16
Nash
I was one of the last guys to make it into the locker room, which almost never happened. Normally, I was one of the first because I liked sticking to my routine. But today? Today was a fucking mess.
My long overdue talk with Kennedy had made me later than I’d realized.
And part of the reason was me not wanting to leave her, so I’d procrastinated.
Then when I was packing up and getting ready, and she was making us a quick lunch, she got a call that she needed to head into work for a few hours. On a fucking Sunday.
I could tell from her expression that it annoyed her, but she kept her tone professional when she spoke to her boss. Later, she explained to me that it had something to do with the Men’s Advantage project and Trevor Price, the Los Angeles quarterback.
I had a reputation as a playboy, sure. But Trevor? Trevor was the real thing—complete with tabloid scandals and a trail of women he’d left pissed off. I didn’t love the idea of Kennedy having to deal with his bullshit, especially not alone.
But after the morning we’d had—after everything we’d said and everything we’d finally admitted—I felt a hell of a lot better about it than I would’ve before.
Still . . . I didn’t know if she’d make the game. And it felt like I really needed her there tonight. After unloading years of feelings, fears, and almosts, I felt raw, like the emotional hangover had knocked me off my game before I even stepped onto the ice.
The noise level in the locker room was loud and familiar.
The kind of chaos that usually grounded me.
Guys talked over one another, the sound of tearing tape and clattering sticks and clinking skates echoing in the background.
Most of them were already half suited up.
Mitch caught my eye the second I walked in.
His brows shot up, and before I could even get to my stall, he was already heading toward me.
“Hey,” he said, dropping onto the bench beside me as I started pulling off my suit jacket.
“Hey,” I echoed, trying to sound casual.
He studied me for a beat. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
I flashed him a quick grin over my shoulder, and his face brightened. “You worked it out then?”
“Yeah. We did.”
His grin widened until he looked like a damn golden retriever. “Good for you. Is that why you’re late?”
“That and Kennedy got called into work.”
Mitch’s face twisted into a sympathetic grimace. “Today? Seriously?”
I just nodded, tugging my sweater over my head.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Men’s Advantage thing. Trevor Price.”
Mitch let out a low whistle. “Yeesh. Good luck to her.”
I just nodded, starting to unbutton my pants. It was time to get my thoughts back to hockey. But even as I adjusted my pads and taped my stick with practiced motions, Kennedy lingered at the edges of my mind.
We took the ice, and as usual, the crowd roared, the music blasted, and the lights flashed.
Normally, that was all it took to get my blood pumping, to flip the switch to get me into game mode.
But not tonight. I tried to focus on the feel of the ice beneath my skates, the rush of air in my lungs as I pushed harder, the deafening cheers crashing down around me, but none of it had the same appeal it normally did. It all just felt like background noise.
All I seemed to be able to focus on was Kennedy’s empty seat.
The puck dropped, signaling the start of the first period, but my head wasn’t in it. No matter how hard I tried, I played like crap. Worse than I had in years.
When I missed what should’ve been an easy goal, there was a collective groan from the crowd.
Seconds later, I messed up a pass, letting the puck slip right by me—a mistake so basic it was embarrassing.
I could feel the eyes of the crowd on my back, the disappointment palpable as I went to the bench for a line switch.
Coach had been studying me with that sharp look of his when I came off the ice the first time. By the third switch, when I returned to the bench after barely touching the puck, he wasn’t as quiet.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Coach barked, his voice low but pissed. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Get your shit together, Reed, and fast. This is an important game. I need you locked in.”
“I know . . .”
And I did know. I also knew exactly what my problem was.
A tiny little thing with long dark hair and bright-blue eyes who had gotten under my skin so deep she was bleeding into my game.
Kennedy not being here shouldn’t be able to throw me off my game like this, but here I was, completely unraveling.
I cursed under my breath as I dropped onto the bench, knowing I needed to handle this better. I’d never let anything interfere with my game before, not injuries, pressure, or noise from the media.
But tonight, my head was a fucking tornado.
“What the fuck was that, Reed?” Jones growled, glaring at me. “You were fucking wide open.”
“I know. I fucking know,” I muttered, the frustration coiling tighter in my gut.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sampson watching me like he was trying to figure out why my play had suddenly gone to shit. “That was a rookie mistake,” he commented with more heat than usual. I clenched my jaw, knowing he wasn’t wrong.
Normally, I wouldn’t take shit from Sampson—especially knowing he had his eyes on Kennedy—but I couldn’t afford to get into that right now. I had to lock in. Game first, then Kennedy. After that, I could worry about Josh fucking Sampson.
“Get your head out of your ass, man,” Jones snarled again, tossing his gloves onto the floor.
And I tried. But it didn’t matter what I did—I kept making mistake after mistake. By the end of the first period, Coach had lost it. He slammed the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. The locker room went dead silent.
Then he lit into me, harder than I’d ever been chewed out before.
“Reed, what the hell is going on with you?” he snapped. “You look like you left your brain in the parking lot! I don’t care what’s bothering you, you need to wake the hell up! You think you can coast on talent? News flash: you can’t when you’re not using any of it!”
The embarrassment burned in my chest.
Not because he was wrong.
But because he was right.
And because Kennedy’s voice, her tears, her touch . . . it was all still echoing in my head louder than the damn crowd.
He made it painfully clear: if I didn’t get it together and score soon, I’d be riding the bench for the rest of the game. He didn’t say what it would mean for my future, but I could imagine it wouldn’t be good.
“Fuck,” I muttered, clenching my fists as we headed back toward the ice.
“Nash.” Mitch nudged me, coming up beside me. “Just play the game. Get out of your fucking head!”
I knew he was right.
And I tried to force myself to focus, I really did.
“Shake it off, man,” Bryce, our big enforcer, muttered as he walked past me.
“I fucking know,” I snapped, frustrated.
“You’re thinking too much, Nash. That’s all,” Mitch said, trying to calm me down. “Let go and just play. Enjoy the game.”
When I took the ice for the second period, I tried to focus more on just playing.
One shift at a time. One pass at a time.
I managed to get off a great pass to Larsson, who took a solid shot at the goal.
The crowd cheered, even though the goalie saved it.
Still, Coach gave me a nod from the bench, acknowledging I’d finally woken up.
As I skated back toward the booth, my eyes automatically went to the stands, to Kennedy’s seat, only to find her actually sitting there. Both she and Sammy wore Empires jerseys with my name and number on them.
Kennedy looked a little flustered, her cheeks red like she’d rushed to get there, but when she raised her hand with a small smile on her lips, that was all the motivation I needed.
It was crazy how fast everything shifted. Just seeing her in the crowd, cheering for me, turned my entire game around.
We won the game, and my performance added a couple of goals and an assist to the board. Coach looked proud, probably thinking it was his “encouraging” talk after the first period that had gotten me focused. It wasn’t, but I didn’t correct him.
As I made my way off the ice, I got stopped by the sports network for a postgame interview.
Irritating as hell, considering all I wanted to do was find Kennedy, but I knew how it went.
Interviews were part of the job—especially when it was live on a major network.
So I slapped on a smile, gave them the few required minutes, and got through it as fast as I could before heading for the locker room.
Now that Kennedy and I had gotten things out in the open, there was no way I’d keep what I felt hidden from her.
I’d tried that for years, and it had gotten me nowhere.
Instead, I’d poured all that frustration into hockey, which had pushed my career to the top but left my personal life empty.
Only now was I beginning to understand how shallow that existence had been.
“Way to fucking step it up, man,” Mitchell said the second I walked into the locker room. The place was loud, the guys in various stages of undress, yelling over one another and riding the high of the win.
“Thanks,” I muttered, yanking my jersey over my head and peeling off my pads. I was drenched in sweat, and all I wanted was a shower and to get the hell out of there.
“Fucking awesome finish, Reed!” Bryce hollered from across the room, a few others chiming in.
“Thanks!”
“Something got you all fired up,” Larsson yelled from where he stood next to Bryce in nothing but his underwear.
“Yeah . . . something.” I grinned, unable to hide it.
Mitchell chuckled, probably knowing exactly who that “something” was.
“You coming to O’Reilly’s with us?” Bryce asked.
I grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from my face. “Nah. Not tonight.” I had more important things to do than hang around in a bar.
“Seriously, man, we should celebrate,” Bryce pressed.
“You go ahead—celebrate enough for both of us,” I said, grabbing my bag and heading for the showers. On the way, I caught Mitchell’s gaze. He gave me a knowing nod, silent approval that told me he understood exactly where my head was at.
“What the fuck, Nash?” Jones snickered behind me.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. “What?”
“Dude,” Bryce said, laughing now. “What the hell happened to your back?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Bryce’s gaze dropped to between my shoulders. “Looks like you screwed something wild this time.”
Larsson let out a low whistle. “Jesus, Reed. Those aren’t scratches. Those are full-on claw marks.”
The guys erupted in laughter, and I felt a slow grin tug at my mouth. Yeah, they were from Kennedy. And I wasn’t about to be embarrassed about it.
Mitchell just shook his head, grinning.
“Guess that explains why you’re skipping O’Reilly’s,” Bryce said, still laughing.
“Guess it does,” I said, continuing toward the showers. If they wanted to talk, let ’em. I had somewhere better to be—and someone a hell of a lot more important waiting for me.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Sampson’s head snapping up. His gaze zeroed in on the marks, his jaw tightening. My grin only widened.