up.
I swipe my forearm across my stinging eyes.
After my workout, my legs feel like noodles. I stagger into the locker room and strip out of my clothes, then into the shower. With a towel around my waist, rubbing my hair with another one, I trudge back to the locker. I pull out my phone. I have a bunch of notifications, mostly from the guys wanting to know why I disappeared last night. I sit on the bench. Everyone thinks Sara and I left together and make some filthy assumptions about what we were doing. I sigh.
There’s a text from Sara.
My thumb slowly moves over the notification to open it.
Hey Josh. I want to apologize for last night. I was totally out of line. All I can say is my intentions were good. I wanted to help you like you’ve helped me. I guess I misunderstood what our relationship was, and I’m sorry for that too. You’re right, that was none of my business and I shouldn’t have gotten involved. I wish you all the best. Good luck in the playoffs.
Well. I guess I don’t have to end things after all. She’s already done it.
* * *
—
Monday morning, we practice. I’m here, but I had a rough night. When I managed to sleep, I dreamed of Sara, crazy dreams where I was chasing her and couldn’t catch her and she was crying and I needed to get to her to help her with whatever she was upset about but I couldn’t. I woke up sweaty, my heart thumping.
Now I’m tired, irritable, and don’t give a shit about shooting a goddamn puck around on the ice. Which is weird because hockey has always been my escape from reality.
When I walk into the dressing room at the practice rink, Easton’s there standing in front of his locker, looking at his phone. My muscles tighten even more.
He glances up and sees me. The air in the room changes.
He gives me a chin lift. “Hellsy.”
“Millsy.”
I open my locker, trying to ignore him. Then I pause.
Aw, fuck this.
I turn. “We need to finish what we started Saturday night.”
He doesn’t look surprised. “Yep.”
“After practice?”
“Sure.”
I try to focus as Coach yells at us through drills and a scrimmage, blocking out everything else. Coach is being really picky, but at this point in the season we need to have our shit together. We have seven regular-season games left to play. We know we’re in the playoffs so it’s hard to be motivated. Especially for me, because I have this freaky feeling that none of this matters. Life is more than hockey.
Wait, what?
I give my head a shake.
Lunch is waiting for us in the players’ lounge after practice, but once we’re showered, Easton catches my eye. “Let’s go grab lunch somewhere else.”
I nod and grab my shirt.
Out in the parking lot, we pause. “Where to?” I ask. “You know this area better than I do.”
“There’s a place near here…Hudson Valley Market…” He gives me directions.
“I’ll meet you there.”
I find the place no problem and wait in the entrance for Easton. It’s a really nice place, but I’m more focused on what we’re going to talk about. He walks in jingling his car keys and the hostess leads us to a table for two at a window.
We look over the menu in silence as our water glasses are filled and we’re informed of the specials. I’m not even hungry, which is a shame since there are lots of good things on the menu. I end up ordering a duck breast grain bowl and Easton asks for the veggie burger. The waitress takes our menus and we look at each other across the table.
“So,” he says.
“Yeah.”
There’s a loaded silence for several uncomfortable seconds.
“So,” I say. I roll my eyes. “Coach talked to you too?”
“Yeah.” His mouth tightens. “And he’s right. We aren’t communicating on the ice like we need to.”
“Yeah.”
“You can hate my guts, but you have to put that aside.”
“I don’t hate your guts,” I say tiredly. “But yeah.”
“Sure sounded like it the other night.”
I shake my head, frowning. “When did I say that? I told you how I felt.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I frown. “What?”
“You accused me of deserting you.” He shakes his head. “Okay, I can interpret that to mean you felt deserted. But you didn’t really tell me how you felt.”
I think back. I was pissed that night and I don’t remember my exact words. “I guess I did feel deserted,” I say slowly.
“You know that makes