Secret Obsession: Chapter 42

“You can’t.”

“Like fuck I can’t, what is this bullshit?”

I shove Jacob, who seems to be the only one left not in the locker room. He was standing right outside the door to the parking lot, waiting for me like a freak. And now he’s blocking my fucking way.

“You’re going to throw your whole career down the toilet because of a little fight with your girl?” Jacob snaps, shoving me back. “She said she’s okay. You heard her, we all did. Now you need to get your head in the game. Literally.”

My whole body is vibrating, restless with the need to just—go. To get it through her thick skull that I’m not leaving her. And she’s not leaving me.

This is what I do, she said. When has she ever left anyone?

Knox broke up with her.

I’m still fucking here.

Who else?

“Whiteshaw,” Jacob barks. He grabs my shoulders and slams me against the wall. “Think about this. If she does leave you, if she flees the fucking country and never comes back, what do you have left?”

I work my jaw and spit out one word. “Hockey.”

“And if you chase her now, Coach Roake will ban you from ever setting foot in his rink again. You’ll be known as the flake.” He scowls. “And then you’ll have no girl and no hockey, and then what will you have?”

Understanding dawns. This is what he’s going through.

This is what he’s had to grapple with for the last miserable year of his life, because the professor he became addicted to up and left him without a trace. So he picked hockey, because there was no other choice.

Willow isn’t going to do the same to me.

I know that in my bones—I just need to break through her fear of relationships and commitment and love. And she needs to know what love actually is.

A big ol’ cocktail of adrenaline, fear, and wanting to be so close to someone it hurts.

“So?” Jacob questions. “What will you do?”

Willow isn’t leaving me. She’s not fleeing the country—she’s run home like a scared little girl. Which means she’ll hide there until I can come find her, and an hour, two, or four isn’t going to make a difference.

“I’ll play,” I decide, shoving his hand away. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

“Get your ass back in the locker room, and I won’t need to be in your face.” He inclines his chin. “I’ll give you a ride to her house after, if Violet and Aspen don’t bring her back first.”

My chest tightens, but I force myself to nod and turn around. I head back to the locker room and try to focus, but my nerves are shot. In the half-circle-shaped room, I find Knox and Greyson framing my bag. They both look up when I come over and drop onto the bench beside them.

Coach strides in and blows his whistle. He gives his cursory speech about how we’re going to work as a team, execute what we’ve been working on, and whatever else he decides to include this time around. Me and some of the other guys are still getting dressed, putting on our pads and skates. I’ve got all my equipment laid out in front of me, ready to go.

“Ten minutes,” Coach ends. “Then we’re hitting the ice for warm-up.”

“You good?” Knox asks me, his voice low. “We need you for this one.”

“I know.” Jesus, my voice sounds like shit. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He slaps my back and moves away. The seriousness from a moment ago fades away as he dances up to Steele and fake punches him. I watch their antics, the way Knox makes all the guys smile and laugh, and I’ve got to admit—he’s a good fucking captain.

“Violet will get her,” Greyson adds.

I shake my head and rise. I need to tighten my skates before I put on the thick pads that cover the front of my legs—once those go on, it’s a little more difficult to do much of anything. My helmet is on my bag in front of me, my sticks taped to perfection.

Everything is ready, except for my mindset.

I drop into a lunge, and the burn of my hamstrings helps narrow my focus. I stretch until Greyson calls a two-minute warning, and I put on the rest of my gear. Just the finishing touches. But I do feel more centered, which is… something.

BJ—definitely more of a Blue Jay kind of day, I think—holds out his knuckles for me. I knock them and grin.

Fake it ’til you make it, right?

“Ready?” Knox calls. “We’re going to go fuck up some Wolves’ assholes!”

I groan—and I’m not the only one.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” Knox yells. “Jesus fuck, you perverted dicks. Those Wolves won’t know what hit ’em.”

“Because we’re taking them from behind!” Rodrigues calls.

“You’d know all about that,” someone else says.

“Yeah, it makes me an expert on fucking—unlike your virgin—”

“Boys,” Coach hollers. “Cut the shit. Let’s get to work.”

I elbow Steele, who catches my eye with a grin. We march as a huge unit down the hallway. There’s thunderous applause in the arena as the BU Wolves are announced. And then we’re bursting out and onto the ice. I lift my hand and touch peoples’ hands, then step onto the ice. Around me, my teammates are zooming around and warming up their muscles. I join them in the race, pushing off and forcing myself faster. They grab pucks spread out across the ice and drop into shooting drills, while others find space on the ice to stretch. I drift up toward the center line and go through my movements.

Muscle memory takes over, and it helps turn my thoughts toward the upcoming game.

The Wolves’ goalie is across from me. We trade a look, and I don’t like the flash of annoyance in his gaze. I hold the eye contact until someone skates between us, and I head back to the crease.

The center of my universe—for the next sixty minutes of game play anyway.

BJ comes skating toward me after a few minutes, and I move aside to let him take over the net. He’s not playing, but he warms up all the same. I glance around the arena, only vaguely frowning at the masses of black and silver. The Wolves are in mostly black jerseys, with pops of silver, and white lettering.

Since we’re the visitors, our jerseys are white, with blue and silver outlines. My helmet matches. It comes to a V, pointing toward my chest, to protect my neck. I drop to the ice and stretch my legs out to either side, basically the fucking splits.

It’s funny—I always thought that would come in handy with sex. But I guess I’m just not doing nearly enough creative shit.

Greyson skates over and kneels beside me. “They’re hungry.”

I shrug. “Hungry for a dick up the ass, according to my brother.”

He snorts. “Yeah.”

We both glance up at the clock counting down our remaining minutes. BJ has moved out of the net, and there’s a flurry of movement as our team arcs in two circles, shooting continuously at the goal.

Most make it. Some fly high or wide, crashing into the glass beyond.

When there’s less than a minute remaining, I follow Steele and Finch back to our locker room. The rest of the guys are close behind. They’ll clean the ice with the Zamboni, then play some hype music for the home team, and then we’ll come out with little to no fanfare.

Which is fine.

I don’t talk to anyone while we wait, stretching in the corner to keep myself warm. I put in my brother’s earbuds and crank the music on his phone, tuning out the sounds of laughter and chatter behind me. If I had my phone, I’d have my own playlist. As it is, his is similar enough.

“Where’s my phone?” Knox calls. “I want to play my pump-it-up playlist. Anyone see it?”

“I’ve got a playlist,” Rodrigues calls. He hits a button, and hip-hop blasts out of his phone. Loud enough that even I can hear it.

Ugh.

I move my brother’s phone so he can’t quite see it on the other side of my leg.

“Miles.”

I pull an earbud out and jump to my feet at Greyson’s tone. He raises his phone, flashing a text from Violet.

Okay.

Okay, I can work with that, I think.

The game starts, and everything is normal. And it stays normal, until the third period. Some jackass comes tearing in with the puck, and his own teammate gets in the way. He fumbles, and suddenly he’s barreling into me.

He’s a huge motherfucker, and I don’t stand a chance. We collide, and something heavy hits my helmet. It sounds like a percussion inside my skull, and I’m flattened to the ice. I slide into the net, and I barely manage to lift my arms up to protect my head, operating on instinct. There’s a ringing in my ears that drowns out everything for a split second, and it feels like I went five rounds with a Mac truck.

I force myself up. I toss my gloves off and crawl out of the net.

How embarrassing.

But my attention is drawn to the mass of players to my left. Knox has the big guy’s helmet off and is punching him repeatedly in the face, while the guy tries to shove him away. The refs are actively trying to separate them.

Greyson’s got another one, and so does Steele. Everyone’s in a fucking dog pile, their mouths moving, tempers high. I can’t even fucking hear them.

I kneel in the crease and try to catch my breath.

Jesus Christ.

One of the refs skates closer and asks if I’m okay. I look up, and the players have separated. One of the linemen has the big guy by the back of the jersey, steering him toward the penalty box.

“You okay, baby bro?” Knox asks, spitting blood on the ice. When he grins at me, his mouth guard is stained pink.

“Peachy.” I open my mouth and try to pop my ears, or something, but the ringing is persistent. Although better than it was two minutes ago.

Once I’ve caught my breath, I shake my hair out of my face and slide my helmet on. Then gloves. Checking my gear, my straps, my pads. Everything is okay, so I stand. I retrieve my stick, which somehow got knocked clear away.

Focus.

Head back in the game.

And for once, I’m glad that Willow didn’t have to see that.