my thighs, Summer’s contact pulled up. I connect my headphones and hit call.
Her face fills my screen, hair in a messy bun, cheeks a little flushed. She’s gorgeous.
“You asked to call. You’ve got to give a girl some warning for FaceTime.”
I sink into the pillows. “Is that bad etiquette? I’m out of practice.”
“Yes, but I’ll forgive you this once.” Her lips curve.
There’s a brief pause, awkward in that still-figuring-each-other-out way. My gaze sweeps over the screen, wondering if she’s still in my bed… Fuck, I want her to be in my bed. Then I catch on something else.
“Is that my sweatshirt?”
Her chin dips, eyes darting down like she’s only just remembered what she’s wearing. “Oh. Yeah. I was cold, and it was hanging around. Figured you wouldn’t miss it if I borrowed it.”
My fingers clamp around the edge of the keyboard before I force them to let go. I swallow and scramble for something normal to say. “It looks good on you,” I manage. “I don’t mind.”
Understatement of the century.
Subject change. Yes. Subject change.
“So.” I clear my throat. “I’ve got good and bad news.”
Her mouth twitches. “Always give me the bad first.”
“You’re gonna have to send me a text before each game.”
“And the good?” She raises a brow.
“We won tonight.”
She lets out a huff of laughter. “Ah. Is this a weird hockey superstition thing?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“No pressure or anything.” Her teeth catch on her bottom lip. “All right, I think I can handle that.”
I force my attention up to her eyes. “The Saints thank you for your service.”
She smiles again, and I wonder how many I can get out of her before we hang up. Not a normal thought. Not for me, at least.
I’m usually counting down the polite amount of time before I can wrap things up, but with Summer, I’m trying to find a way to keep her on the line.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Tell me about your first day.”
“Don’t you want to ride the high of the win?”
“I am.”
“By hearing about my bad day?”
I consider deflecting, but the truth comes out. “By hearing your voice.”
“Heck.” She giggles. “You’re smooth.”
I’d normally consider that true, but with her I feel anything but. I almost say so, but the words stay stuck in my throat. Better to let her believe I’m on the same page than admit how badly I’m not.
“So, your first day.” My voice drops. “How was it really?”
She sinks back against a pile of pillows. Her own bed, not mine. That’s definitely not disappointment. The neck of my sweatshirt bunches as she tucks her chin into it.
Fuck. I wonder if she’d look just as good in my jersey—who am I kidding? Of course she would.
“It was… a lot,” she admits. “Boone’s quiet, but in a way that makes you feel like every thought and action you have is being judged.”
My jaw tightens. “He gave you a hard time?”
“He didn’t love most of what I showed him.” She gives a tiny shrug. “Said I had ‘potential,’ which is just a fancy way of saying not there yet. He liked one page.”
“What was it?” I shift, pulling my laptop closer, like I can shorten the distance between us that way.
“Something I wrote a couple of days ago.” Her attention flicks away for a second, then returns to me.
I can’t help thinking about our night together, but I don’t let myself hope that I’m what she wrote about.
A small grin tugs at her mouth. Two, I add another smile to the count. “You might be my good luck charm, too, you know.”
“Yeah?” I ask, a little too fast.
“I wrote that page after…” She trails off, then lets out a breath. “After a really good night.”
My pulse kicks. “Anything I can do to help?” I let the question hang there, not even sure myself what I’m offering.
“I…” She hesitates. “Don’t know yet.”
I hold her gaze through the screen. “You let me know when you do.”
“Okay,” she says, barely above a whisper.
She yawns, trying to hide it behind the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I should get going. I’ve got another early start tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, even though I’m not ready to hang up. “Sorry for calling so late.”
“I’m glad you did.” Her voice softens. “This was nice.”
“It was.” I drag my thumb along the edge of my laptop. “Oh, real quick. I’m not sure what your plans are for the holiday, but Logan and Hannah are hosting a dinner next Thursday… Do you want to come with me? Unless—were you planning to go home to spend time with your family?”
“No. Even if I wanted to, I can’t afford a flight—”
“If it’s a money thing, I could—”
“No,” she cuts me off just as fast. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d never take it. Anyway, I’ll be in the studio.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I fail to keep the edge out of my tone. “On Christmas?”
“Yep. Boone ended our session today by telling me we’re working every day but Monday, moving forward. When I double-checked that he meant Christmas too, his response was, ‘Is that a problem?’”
“Asshole,” I mutter. “What kind of Scrooge works on Christmas?”
“I know, but…” She shrugs. “Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and all.”
I bite back a few choice words about her producer. I’ve been called obsessive enough to know I can’t judge someone else’s process. If she believes in it, that’s all that matters.
“Well, he can’t keep you there all day,” I try.
She presses her lips together, then catches the bottom one between her teeth again. I take her hesitation as my cue to make my case.
“It’ll be fun. Everyone’s great. I want you to meet them.” If I can wrangle a locker room full of hockey players, I can convince Summer. “I already told Ryan I was bringing you—”
“You did?” Her brows draw together.
“Yeah. So…” I aim for casual. “Will you?”
“Okay,” she replies after a beat. “I might have to meet you there, though, depending on when I get out.”
“Great. It’ll be fun.” I already said that, but she lets me get away with it.
Her lips curve. Three. “Goodnight, Miles.”
“Night, Summer.”
I wait for her to disconnect the call, and get one more soft smile before the screen goes dark.
Four.