Still, the weight of the secret sits heavy in my chest.
I haven’t talked to Ava since Sunday night, unless you count team building activities, which I don’t. She’s been avoiding me, and I’ve been giving her space because I don’t know what else to do.
The problem is that I miss her. I miss the sound of her laugh, the press of her lips, and the way she makes me feel like I’m more than just a hockey player.
This isn’t the time, asshole.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to clear my thoughts. After months of living with facial hair, it feels unnatural to find only smooth skin, but there’s no way I’d take the ice without a fresh shave. It would be bad luck.
What can I say? Hockey players are superstitious motherfuckers.
The door to the locker room swings open, and Coach Carlyle steps inside. The room falls silent, and we all turn our attention his way. He’s wearing his game-day suit—I swear to god the man only has one—and his expression is calm but focused.
“Alright, boys.” His deep voice carries easily through the space. “I’m going to keep this short. What happened last season doesn’t matter. Preseason doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is what happens out there tonight.”
He jabs a finger toward the rink, letting his words sink in.
“This is a fresh start. We’re a new team and this is a new season. I want you to go out there and play the kind of hockey I know you’re capable of playing. Fast. Smart. Clean.” His gaze sweeps over the room, landing on each of us in turn. “You’veput in the work, and you’ve got the talent. Now it’s time to show Gliders Nation what this team is made of.”
There’s a chorus of agreement, sticks tapping against the floor in a rhythmic beat.
“Let’s go out there and kick some Canes ass,” Coach bellows.
The room erupts, the guys’ shouts and cheers blending into a cacophony of pregame confidence. I stand and pull on my helmet, the familiar surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
This moment right here. This is why I’ve always loved hockey.
The rush is unlike anything else in the world, matched only by sex.
I glance at the photo strip one more time, my fingers brushing over the images.
Focus, St. James. When you step onto that ice, there’s only the game.
Hockey has always been my escape. It’s the one place where the world falls away and all that matters is the ice, the puck, and the next play. I’ve built my life around the game, and I can’t let anything—even Ava—derail my focus.
Not when I’ve got so many people counting on me to deliver a winning season.
But as I lead the team out of the locker room, I can’t help but wonder if she’s here. If she’s in the stands watching, thinking about me like I’m thinking about her.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t. Not right now, anyway.
I need to lock in if we’re going to have any chance of winning tonight.
Coach is counting on me. My teammates are counting on me. And so are the 18,000 screaming fans who showed up to support their hometown team.
It’s a lot of fucking pressure, but I have broad shoulders.
The players’ tunnel is loud and cold, and the sounds of the crowd echo off the concrete walls as we pass through. A couple of the guys tap the Gliders mural painted on the wall and there are a few rowdy cries of “Let’s fucking go!” and then we’re at the edge of the ice, huddling up as we wait for the announcer to welcome us.
His voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Atlanta Gliders!”
The lights flash and music blares through the arena as McGinnis’s name is called. He steps onto the ice to take his rookie lap, and for the first time, his smile is genuine. The kid may be a pain in the ass, but it’s tradition for rookies to take the first lap solo at their NHL debut, and he’s earned this moment.
When my name is called, I bolt onto the ice.
The cold air hits my face, and I grin as I skate out to center ice, the deafening sound of the cheering crowd echoing through the arena.
Win or lose, thisis where I belong.