The Worst Kind of Promise: Chapter 33

After Faye fell asleep, I took a container of Clorox wipes and snuck back down to the rink. Yes, it was around four in the morning. Yes, I probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Yes, I barely remember going down there at all. But no way in hell was I going to leave it to the janitors. What if they didn’t clean all of it up? What if my teammates said there was a weird smell coming from the penalty box? I would’ve died from embarrassment on the spot.

I’m off my game this practice, and it’s glaringly obvious. Bristol keeps shouting at me to pick up the pace; I can’t save or sink a shot if my life depended on it. I’ve been a complete mess. Inside my glove, my hand’s swollen to twice its size. Not just that, but I’m pretty sure I ran into the plexiglass a few times and apologized. The only thing keeping me somewhat alert is the cold-ass atmosphere.

I’ve been doing a passing drill for the past ten minutes with Fulton, but it’s felt closer to an hour. The puck ping-pongs back and forth between us, the blades of our sticks scuffing against the surface of the ice, a thwacking sound echoing around the arena each time we land a hit. The next time the puck comes toward me, I accidentally overshoot, sending it flying over near the penalty box.

“I got it!” Fulton shouts, even though I’m only a few feet away from him.

I’m glad it’s the off-season, otherwise this would be the saddest performance of my life. Faye’s been a welcome distraction, but a distraction, nonetheless. I haven’t been practicing as much as everyone else. And the guys have been riding my ass about it.

I try to rub out the migraine bashing my cranium in like a mallet, but I forget that my helmet kind of prevents me from doing so. I blink a few times, shaking my head as if that’ll somehow appease the pain.

And then a yell desecrates the peacefulness of our practice.

“Guys, come over here!”

It’s Fulton, and he’s waving the group over enthusiastically. Jesus, I can never catch a break with him. Only four years younger than me, and he’s already sucking my life force out with a straw. I groggily tramp over to him as the rest of the guys form a half circle, expressions of boredom being passed around like a half-lit joint at a party.

He’s hunched over so we can’t see what he’s looking at, but then he turns around with his stick brandished out in front of him, something colorful hanging off the blade. At first, I have no idea what it is. Maybe a jersey someone left behind. But then my focus sharpens, and the light bulb in my head turns on.

The access door to the penalty box is open.

That’s not a regular piece of clothing hanging off his stick.

That’s a pair of underwear.

And not just any pair of underwear, but Faye’s hot-pink thong.

Oh. My. God. How could I have not noticed that? How could she have not remembered to put her panties back on? There are so many thoughts running laps through my head, but none of them make it off the tip of my tongue. Instead, all I do is start to choke on my own spit.

“What in the holy hell is that?” Casen exclaims, flinching away from it like it’s some kind of radioactive material.

A shit-eating grin inches across Gage’s face. “It’s a thong.”

Casen rolls his eyes. “I know that, twat waffle. Why was it in the penalty box?”

“Someone put the sin in sin-bin,” Hayes snickers under his breath, leaning on his propped-up stick.

He definitely would not be saying that if he knew who they belonged to. Chill out, Kit. You’re fine. They don’t know it’s Faye’s. They don’t know you were the one who ripped them off. They don’t know you were buried between her thighs less than twenty-four hours ago. All I have to do is act normal.

Bristol cringes, his brow wrinkling. “Jesus. I hope they sanitized the box. That has to be some kind of health hazard.”

Fulton turns his stick, inspecting the underwear at a safe distance. “One of us has to be responsible for it, right?”

“I’m kinky, but not that kinky,” Gage replies. “Honestly, props to whoever had their balls out on the ice.”

Bristol sighs exasperatedly. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

Nerves wriggle inside me, taking me for a tailspin, and the wad of saliva in my mouth seems to be growing with each passing moment. My stomach flip-flops with a concoction of fear and nausea, the previous discomfort from my headache nothing but a near-unnoticeable hum now.

Fulton aims his stick at Hayes, swinging it around like he’s gonna shoot the panties as a projectile. Everyone ducks accordingly…except for me. My ramrod back won’t let me. Every muscle inside of me is tenser than the day after a full-body workout.

“You and Aeris spend a lottt of time together,” Fulton accuses.

Hayes moves the stick aside with his glove, deadpanning. “Aeris doesn’t own any pink underwear. And I would know, considering I’ve seen her entire collection. Plus, pretty sure my balls would shrivel up in this temperature.”

Fulton curses, choosing Bristol as his next target. I can practically see all the potential theories burning rubber in his head. All he’s missing is a magnifying glass, a pipe, and an oversized trench coat. “And what about you, Bristol?”

“Lila and I…aren’t seeing each other anymore,” he admits with a dismayed frown. “I just don’t think I’m looking for a relationship right now.”

“Yikes. Sorry about that, bud.”

All the guys mumble out variations of “sorry” and dish out pats for their fallen comrade, the ambience of the rink becoming increasingly more awkward than it already was.

With a vexed—and slightly defeated—huff, Fulton sets his sights on Casen, underwear swaying in his direction. “C’mon, Case. You can’t tell me that you and Josie don’t get up to some freaky stuff in the bedroom.”

Casen clucks his tongue. “We do, but a hockey rink is the least romantic place I can think of. She’d castrate me if I surprised her with a quickie in the goddamn penalty box.”

“Arrgh!” With his free hand, Fulton jams the heel of his gloved palm into his eye socket. “It has to be yours, Kit. You have a roster of single ladies at your disposal. You called one of them up the other night, fucked like rabbits in the penalty box, and she left her underwear behind. I’m right, aren’t I? Tell me I’m right.”

Wrong. Wrong on so many levels.

But before I get the chance to plead my case, Gage doubles down on me. “You have been quiet this whole time.”

Fuck! Say something, Kit. Anything.

Sweat beads down my forehead, dripping into the creases carved by my brows. A blustery panic lashes through me, inevitable, like an accompanying scintillation of lightning after a howl of thunder. “Nuh-uh,” I hedge.

Nuh-uh. That’s all I have to say? Seriously? What am I, twelve?

“You’re hiding something,” Gage argues.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been acting weird this whole summer.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then you’re responsible for the underwear.”

“Anyone on the team can be responsible. Ask the other guys.”

The rest of the group is quiet, eyes locked on us, watching us fight like children watching their divorced parents fight.

Gage crosses his arms over his chest. “So you’re saying that you haven’t been with anyone this entire summer?”

Shit. Is that what I’m saying? I hate lying to them. I hate lying about how important Faye’s been to me. They have me backed all the way into a corner, and I don’t know what to do. I should just come clean. Maybe it’s time.

I gulp so loudly that it sounds like a foghorn in my ears. “That is what I’m saying.”

No, dude! That was your chance!

Gage starts to say something—probably trying to see how long he can poke me before I snap—but Fulton cuts him off with a frustrated growl.

“Kit’s right. Anyone who has access to the rink could be responsible for the underwear. No use in arguing over it.”

When the guys egress from our huddle, I expect Gage to be glaring at me from behind his helmet’s cage, but it’s Hayes who’s giving me a strange look. Not a pitiful look or a suspicious look, just a confused one. Azure eyes bore into my soul, searching for the truth, searching for the friend he’s known for the past four years.

I’m not going to be able to keep Faye a secret for much longer.