Chapter 16 Skyler
Skyler
The team bus smelled like coffee, sleep deprivation, and weary anticipation.
Five in the morning was an ungodly hour to be conscious, let alone functional, and the twenty-three men crammed into this stupid metal tube showed it.
Half the guys were already passed out against windows, headphones in, dead to the world.
The other half clutched oversized coffees like lifelines, staring at nothing with the hollow expressions of people who’d made questionable choices the night before.
I was in the second category.
Not because I’d been out partying—I hadn’t—but because I’d spent way too long staring at my phone after texting Jacks, replaying our conversation.
I’ll miss hanging out.
I’d typed that. Sent it. Put it out into the universe like some kind of lovesick—
No. Not lovesick. That wasn’t the right word.
I was . . . going to miss my friend.
That was normal. Friends missed each other.
That I’d barely slept after saying good night, my brain running in circles about tacos and floating restaurants and the way he’d called me “Sky” like it was the most natural thing in the world, meant nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it to the floor before clutching it so hard I thought the case might crack.
Jacks: You awake yet or did you sleep through your alarm like a responsible adult?
I grinned despite my exhaustion.
Me: Been awake since 4. On the plane now. Send help.
Jacks: Help in what form? Coffee? Motivational quotes? A time machine to undo your career choice?
Me: All the above.
Jacks: Best I can do is a picture of your booth. As promised.
An image loaded. It showed the corner booth at Barbacks, empty and waiting, with a handwritten sign taped to the table that read: “RESERVED FOR HOCKEY IDIOTS. VIOLATORS WILL BE GLITTERED.”
I laughed out loud, earning a confused look from Tyler in the seat across the aisle.
Me: Did Benji make that sign?
Jacks: Who else? He wanted to add “Property of Skyler Shaw,” but I convinced him that might attract the wrong kind of attention.
Me: Your restraint is appreciated.
Jacks: Yeah, I’m a saint.
Me: Let’s not get carried away.
Jacks: Have a safe flight. Text me when you land?
Me: Will do.
I shoved my phone into the pocket on the seat in front of me and leaned my head against the window, watching the Tampa skyline slip past in the pre-dawn darkness, never even considering why Jacks was awake and seeing the same majestic sunrise.
He had no reason to get up. He was a night owl, a late sleeper, a—
Man awake and texting at five o’clock in the morning.
That meant something, right? Or maybe he couldn’t sleep. He might have an early morning workout (though I knew that would never happen). Or maybe Mark insisted on some ridiculous planning breakfast. Before the sun rose. About a bar that was doing well and didn’t need intensive planning.
Right.
Two weeks. Fourteen days. I could survive that.
The plane groaned as its wheels folded into themselves and we rose toward the clouds. I let my eyes close, trying to catch a few minutes of rest. Instead, my brain did what it had been doing for three days straight: replayed the moment under the oak tree.
The wind.
The curls falling across his forehead.
My hand moving without permission, brushing them back, my fingers grazing his skin—
And then that look: the way his whole body had gone still and the way his eyes had widened, fixing on my face with an intensity that made my chest feel like it was caving in.
I’d panicked.
That was the only word for it.
Full-on, fight-or-flight panic that had sent me scrambling for the main street like I was fleeing a crime scene.
What the hell had I been thinking?
The answer, of course, was that I hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem. Around Jacks, my brain seemed to malfunction, leaving my body to make decisions that my conscious mind couldn’t explain.
Hair in someone’s face was annoying, I told myself. I was helping a friend.
That’s all it was.
That touching him had felt like grabbing a live wire—charged and dangerous and impossible to let go of—was irrelevant.
“You’re brooding.”
I opened my eyes to find Tyler watching me from across the aisle, coffee in hand, his expression caught somewhere between bemused and concerned.
“I’m resting.”
“You’re brooding. I know the difference.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Uh-huh.” Tyler’s tone suggested he didn’t believe me for a second. “You’ve been weird since Sunday, walking around with this dopey look on your face.”
“I don’t have a dopey look.”
“You absolutely have a dopey look. Murph’s been doing impressions.”
Great. That was exactly what I needed.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
Tyler studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, but when you’re ready to talk about whatever’s going on, I’m here.”
“There’s nothing—”
“I know, I know. Nothing to talk about.” He smiled and settled back into his seat. “Get some rest, Cap. Long flight ahead.”
I closed my eyes again, but sleep was impossible.
My brain kept cycling through the same questions it had been asking for three days.
Why had I touched him?
Why had it felt like that?
And why couldn’t I stop thinking about it?
The flight to Seattle was five and a half hours of turbulence, bad airplane coffee, and Murph’s running commentary on every movie available on the in-flight entertainment system.
I spent most of it pretending to sleep while actually staring at the ceiling and spiraling.
By the time we landed, checked into the hotel, and dragged ourselves to the arena for a light practice, I was running on fumes.
Thankfully, Coach kept the skate short—enough to shake off the travel rust—and by mid-afternoon, we were back at the hotel with the evening free.
Most of the guys scattered to their rooms to nap. I collapsed onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, phone in hand, composing and deleting texts to Jacks.
Me: Made it. Seattle is wet.
Delete. Too boring.
Me: Survived the flight. Murph only annoyed me 47 times.
Delete. Too focused on Murph. We always talked about that moron.
Me: Missing Tampa already.
Delete. Too . . . something I couldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . just too something.
In the end, I sent:
Me: Touchdown. Hotel’s nice. How’s my booth?
His response came almost immediately.
Jacks: Happy to report booth is secure, sir. No infiltrators attempted entry. Benji added more signs. You now have a “VIP Section” designation.
Me: I’m honored.
Jacks: You should be. Benji doesn’t bestow VIP status lightly.
Me: What are the perks of VIP status?
Jacks: Slightly faster service and Benji will only judge your drink orders a bit instead of a lot.
Me: Living the dream.
Jacks: Nightmares are dreams, too, ya know?
We texted back and forth for another hour.
It flowed in the same easy banter we’d fallen into over the past few weeks.
He told me about a customer who’d tried to order a “surprise me” cocktail and then complained about every option Benji suggested.
I told him about Murph’s in-flight attempt to convince Erik that the plane was haunted.
It was comfortable.
It was fun.
It also made the distance feel a bit smaller, like he was right there instead of 2,800 miles away.
When I put my phone down to grab dinner with the team, I realized I’d been smiling for the better part of an hour.
The next few days blurred together in a haze of practices, games, and hotel rooms. We beat Seattle 4 to 2 on Thursday night, then flew to Vancouver for a Saturday matinee that we won in overtime.
The team was clicking, the wins were piling up, and by all objective measures, the road trip was going great.
But I was still distracted. Erik hadn’t been wrong.
I managed to stay focused on the ice. I’d learned long ago to compartmentalize, to leave everything else at the boards and focus on the game. Off the ice, in the quiet hours between practices and puck drops, my mind kept wandering to places it had no business visiting.
Places like Barbacks.
Places like oak trees.
Places like the curve of Jacks’s smile when he was trying not to laugh, and the way his eyes twinkled in the awful lighting that hung above the service area of the bar.
The more we talked, the more I wanted to talk.
The more I learned about him, the more I wanted to know.
Every conversation left me hungry for the next one, counting hours until my phone would buzz with his name.
That wasn’t normal friendship.
I knew it wasn’t.
But I didn’t know what else to call it.
On Monday morning, the day before we flew to Calgary, Coach called a team meeting in the hotel conference room.
“Quick update before practice,” he said, standing at the front of the room while we sprawled in chairs around him. “Schedule change. The league moved our Calgary game to Tuesday night instead of Wednesday, which means we fly out tonight instead of tomorrow morning.”
Groans rippled through the room. Schedule changes were never fun, especially mid-trip.
“I know, I know, but it also means we get an extra day in Edmonton before that game, so consider it a wash.” Coach glanced at his clipboard. “Room assignments are staying the same for the rest of the trip. Grab your stuff and be in the lobby by 6 p.m.”
The meeting broke up, guys scattering to pack and prepare for another flight. I was halfway to the elevator when Erik fell into step beside me.
“Hey, Cap. Got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Erik glanced around, checking that no one was within earshot, then lowered his voice. “I have news, big news. I was going to wait until we were back in Tampa, but I can’t keep it in anymore. If I don’t tell somebody, I’m going to explode.”
“I’m not fuckin’ cleaning that up, so you’d better tell me.”