Page 92 of Scoring Lessons

WESLEY

STAY CURIOUS. IT’S GOOD FOR THE BRAIN.

I cursed under my breath as I stepped into the penalty box.

“You miss me so bad out there, you had to get a penalty for high-sticking just to join me?” my best friend asked through a cheeky grin. He’d gotten a five-minute major penalty for fighting with one of the defensemen from Las Vegas Sandstorm. To be fair, these men loved to play dirty, and Anderson had no problem stooping to their level.

I threw the stick against the Plexiglass. “It was bullshit! I didn’t do anything.”

“That high-stick was pretty fucking obvious from where I was sitting.” He laughed. “What’s going on with you? It’s not like you to get distracted during a game.”

Distracted was putting it mildly, but I appreciated the way he tiptoed around the situation. I was playing like shit tonight. I was letting their dirty plays get to me, and I was making rookie mistakes left and right.

My mind was all over the place.

Between Michael pressuring me almost daily to entertain offers from other teams, and whatever situation was evolving with Olivia, I was being eaten alive. Slowly, but surely.

Being distracted while actively trying to save my career was a recipe for disaster. But the unpredictability of it all wasn’t going anywhere—all I could do was deal with it the best I could.

“I’m good.” I chewed on my mouth guard, opting to avoid eye contact with Anderson and focusing on the game in front of us.

Parker shot the puck straight to the blue line. Donovan was the closest, and it was obvious the puck was directed at him, but Sullivan took off and stole it clean off him, even though there were two players from the opposite team practically up his ass. But that was Sullivan to his core; he didn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself—on and off the ice.

“What is this idiot doing?” Anderson groaned.

“They’re going to block that,” I said.

As soon as he tried to go for a slap shot, the goalie saw it coming a mile away and blocked it with far too much ease.

Anderson’s timer went off, and he stood, tapping the door open. He glanced back at me before he stepped out. “We’ll talk later.”

I nodded, not taking my eyes off the ice.

Less than a minute later, my own time was up. I pushed through the door and got back on the ice, legs finding their rhythm as I skated toward the play. Sullivan was coming off to the right, and I cut toward him without thinking.

“Nice shot,” I said. “Next time, announce it before you do it. Won’t make much of a difference.”

“Your opinion on what I do out here doesn’t mean much.” Sullivan mocked while leaning against his stick. “Considering you were just sitting your ass in the box.”

“I was in the box for two minutes. You gifted them a save they didn’t have to work for.”

“And I’m still the one Coach kept in the first line.” His tone was flat, almost bored, but his eyes glinted with that smugness he’d been carrying since the day I met him. “Can’t say the same for your spot next season, can you?”

Something went cold in my chest. I tightened my grip on my stick before I did something stupid. Fighting with teammates during a game was a sign of weakness. Even if part of me was dying to punch the fuck out of him, I couldn’t. That was only going to dig my hole further.

“Hey.” Donovan materialized between us, one hand on my chest, before I’d even realized I’d stepped closer. Morgan was already steering Sullivan in the opposite direction, talking low and fast into his ear.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Donovan warned.

I held Sullivan’s stare for another second before I looked away.

He wasn’t wrong, and that was the part I couldn’t shake as I skated back into position. He was a dick, and he’d stated facts, and somehow that was worse than anything else that had happened tonight.

The game ended in a 3-1 loss, to no one’s surprise. After Coach Sloane ripped Sullivan—and all of us—a new one in the locker room, everyone was quick to scatter once our media obligations were done.

The game had been early in the afternoon, so it was barely dinnertime when I knocked on Olivia’s door.

She opened it, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, yanked me inside, and shut the door behind me in one fluid motion.