Chapter 9: Shutout: Chapter 9

Dallas glances down at my screen. “Who the fuck is Tinker Bell?”

My phone slips from my hand in surprise, striking my kneecap before it lands on the floor. Motherfucker, that hurts. Wincing, I grab my throbbing knee as I look around for Chase, trying to gauge whether he heard. Relief washes over me when I spot him on the opposite side of the hotel room, immersed in a conversation with Reid and one of the other guys from the team.

“Just a chick.” I quickly snatch my cell off the geometric-patterned carpet. Time to turn off my previews in case this conversation takes a more incriminating turn. Better safe than sorry.

When I straighten in my seat, Dallas is staring at me like I’m unhinged. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” A thrill runs through my body as I look down at Sera’s message again. The only replies that come to mind are downright filthy, and while her tone seems flirty, it’s hard to know for sure via text. I don’t want to overshoot and come off as a creep.

I stifle a laugh. It’s not what I expected, but I’m not mad at it.

“Just a chick, huh?” Dallas interrupts. I look up to find him studying me with a shit-eating grin across his face. “Is that why you’re smiling like a fool?”

“Go call your girlfriend, Ward. Write her a poem or some shit.” I flip him the bird and turn my back to him, returning my attention to our conversation.

Receive, huh? There are lots of things I’d like to give her, starting with… My cock perks up, my hand tightening around the phone. Then I glance around the room and remember where I am—as well as who I’m with. I shouldn’t be texting Sera in the first place, and I definitely shouldn’t be picturing the filthy things I am right now.

Giving my head a shake, I force my mind out of the gutter.

At her response, my mouth pulls into another goofy grin. I’m not a big texter, especially back and forth. Normally, I’d have written some half-assed reply and put my phone away for the night. Then again, normally I wouldn’t have left the communication door open with my “just because” text in the first place.

It’s a full-length shot of my left sleeve after it was touched up last week. Not overly recent, but it’s the newest picture I have. In addition to not texting much, I don’t take many photos. With my schedule, what would they even be of? The inside of the dressing room?

An incoming call interrupts me before she replies, and my father’s name comes up on the call display. While it’s nearly ten o’clock here, it’s not yet seven where he is in LA. I watch the screen flash for a moment before I push to stand. Dallas throws me a questioning look, and I point to the door with my phone. It’s hard to get privacy on the road, especially this close to curfew.

I lean against the wall outside our room and swipe to accept, keeping my voice low. “Hey, Dad.”

“Nice work out there this evening,” he says warmly.

“Thanks.” A shutout always feels good, but it feels even better knowing he watched the game and saw it for himself.

“Big news.” Excitement laces his voice. “I just got off the phone with Gary, and New York said they’ve been impressed with your performance over the last couple games. If you remain consistent, they’re thinking of taking you on to train with the team this summer. Personally, I think it’s a lock.”

Surprise overtakes me and I pause, temporarily lost for a response. I should be thrilled at this development—it’s what I’ve been working my ass off for day in and day out—but I have some mixed feelings.

“That’s great.” My voice is flatter than I intend it to be. I should sound excited. I should be excited.

“I’ve spoken to Mark about this already, and your puck tracking has come a long way lately. We think it’s time to shift your training plan. More focus on your rebounds and lateral movement…” He continues while I try to fake enthusiasm, still processing my abrupt change in summer plans. Just one aspect of many I have no control over when it comes to my life.

We chat for a few more minutes before he tells me I should get some sleep, even though we both know I’ll be up with the guys for at least another hour. I promise to call him when I get home tomorrow so we can go over things in greater depth.

Lingering in the hallway, I mull over his news as I try to untangle my thoughts. Being invited to train with the team is a huge opportunity, and it’s one that most prospects never get. Investing in an athlete this way shows the organization is serious about fostering a successful long-term relationship, which is a great sign for my future.

I should be grateful, and I am. But hockey consumes my entire life during the academic year and extending it to the summer will eliminate the only break I get. Without some downtime, I’m worried I’ll lose my edge.

It’s no different than what my life will look like once I turn pro, though.

I need to suck it up. Get used to it. Cope better.

A familiar sense of anxiety creeps in. My gaze drops to my hands, then slides up to my arms. I’ve just about run out of blank real estate on both of them. Getting tattoos is inexplicably calming; almost like my own version of therapy. When everything else feels like it’s out of my control—from my diet plan to my workouts to my future—it’s one thing I have total autonomy over.

At any rate, collecting ink is a hell of a lot healthier than some of the other things I used to do to cope.

Scanning my keycard, I wait for the green light to flash and tug the hotel room door open. As I step back inside, my phone vibrates.

When it loads, I nearly drop the phone again.

It’s a selfie of her lying on her side in bed, a curtain of silky pink hair partially concealing half of her face. Espresso eyes woven with flecks of honey and gold stare back at me, her full lips slightly parted. There’s the slightest hint of cleavage at the bottom of the screen, but it’s not the focus of the photo.

The least explicit picture I’ve ever received, but by far the hottest. It’s the perfect tease.

“Have fun talking to your girlfriend?” Dallas smirks, pulling off his T-shirt overhead. Mental note to strangle him with it in his sleep.

Chase strolls out of the bathroom and stops cold, his green toothbrush hanging halfway out of his mouth. “Say what now?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Dallas juts his chin at me. “Lies. He’s been texting with some chick all night.”

“It’s not like that, Ward.”

But even I’m not sure that’s the case.