Chapter 20
I can’t believe how many texts I’ve sent Ziggy over the past twenty four-ish hours. One after another, with no response. Each one was more embarrassing than the first, but I don’t care. I’m just stubborn enough to make an absolute fool of myself in the name of getting what I need to succeed in my job. And that is all that this is.
: At least let me try to
convince you in person.
: I know you’re busy,
but this is important. We can
figure something out.
: Look, I get that
you’re mad. But
ignoring me won’t solve
anything.
: I'm serious, by the way.
Get a damn password
on your phone.
: You felt it, too, right?
I am heading into a stretch.
That night wasn’t a mistake.
: Just hear me out.
: I’m serious, Barnacle.
: You can tell me no,
but I’m saying it right now,
fuck that.
: I can’t focus
on anything else.
: What are you wearing?
: You still mad? Fine.
But at least talk to me.
: We can keep
it our secret. No one
else has to know. Just us.
: Tu es la personne la
plus irritante que j’ai
jamais rencontrée
: Envoie moi un
message en retour!!
: I give up. You can’t ignore
me if I’m also ignoring you.
: Just kidding, I’m the
ultimate mush.
: I’m waiting for you.
Don’t leave me hanging.
I’ll be seeing her in person soon enough, and she won’t be able to avoid me then. She has to give me an answer then. Preferably the answer that I want. This silence is driving me insane. Every unanswered text gnaws at my confidence, making me question if this proposal really is a terrible mistake. Maybe I’m fooling myself, thinking we can turn this uninhibited energy between us into something productive. But I can’t back down now; I need to see this through, to confront her face-to-face and force the issue. No more hiding behind screens. This has to be resolved, one way or another.
My phone rings and I answer it immediately, assuming it’s Ziggy. “It took you long enough,” I say. A deep, manly chuckle comes from the other line. What?
“Hello, Elliot. My name is Gordon Whitfield, we haven't met before but I am calling you with a proposition. I think you would be the perfect co-host for a podcast that I am starting.” Holy shit…is this really happening? Gordie Whitfield is a retired hockey player, famous for having the most championships in a career. What on earth does a guy like this want with me? “I’m sorry, sir. I just was not expecting this today. It is an absolute honor.”
The man laughs, “Cut the shit son, call me Gordie. I heard that you were putting out feelers about setting yourself up with something outside of the rink. I think we should set up a time for us to meet up because you are the perfect building block for the pod.”
This is amazing but now is really not the best time. My mind is all over the place. “Gordie, I am absolutely in but I’m in the middle of prepping for a game. Text me when, where, and how and I'll be available,” I say before hanging up the phone. As amazing as this opportunity is, I have to put this on the back burner and focus on my current priority, winning my next damn game.
The team and I are back home, preparing for another game, and I know Ziggy will be here. I may have asked… I had to make sure I run into her while she is doing her usual rounds and get her to talk to me. My mind keeps wandering back to that night in New Jersey, our argument, the desperate passion that followed. It's maddening to think that she could just forget it all. Walk away and pretend it didn’t happen instead of seeing what we could make of it. Well, I won't let her pretend.
I get to the rink early, hoping to catch her before she gets too busy. The locker room buzzes with an exciting energy, but I am laser focused. I have one mission and it's seeing Ziggy again, demanding an answer, making her acknowledge that what happened between us could prove useful. I check my phone one last time before heading out to the media area—still nothing from her.
As I make my way through the corridors, heading toward the media check-in desk, my eyes rake through a group of reporters talking. As I catch sight of her, my breath hitches. There she is. She looks incredible, her outfit commanding attention with effortless style. She has on a tailored plaid blazer that cinches perfectly at her waist, accentuating her figure. Underneath, a sleek black crop top hints at her toned midriff, while high-waisted pants make her legs look incredible. The blazer’s classic pattern stands out against the modern cut of her outfit, which somehow blends confidence and elegance that makes it impossible to look away. She radiates a powerful presence, even though the sight of her only fuels my frustration. I square my shoulders and walk straight over, not caring who sees or what they think.
“Ziggy,” I call out, my voice sharper than I intend it to be.
She turns quickly with a look of surprise, replaced by a guarded expression. “Elliot, what are you doing here?”
“I think you know,” I reply, stepping closer. The other reporters start to drift away, sensing the tension.
She sighs, clearly not in the mood for this confrontation. “I’m working. I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Well, you’ve been ignoring my texts, so we’re doing this now,” I say, refusing to back down. “We need to talk.”
She glances around, probably hoping for an escape. When none presents itself, she folds her arms and fixes me with a glare. “Fine. What do you want, Elliot?”
“I want you to give my proposal another thought. At least hang out with me one more time. You have the ability to make me play like I’ve never played before. We need to figure this out. What happened between us—”
“What happened between us was a mistake,” she interrupts, her tone icy. “We both got carried away. End of story.”
“You’re driving me crazy,” I snap back, my frustration boiling over. “Just have sex with me again. Please, Ziggy”
Her eyes flash with anger as she hisses at me. “You really want to do this now?” she asks, her voice lower, more controlled.
“Yes, I do,” I say firmly. “Because I can’t focus on anything else. You are having a direct effect on my game and my life. I need to know if you are the reason I can focus again.”
She seems to consider my words, then sighs again. “Alright, fine. We’ll try it one more time. But I’m not even attracted to you. I find you repulsive. I probably can’t even sleep with you again, Elliot.”
Relief and irritation wash over me. “I can live with that,” I mutter. “And I know one thing just like death and taxes, the thought of fucking me has you dripping right now.”
“I hate you,” she replies, her tone challenging. “Go away before someone starts asking questions.”
I smirk at her, knowing that I have her. Even if it’s just a small sliver, I understand this is as much of a victory as I'm going to get right now. “I’ll see you later, then.”
She agreed to try again. It isn't my version of a perfect solution, but it's a start. The next game is in only a few hours, and I need to clear my head and focus. But at least now, I have hope that my perfect pregame ritual is right around the corner. Because that's all this can be with Ziggy.
The team is fired up as we gear up for the game. Everyone is buzzing, focused and ready, but my mind is still partially on Ziggy. Seeing her and talking to her only intensified my resolve. I can’t afford to let this situation mess with my head any longer. With a thought of how she tasted and how she felt, my mind settles, and I’m ready to take on the world.
I go through my pregame routine with a newfound determination. Every stretch and every warm-up drill is completed with an intensity that borders on obsessive. I have to channel all this frustration, all this pent-up energy, into the game. Ziggy agreed to give it another shot, and that has to be enough to get me through tonight. It has to be enough for the game to go perfectly.
As we hit the ice, the roar of the crowd fills the arena, and a wave of sound reverberates through my bones. This is it. Another chance to prove myself, to shake off the doubts and distractions plaguing me. I focus on the puck, on the players, on the game plan that Coach drilled into us. The first period flies by in a blur of action and adrenaline. Every save and every play is executed with precision. We are playing well, but I know we have to keep pushing. The pressure is on, and I can feel the weight of expectations—my own and everyone else’s—bearing down on me.
By the second period, I can feel my internal conflict easing, my confidence growing with every passing second. We are ahead, and I am making saves left and right, each one reinforcing the belief that I am back on top of my game. It feels good—no, it feels incredible. For the first time in weeks, I'm back in the zone, completely immersed in the rhythm of the game. The crowd’s energy amps my own, propelling me to perform at my best. Ziggy’s words echo in my mind, a constant reminder to stay focused and push myself harder. She might hate me, but she has some sort of effect on me in the most infuriating way, and that is all the motivation I need. I won't let anyone down. This is my redemption, my chance to show everyone, including her, that I can rise above the chaos and reclaim my place as the best.