Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(7)
In addition, I’m stressed about being stressed. Playing goal means my mental game has to be top tier. Over the years, I’ve carefully honed the ability to shake off errors without falling apart. Even blowout losses don’t faze me as much as they did when I was younger. I don’t give a shit about most things that happen on or off the ice. I’ve specifically trained myself not to. So why does this situation have me so rattled?
Chase’s attention lingers on me, evidently unsatisfied with my response. “Are you pissed about my sister moving in? Like I said, it’ll be temporary. Probably a couple of weeks at the most.”
“All good. Seraphina can stay as long as she needs.” My reply comes out a little too quick and a lot too eager. A thin sheen of sweat forms on the back of my neck beneath the fabric of my black T-shirt, the collar tightening around my throat. What the fuck is going on? I never act like this.
“I think you’ll like her once you get to know her,” he adds.
If only he knew.
Because I can’t trust myself to behave normally, I forgo any additional verbal responses and merely grunt in assent. We move through the room, greeting the rest of the team as we pass. Dallas, still entranced by his phone, wordlessly trails behind.
Chase snickers, shrugging out of his zip-up hoodie. “Are you cranky because you’re having a dry spell?”
“It’s not a dry spell.” Contrary to what his needling might suggest, my recent hiatus from sex has been fully self-inflicted. My encounter with Seraphina at XS was top fucking tier—and it demolished my interest in anyone else after. I took it as a sign I was spread too thin and decided to focus on other things for awhile. Or on one thing, rather: hockey.
At any rate, I’ve ignored several booty call texts since getting back into town, including one with a topless sneak peek photo attached. I could easily get laid if I wanted to. But I haven’t wanted to, and I’m not sure what that says about me.
“Whatever you say, Ty.” Chase’s gaze flicks over to Dallas, who’s standing next to us in a daze and still hasn’t removed a single item of his street clothing. At this rate, practice will start and finish without him even noticing. “Quit thirsting over your girlfriend and get dressed, Ward. Miller is gonna bag skate us if you make practice start late.”
Unsurprisingly, Dallas doesn’t respond. Chase leans over and shoves him. I snort a laugh as Dallas loses his balance, nearly collides with his equipment stall, and staggers half a step before steadying himself. His head jerks up, his mouth pulled into a sheepish grin.
“Shiv’s been in Florida for the past week,” he protests, putting away his cell. “That’s a long time.”
Chase narrows his eyes, shaking his head. “You whipped motherfucker.”
“Like you’re one to talk.” Dallas flips him off.
Much to my relief, they start discussing the couple’s trip they’re planning for Valentine’s Day next month because they are, in fact, both whipped motherfuckers. This change in subject spares me any additional questions about my sex life or lack thereof, so I’m not complaining.
Tuning out their talk about flowers and wine and other shit they’ve got planned, I turn away and pretend to be focused on getting into my gear to deter anyone else from making conversation. Fortunately, my resting “fuck off” face is strong, and no one attempts to engage.
As I lace up my skates, my thoughts circle back to Seraphina. The basement is solely my domain, and I’m not used to having anyone else in my space. This means I’ll have to make a few adjustments, like no more naked trips to the bathroom. Or naked sleeping in general, I guess.
Then again, Chase described her as a social butterfly and claimed she was rarely ever home. Maybe that means this clusterfuck will be a little easier to navigate.
With my luck, probably not.
“Oh, shit. Did you guys see Coach’s email?” The urgency in Dallas’s voice snaps me out of my thought spiral. When I glance up, he’s clutching his phone again, staring at it in disbelief.
“Huh?” I ask absently, fastening my chest protector. “What email?”
Chase makes a face. “Fuck no. He sends like thirty a week. Update this, compulsory training that. Who the hell is reading all of those?”
“No, this is huge. He said—”
A wolf whistle pierces the air behind us. Startled, we whirl around to find Coach Miller standing at the front of the room standing next to a tall guy sporting a scarlet Falcons hoodie. A guy who does not, to the best my knowledge, attend Boyd—because he plays on the starting line for one of our rival teams.
“What in the actual fuck?” Chase says beneath his breath, so low that only we can hear.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Dallas hisses.
I glance over again in confusion. As Woodbine’s top forward, Reid Holloway is one of the division’s point leaders this season. I can hold my own in net, but there’s nothing more unsettling than the sight of him barreling down the ice on a breakaway after he’s weaved through our defensive line yet again. He’s that good.
He’s also a total prick, as most opposing players are. Shoots high, crashes the net, and every time we play in their barn, he leads the crowd in chanting my name to taunt me. At this point in my career, I can block it out for the most part, but it’s still irritating as hell.