Instead of feeling better like I expected, my thoughts grow a thousand times more upsetting the moment I’m alone. The doctor. My mom. BRCA. Tyler. School. Picking a major. Everything circles in my brain as my mind races, panic ramping up a notch. I’m on the verge of having an epic meltdown. Whether that’s another anxiety attack or crying or something else, I can’t be sure. Maybe all of the above.
Grabbing my noise-canceling headphones, I sit crisscross on my bed and pull out my MacBook. Then I start to free write, channeling everything onto the page. At first, it dredges up everything I’m trying to hide from, and I feel a thousand times worse, but with more time and more words, I slowly start to feel better. Not happy—but lighter, at least.
My calendar pops up at the bottom of my page reminding me about my creative writing assignment due tomorrow. Normally, I wouldn’t start on this for another few hours. I put the “pro” in “procrastination”， and I work best under pressure. Since I need the distraction, I retrieve my textbook and read the first two chapters as assigned. Then I submit a response paragraph including my “Writer’s Purpose Statement” to the online forum for class discussion.
An iMessage notification appears on-screen from Tyler.
Hades: Grabbed you breakfast. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure if you were sleeping.
Tinker Bell: Sorry, I didn’t hear it.
Hades: I’m at your door.
I practically pole-vault off the bed, then catch myself and realize I’m being overly eager. Relax, Sera. You saw the guy like an hour ago.
When I pull open the door, Tyler is standing there with a latte in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. My stomach does a twirl. Then it hits me that I’m still unshowered, but too late now. I’ll get on that next.
His mouth lifts at one corner. “Strawberry muffin. I thought you should eat. And since it’s decaf, I figured you can never have too much coffee.”
“Thank you.” The bag crinkles as I take it from him, then the coffee. Tension crackles between us, the byproduct of unresolved desires and unspoken questions.
“Ty!” Dallas calls in the background. “I’m leaving without you if you don’t get in the fucking car.”
“Gotta go. We have dryland. I’ll text you later.” He winks at me, and a tiny thrill runs through my body.
“Sounds good.”
The past twenty-four hours have been some of the best and worst of my life.
CHAPTER 16
WORK-LIFE BALANCE
TYLER
The first half of my week is uneventful, if slightly unfocused. Turns out, reminiscing about Seraphina grinding against my cock is a lot more interesting than learning about molecular biochemistry and nucleotides.
I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Her soft inhale when our lips finally met, and every pretty little sound that followed… until the fucking doorbell rang. Unsurprisingly, taking matters into my own hands hasn’t been remotely satisfying. I’m so horny I can barely function, and I have a full day ahead of me before I can do anything about it.
So much for compartmentalizing.
It’s bitterly cold as I cut across campus on my way back to the arena for afternoon skate. Even with my gloves, my fingers are stiff as I pull out my phone to answer an incoming call.
“Hey, Dad.” I jam my free hand back into my fleece-linked coat pocket for warmth, scanning the quad in search of a place to duck inside.
“Tyler.” His voice is warm like always, but there’s a note of something I can’t identify. Hesitancy, or maybe concern. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
He pauses. “I thought you should know there’s been some chatter about New York talking to Caleb Brown.”
“What?” My heart smashes into my ribcage, and I come to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. A guy walking behind me nearly plows straight into my back. He grumbles at me, veering left at the last minute, and I narrowly bite back a retort telling him to keep his head up.
Based on New York’s current depth chart, everything is perfectly aligned for me to step in after their current goaltender retires in a couple more years. Or it was, anyway. This development is a massive, hockey-stick-sized wrench in my career path.
“I wanted to let you know in case you heard it through the grapevine.”
“I hadn’t,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. Surely I would’ve soon, though, and we both know that. Him sheltering me is pointless, especially given how invasive social media is. Everyone knows everything in the industry. There are no secrets.
“Take a breath, Ty. Remember, this isn’t personal. You know how the business works. They’re not replacing you; they’re acquiring a tradable asset.”
“Caleb isn’t some random player.” Chest tight, I take a sharp left to duck inside the campus food court. It’s too fucking cold to stand out here and have a serious conversation. “He’s another goalie.”
More specifically, Caleb is another third-year Division 1 goalie who’s sitting two spots below me in the standings. I’m still leading the league, but it’s a tight race.
Warm air envelops me as I step inside the cafeteria commons. It’s more crowded than usual, and there’s a line at the coffee shop nearly out the door. I’m going to chance it. I need a caffeine fix.
“You’ve been a top prospect your whole career. He’s a kid having one banner year. The team is hedging their bets. If you stay strong, they can package him as part of a deal later to make the team better.”
And if I don’t, they can run with Caleb and relegate me to the farm team for the rest of my days.
A text from Seraphina comes through.
Tinker Bell: Question 26: Your go-to way to relieve stress?
I blink at the screen, trying to decipher if this is an honest question or her roundabout way of initiating sexting. My brain is legitimately too fried to tell.
Dad’s voice comes through on the speaker again, and I place it back to my ear.
“On paper and on the ice, you’re stronger. You’ve been on fire since getting back after Christmas.”
Exactly. So why is New York sniffing around another goalie prospect?
Except I know why. It’s a business, and at the end of the day, I’m a product.
“Feels like a lot of pressure to keep it that way,” I admit.
“There are always going to be ups and downs. All that matters is your consistency. Don’t let this take you out of your head this weekend.”
Little late for that. I’m in a tailspin. Hopefully, I’ll have my shit together before Friday. That’s a few days away still.
“Just so I’m clear,” I say carefully. “Does New York still want me for training over the summer?”
“Last I heard, it was looking good. That alone is a great sign, and it’s why you shouldn’t worry. Focus on what you can control.”’
He’s right. That’s all I can do.
Ending the call, I get into line for a coffee before I haul ass to the rink. Practice is a shit show, at least inwardly. My performance is strong but my mental game sucks. I’m rattled after every single shot that gets past me—even though very few of them do.