I can choose myself.
“I want to,” I say with confidence. “I want to go apply tomorrow.”
44
ZANDERS
“Four penalties, Zee?” Maddison throws his sweat-soaked jersey in the collection bin sitting in the center of the visiting locker room.
“Ask me if I give a shit.”
In case he couldn’t tell by the void look on my face or the dried blood on my lip from one of my fights tonight, the answer is “I don’t.”
Any other day, Maddison would give me his usual Captain lecture about letting the team down by giving Seattle so many power plays. He’d remind me that we just lost on the road, and now we’re only up by one game in the third round of playoffs. He’d tell me to get my head out of my ass and straighten out my priorities.
But he doesn’t say any of that because he knows where my priorities lie. I’m not thinking about hockey. I’m not thinking about my contract. I’m just thinking about the girl who’s missing from my life because I didn’t want my reputation to hurt her anymore.
Maddison’s eyes stay locked on my pinky as I unwrap the athletic tape from around Stevie’s ring that I’ve refused to take off the last three games. It’s thin and delicate enough I’ve somehow gotten away with wearing it, the refs assuming my finger is taped for medical reasons. But I’ve worn it, clinging to it like some sort of lifeline. As if having it on my finger symbolizes that she’s still in my life.
But the way she was looking at me on the plane yesterday, as if I were a stranger she wanted nothing to do with, reminded me that I’m not. I’m not in her life anymore. So, I’m going to wear this fucking cheap-ass ring until the metal disintegrates around me because it’s the only part of her I still have.
Maddison’s apologetic gaze cautiously finds me before he looks down at my finger again.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I remind him as I grab a towel and head to the showers.
Suited back up in my pre-game fit, I follow the boys out of the locker room to the bus waiting for us through the back entrance of the arena. Plenty of eager fans greet us with outstretched posters and pens, secluded behind the roped-off barrier on our short walk. Most of the guys take their time, signing autographs and snapping pictures with fans, but I keep my headphones over my ears and my emotionless gaze locked on the bus ahead of me.
Opposite the fans, reporters line the walkway, cameras flashing, calling out our names, and hoping for a piece of nothing they could contrive into something. It takes all my willpower not to lift my hand and flip them off as I walk by. To be fair, it’d pair perfectly with the image Rich wants me to project, but it’s enticing because I partially blame them for my life going to shit just days ago.
Chicago wanted their resident bad guy again? Well, here he is. I’m back to my typical dirty fights, not giving a fuck about anyone else, including the fans who are begging for my attention. They got what they asked for, so if they could hurry up with my fucking contract extension, that’d be great.
“Zanders.” My arm gets pulled back, causing my focused stare to leave the bus, finding a small hand holding on to my forearm. The hand belongs to a chick wearing a flirtatious smile. I pull my headphones away from my ear, wondering what the fuck she wants and why she thinks it’s okay to touch me so casually. “I’m Coral.”
I pull my arm from her grasp. “Great,” I deadpan before continuing to the bus.
She chases me down, the heels of her shoes clicking against the cement before she grabs me again. “No, I’m Coral. Rich sent me.”
Yanking my arm from her more firmly this time, I warn, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Confusion and a touch of embarrassment cover her face as she looks around, chuckling a small laugh while she fixes the hem of her dress.
“I don’t give a shit who sent you. Do not touch me again.”
“Okay.” Maddison cuts between her and me, swinging an arm over my shoulder and leading me to the bus. He uses his body to shield mine from the cameras, but even if they didn’t see the interaction, they sure as shit heard it.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I quietly say for only Maddison to hear.
“I know, man.”
Two in the morning, and I can’t sleep. No fucking surprise there. I’ve barely slept all week, thanks to an empty bed and Rosie whimpering in the middle of the night from Stevie’s absence. To be fair, Rosie isn’t the only one awake, hurt from missing her.