Chapter 33
NATHAN
The thing about being a goalie is that you can’t afford to live in your own head. Not for a second. The moment you start thinking about anything except the game, you’re screwed. One blink, one heartbeat, one slip of focus, and the puck’s already behind you, hitting the back of the net.
And tonight, my head is a fucking disaster.
The arena is packed, the crowd a constant dull roar behind the glass, students screaming themselves hoarse. My teammates are flying, sticks clattering, skates cutting deep grooves in the ice, everyone locked in—except me. I’m supposed to be razor-sharp, dialed in. Instead, my brain’s distracted.
Every time he skates by, my eyes betray me. I can’t help it. I know I should be tracking the play of the other team, but I keep finding him.
My chest squeezes, a quick flash of pain I try to swallow down. It’s been six days. Six days since I walked out of his room, six days since I watched his face shutter closed, since I felt something snap between us. Something I have no clue how to put back together, and it’s costing me.
My glove’s slow on a shot I could usually catch blindfolded, and the puck dings off the post, hitting the back of the net. Fuck. I grind my teeth behind the mask.
I slam my stick against the post. I know my dad is probably yelling at me to get my shit together from the bench, but all I hear is the pounding in my ears.
I’m supposed to be better than this.
I try to shake it off, telling myself to focus on the game, but my brain is back in his bed—his mouth on mine, his laugh muffled against my skin, the way he looked at me like I was more than just a teammate.
I miss him. I miss him so much it feels like I can’t breathe.
But there’s no time to think about it, because the next play comes at me fast. Fuck, these guys are on fire tonight. Their center steals the puck from Austin and zips it out wide, and suddenly there are three bodies flying at me.
I drop low and keep my legs wide, doing everything I can to keep my head in the game, but I can’t stop glancing left, tracking Logan as he tears across the ice, fighting for position.
The puck bounces loose in the slot, a blur of skates and sticks, and then one of their forwards charges straight through the crease and doesn’t even try to stop. He crashes into me, hard, his shoulder jamming into my chest. I lose my balance and hit the post.
Before I can even suck in a breath, all hell breaks loose.
Ryan’s already shoving their center out of the crease, Austin’s got a glove in another guy’s face, and Cole grabs the closest jersey, hauling the kid backwards. But Logan grabs the guy who knocked into me, keeping his hands on his chest and slamming him hard against the glass.
The other guy tries to shove him back, but Logan pins him there, fist in the kid’s jersey, not letting him move and then Logan’s gloves fly off. Oh, fuck.
Austin shouts, skating over, trying to haul him back. It’s pointless. The refs are blowing their whistles, rushing in, trying to peel everyone off as bodies crash to the ice, but nobody’s listening.
Cole moves in, gets an arm around Logan’s chest, trying to pull him away. “Alright, man, that’s enough.”
Logan finally lets go, giving the guy one last shove before backing off.
His helmet’s slightly crooked when he skates right back to me, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “You alright?”
It’s the first time we’ve spoken since that night in his room. The first time he’s looked at me like this—like I’m still his.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I snap.
He steps closer, his breath steaming up between us. “No one touches my goalie.”
The words slice through me, cutting me open in front of everyone.
I swallow hard, keeping my eyes on his, wanting to rip off this mask, grab his jersey, and kiss him right here in the middle of the ice. Screw the crowd, screw the refs, screw everything.
But before I can move, before I can do something reckless and irreversible, the refs drag him away. His gaze lingers on me for one heartbeat longer, and then he’s gone, skating off to the penalty box.
I straighten, flex my sore shoulder, and reset in the crease, but my chest won’t settle.
Because all I can think about is how much I want to run after him. To be brave. To tell him I don’t care who sees, I don’t care if it complicates everything. We were happy, and I’ve never been happier than when I was his.
I don’t know how we’re supposed to go back to being just teammates after sharing a bed, after the kisses and touches that felt like they meant something.
I had my chance to say more, to do more, and I let it slip away because I was afraid. I was a fucking coward, and because of that, I lost him.
I blink hard behind my mask, force my eyes back to the play at hand, knowing I need to focus. But every piece of me—my mind, my heart, fucking everything—is stuck on him.