My prediction proves correct. Fairlee stands at the end of the corridor chatting with Coach Adley. Their heads turn when Whitney and I emerge from the locker room.
“Gigi,” Adley calls. “Do you have a minute?”
Whitney pokes me in the arm, sporting a barely contained smile. She knows what’s up. “Go get ’em, tiger,” she murmurs.
When I reach the two men, Adley gives me a quick smile and says, “Come find me after.”
Once he’s gone, Fairlee offers a smile of his own. “That was extraordinary. Some of the best hockey I’ve ever seen.”
I feel myself beaming. “Thanks. It’s been a while since I was on fire like that.”
“Hat trick, huh? Using some of your father’s moves, I see.”
No, they’re my moves, I want to retort. There’s no bodychecking in women’s hockey. If I can’t be physical, I must be tactical, which means I have the kind of moves my father never needed to keep in his arsenal.
But I’m not about to argue with the man who’s about to be my coach.
“Anyway,” he says, “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I try to contain my rising excitement.
“My staff and I spent most of the fall putting together our team. You know, it’s kind of a difficult process, which is why it’s taken so long. Especially because Coach Murphy had his way of doing things. And I have mine. I’m more meticulous. Less worried about stats, and more interested in which players are going to gel on the ice. As you know, there are some talented women playing in the professional league. Most of them are older, more experienced. Many have already competed on the world stage and excelled there.”
I nod. I expect the majority of the roster to consist of those women.
“And because there’s so much talent available to us in that sphere, we’re only taking on two college students for the time being.” He smiles at me again. “You’re one of the best players out there.”
I ignore my quickening pulse. God. This man has mastered the art of drawing out anticipation.
“With that said, I thought I should tell you in person that all the slots have been filled. I’m sorry, Gigi. You won’t be making the roster at this time.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
RYDER
You fall, I pick you up
THE BUS DROPS US OFF ON CAMPUS AROUND ELEVEN, AND IT’S CLOSE to midnight by the time I make it home. Shane and Beckett went directly to a party at the Kappa Beta sorority house, determined to celebrate our advancement to the finals by hooking up with as many women as humanly possible. But as thrilled as I am about the results of tonight’s game, I’m exhausted and ready to go home.
When I pull up to the house, I spot the white SUV parked at the curb. Then I glimpse the yellow glow behind the living room curtains. Gigi must have used the key I gave her.
I find her on the couch. Sitting there silently, staring at an action movie on the TV.
“Hey, how long have you been here?” I say from the doorway. “Why didn’t you text to say you were coming over?”
“My phone’s dead.” Her face is devoid of emotion.
Concern flickers through me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately. Her entire vibe is off, from her vacant expression to her empty voice. The women’s team literally moved on to the finals tonight—she should be beaming from ear to ear right now.
I shrug out of my winter coat and duck out to hang it up. Then I come sit beside her, pulling her onto my lap. The moment we make physical contact, she buries her face in my neck and starts to cry.
“Hey, hey,” I say in alarm, rubbing her shoulders. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Brad Fairlee showed up to our game tonight to talk to me.”
Her voice breaks.
And with a sinking feeling, I know there’s no way she would be crying if it was good news.
“All the roster slots have been filled,” she mutters. “I didn’t make it.”
“Oh, fuck, babe. I’m sorry.”
I tighten my grip and she burrows her face deeper into my skin. Wetness coats my neck, a cold trail sliding down to soak the collar of my shirt.
“I played the best game of my life tonight,” she moans. “And it still wasn’t good enough for this asshole. He just fucking threw it back in my face.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said I’m one of the best college players, but he’s not looking at stats. He’s trying to focus on some of the older players, the women out of the pros who have more experience competing on the world stage.”
It makes sense, but I don’t say that out loud. She’s far too distraught to hear it right now.
“I can’t believe I didn’t make it.” The words are spoken on a shaky, anguished moan.
I slide my fingers through her hair, stroking gently. “I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry.”
She tips her head back, her bottom lip trembling wildly as she fights another onslaught of tears.
“I failed,” she says weakly.
“You didn’t fail.”
“Am I on Team USA, Luke? Because last time I checked, I’m fucking not.” She drops her forehead in her palm, breathing unsteadily.
“You’re not on Team USA yet,” I correct gently. “You’re still young.”
She’s doggedly shaking her head, refusing to accede to the point. “I failed.”
And suddenly she’s shuddering in my arms again, crying harder this time. Choked, breathless, hiccupping sobs. I’ve never seen her like this before. I’ve seen her tear up during sad movies. I’ve seen unshed tears of frustration. Welled-up tears of anger, like the time she kicked me out of her house after we fought.
But this is something else. This is agony. Deep, tortured sobs ripped from the depths of her soul.
And I’m utterly helpless. All I can do is hold her as tight as I can while she shakes in my arms.
“It’s okay, let it out,” I urge.
I don’t know how long she cries for, but her voice is hoarse by the time she settles. Her eyes are swollen and red, and my heart breaks for her.
I’m so goddamn in love with this woman. Seeing her cry makes me want to find the person who did this to her and slam his head through a wall.
I inhale a deep breath, searching for the words to ease her pain.
“You didn’t make the team,” I finally say. “I know that hurts. But that doesn’t mean you won’t ever be on it.”
She inhales too. Her breathing still sounds ragged to my ears.
“The average age of the current roster is, what? Twenty-six? Twenty-six, G. You have plenty of years ahead of you to make it.”
“But the Olympics are next February,” she says in a small voice. “Now I’ll have to wait four more years. I’ll be ancient by then.”
I chuckle softly. “Their current team captain is thirty-two. You’re not ancient, I guarantee it. Look, maybe you won’t compete in these Olympics,” I relent, and she releases another choked sob. “But the national team plays a lot of other significant games. There’s Worlds every year. The Four Nations Cup. Maybe next year, Fairlee will have an open slot. Or maybe it’ll happen the year after.”