Chapter 8 Skyler
Skyler
Coach blew the whistle so hard I was surprised it didn’t shatter.
“Shaw! What the hell was that?”
I knew exactly what it was.
It was me missing an easy pass from Tyler because my head was three thousand miles away from the ice—and it was the fourth time that practice.
Coach’s patience had run out.
“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again.”
“It better not. You’re supposed to be setting an example out here, not skating around like you forgot what a puck looks like.”
As he skated off to terrorize someone else, I took a moment to hate myself in peace.
He was right. My timing was garbage, my reads were slow, and I’d nearly collided with Erik twice during drills.
Tyler pulled up beside me, a cloud of ice dusting up as he scraped to a stop. “You okay, man? You seem out of it.”
“I’m fine, just tired.”
“We got back pretty late.” He nodded. “Didn’t sleep well after that?”
I thought about last night, about messaging Jacks, and about the conversation that had kept me awake long after I got home and ended with “Night, Skyler.” I chuckled at how stupid I was, checking my phone forty-seven times since waking up, hoping for a notification that never came.
What the fuck was my problem? Jacks was a dude, some guy I met. Sure, we joked and chatted like long-lost childhood friends, but that was all it was, a connection with another guy about guy stuff that was very typical of guys.
Somehow, in that moment, all that made sense in my mind. I may never understand how.
“Something like that,” I said.
Practice dragged on for another brutal hour. By the time Coach released us, my legs felt like jelly and my brain ached. I’d pulled it together enough to avoid further public humiliation, but barely.
The locker room was filled with our usual post-practice chaos. Guys stripped off gear, headed for showers, and chirped at each other about mistakes and close calls. The smells of sweat and musk-soaked equipment hung thick in the air, familiar and grounding, if a bit disgusting.
“Rough day, Cap?” Murph dropped onto the bench beside me, already half undressed and sounding oddly sympathetic. There wasn’t even a hint of his usual mischief in his tone. “Coach looked ready to bench you.”
“He wasn’t wrong. I was garbage out there.”
“Eh, we all have off days. You’ll bounce back.” Murph yanked off his skates and wiggled his toes. “Big plans tonight? You should get laid. That always helps. Or are you gonna mope around your apartment being sad and mysterious?”
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re a little mopey.”
“I have a date, fuck you very much.”
Murph’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh yeah? With who?”
“Girl I met at a charity thing a few weeks back. We’ve been hanging out between roadies.”
“The pharmaceutical rep? Hot blonde, drives the Tesla?”
“Yeah, Brooke. That’s her.”
“Nice.” Murph nodded. “She seems cool. Where are you taking her?”
“That Italian place on Harbour Island. The one with the good wine list.”
“Ooh, fancy. You must really like this one.”
I shrugged, hoping the gesture looked more casual than it felt. “We’ll see.”
The truth was I’d been dreading this dinner all day. Brooke was great. She was beautiful, whip-smart, and funny. She had a successful career and didn’t take any of my hockey bullshit too seriously. On paper, she was perfect.
But every time I thought about our next date, my stomach clenched in a way that had nothing to do with anticipation. I’d never been in love, but I was pretty sure stomach cramps weren’t what it was supposed to feel like.
I showered, changed, and headed for the parking lot.
My phone sat heavy in my pocket. I pulled it out, scrolled to my messages, and stared at the conversation with Jacks.
Our exchange from last night was still there.
He’d seemed surprised to hear from me, but he’d also been funny and quick, matching my energy in a way that felt effortless.
I wanted to text him again, maybe ask what he thought about my stomach-flipping issues with Brooke. Gay dudes were supposed to have some sixth sense about dating, weren’t they? Some genetic code that unlocked women in ways straight guys could never figure out?
The urge was so strong it almost startled me. I wanted to tell him about the disaster practice, ask about his day, maybe get another Space Duke update.
I wanted to hear him laugh.
And I wanted to see those little typing dots appear and know he was thinking of something to say back.
Shit. That felt weird. Just thinking those things felt . . . weird.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
The whole thing was too fucking weird.
Messaging him again less than twenty-four hours later would make me look desperate, or clingy, or plain strange. Normal people didn’t do that. Normal people waited a reasonable amount of time before reaching out again.
Whatever “reasonable” meant.
I drove home, showered again because I still smelled like hockey equipment, and got ready for my date.
Brooke was already at the restaurant when I arrived, looking stunning in a green dress that matched her eyes. She smiled when she saw me, warm and genuine, and I felt a familiar pang of guilt for not being more excited about this.
“Hey, handsome.” She stood to kiss my cheek. “Long day?”
“Brutal practice. Coach was on the warpath.”
“Poor baby.” She settled back into her seat and reached for her wine glass. “I ordered us a bottle of the Barolo. Hope that’s okay.”
“Me like hockey. Me like grape juice.”
Her laughter was immediate and pure as she raised her glass in mock salute.
The waiter appeared, poured my glass, and rattled off the specials with practiced enthusiasm. We ordered apps, made small talk about her day, and laughed about a disaster meeting she’d had with a particularly difficult doctor. Everything was easy and pleasant and exactly how a date should go.
So why did I feel like I was performing?
“You’re quiet tonight,” Brooke observed, twirling pasta around her fork. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m really tired.”
“You said that already.”
I had. Twice, actually. It was becoming my default excuse for everything.
“Work stuff,” I tried instead. “Season’s hitting that midpoint grind.”
She nodded, but something in her expression shifted, a small tightening around her eyes that suggested she wasn’t buying it.
Stupid women and their stupid ESP.
Thankfully, she ignored her spidey sense, and we moved on to her upcoming work trip to Chicago and my schedule for the next few weeks. Something reminded her of a movie she wanted to see and a restaurant a friend had recommended.
It was all surface conversation, pleasant and forgettable.
And my mind kept drifting.
“Skyler.”
I blinked. Brooke was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted dessert.” She paused. “But I don’t think you heard a word I said for the last five minutes.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry. I’m being terrible company tonight.”
“You’re not terrible.” She set down her fork and leaned back in her chair, studying me. “But you’re not here either, not really.”
I wanted to deny it.
To apologize again and promise to do better.
But she deserved more than deflection.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I admitted. “I feel like I’m in a fog.”
“Has something happened? At work, family stuff?”
“No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine. I . . .” I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence because I didn’t know how.
Brooke was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle.
“Can I be honest with you?”
“Always.”
“I like you, Skyler. You’re sweet and funny and reasonably good-looking.” A small smile. “But I’ve felt you pulling away since our first date. It seems like . . . like part of you is somewhere else, even when you’re right in front of me.”
The words landed somewhere in my chest, uncomfortable and true.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize it was that obvious.”
“It’s not obvious. I pay attention.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I don’t think you’re doing anything on purpose, and I don’t think it’s about me specifically. I think you’re working through something, even if you don’t know what it is yet.”
I stared at our joined hands, her fingers small and delicate against mine. She was beautiful and perfect. I should want this.
Why didn’t I want this?
Why didn’t I want her?
“I think,” Brooke said slowly, “that maybe we should stop pretending this is going somewhere it’s not.”
My head snapped up. “Brooke—”
“It’s okay.” Her smile was sad but sincere.
“I’m not angry. I’m not. These last few weeks have been fun, and you’ve been nothing but lovely; but I want someone who’s all in, you know?
Someone who looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.
You don’t look at me like that. I’m not sure you ever have. ”
I knew she was right.
And the fact that I felt more relieved than disappointed told me everything I needed to know.
“I’m so sorry, Brooke,” I said, and meant it. “You deserve better than someone who’s half present.”
“I deserve someone who’s excited to be with me. But so do you, Sky.” She squeezed my hand again before letting go. “But I meant what I said about liking you. I’d hate to lose you because the romance part didn’t work out.”
“You want to stay friends?”
“I want to stay close friends, because that’s what we’ve become, I think. Somewhere along the way, we’d skipped past dating and went straight to comfortable, which isn’t a bad thing. It’s just not what either of us was looking for.”
I blew out a breath and tried to keep the relief out of my eyes. “You’re handling this way better than I would.”
“Please. I’m going to go home, shove a bendy straw in a bottle of wine, and eat an entire pint of ice cream while watching sad movies; but I’ll do it knowing I made the right call.” She grinned. “And maybe in a few weeks, you can introduce me to one of your hot teammates. Fair trade?”
“Deal.” I laughed, surprised by how genuine it felt. “And I promise it won’t be Murph. I would never do that to you.”
We split the check, which she insisted on despite my protests. Outside the restaurant, the night air was warm and humid, which was typical Florida weather, even in January. Brooke hugged me tight, and I hugged her back, grateful for her honesty and grace.
“Figure out what’s going on in that head of yours,” she said against my shoulder. “And when you do, tell me. I’m curious.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
She pulled back, studied my face for a moment, then nodded like she’d confirmed something to herself.
“Take care of yourself, Skyler.”
“You, too, Brooke.”
I watched her walk to her car, watched her Tesla’s lights flash as she unlocked it, and watched her drive away. For God knows how long, I stood alone in the parking lot, hands in my pockets, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.
Brooke was amazing.
Any guy would be lucky to be with her.
And I’d felt . . . nothing.
Friendship, sure. Affection, absolutely.
But that spark, that pull, that intangible thing that was supposed to make your heart race and your palms sweat?
Nada.
It had been like that with the last few women I’d dated, too, now that I thought about it. We’d had nice dinners, pleasant conversation, and everything was fine, but there’d been no fire or urgency or desperate need to see them again.
There was supposed to be fire, wasn’t there?
I wanted fire, damn it, a giant, blazing bonfire of desire and hope and everything else that came with it. Why couldn’t I have that? Was it too big of a dream?
I could harbor hopes of hefting the Cup, but fantasizing about a relationship in which longing met deepening companionship was somehow too much?
Maybe I was burned out.
Too focused on hockey to have room for anything else.
That happened to athletes sometimes.
The season consumed everything, left no space for a personal life.
That had to be it.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. The conversation with Jacks was still there, patient and waiting.
I typed out a quick message without thinking. I needed the comfort of a friend. I needed something that felt grounded and safe and real.
Me: How’s your Friday going? Any fake astronauts tonight?
Then I deleted it.
It was too soon to text Jacks. I sounded too eager, even for a friend.
I was too . . . whatever.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and headed for my car.
Tomorrow.
I’d message him tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Whenever felt normal and casual and not at all like I’d been thinking about it constantly.
I drove home with the radio off, replaying the evening in my head. Brooke’s words kept circling back: Part of you is somewhere else.
She wasn’t wrong.
But I had no idea where that somewhere else was and even less of an idea how to find it.