Boyfriend Bargain(40)

I walk past him to the front door and open it. A sharp, crashing sound breaks the silence as I shut the door. The salt shaker, presumably.





31





Zack





I’m doing some early pre-game skating with our team at Concord State University, one of the schools in our conference. They’re a smaller university with a string of recent losses, and we’re here to kick ass and take names. Every game is a priority, though, especially since we’re in the same conference, and a few local reporters and photographers are in the stands already, watching and taking notes. I felt the heat of their scrutiny as soon as I took the ice. An agent from the Predators flew in today, Stan Wilcox, and I spoke to him briefly on the way to the locker room. He congratulated me on our last wins, slapped me on the back, and told me how excited he was to see me in Nashville this summer. He wants to have a quick dinner with me tonight.

Dread pooled the moment I saw him, especially when he asked about my bout with the flu when we lost to Minnesota-Duluth.

I lied through my teeth, told him some bullshit about how I need to get the flu shot next year. I’m sure I’m breaking all kinds of rules by not disclosing the entire truth about my mental health—

Yeah. Don’t want to go there.

I inhale a slow breath and let it out.

He’s here to see what his team is getting. I need a great game tonight.

I do some warm-ups and shake out my limbs, trying to lose this sense of foreboding, but there’s an edge in the air, something itching to crawl out. Part of this apprehension is because I haven’t done the right thing by Sugar. I haven’t told her the truth about how she looks like Willow, and the more I fall for her, the more I’m fucking terrified of telling her and losing her.

Stop your whining, I tell myself.

It’s been a good few weeks. I’m in control of my body. I’ve got this.

Eric skates over for passing drills, just enough to get us loose, and we line up in formation. He slaps one to me, and I nearly fall trying to go for it, overextending my reach.

I exhale and roll my shoulders.

“What’s wrong with you?” he says a few minutes later when I miss another pass.

“Nothing,” I snap.

Reece skates around us, watching, and I see the lowered brow on his face through the shield of his helmet. He had his eyes on me the entire bus ride up here. At one point we pulled over at a rest stop for a break, and he came up to me and said he wanted to talk about Willow, but one of the coaches interrupted us, and I stalked away.

I get it—he doesn’t want Sugar around. Maybe she reminds him too much of Willow. Maybe he really is worried about me and how I’m juggling a new relationship and hockey.

But he isn’t me, and I make my own damn decisions.

I scowl, not even cognizant of where I’m going when I bump into one of the defensemen on the ice and my stick falls out of my hands. I curse and snatch it up.

The sound system kicks up with a loud pop song, shattering the general quietness of the rink and my body flinches, missing a pass from Reece.

“Wake up, asshole,” he calls out.

Asshole?

Anger flares and I glide over to him, getting in his face, my fingers in his chest. “Do you see this C on my jersey? Don’t fuck with me, brother. I’m just here to play a game. Don’t bring your prissy ass out here and talk shit when you and I both know this isn’t about my practice.” I give him a glare and push off, skating away.

Eric has his mouth open. Coach crosses his arms. My gaze goes to the stands and Stan is there, watching.

I keep going. Just keep going…

I exhale and touch my chest where I know the necklace is around my neck. I’ve started wearing it during games, hoping it can bring me some kind of calm.

Another group of people with badges file into the arena. More reporters. I skate past where they’re setting up and several of them call out my name. It feels as if the media scrutiny gets more intense with each game we win, fighting our way closer to a championship.

One of them is ballsy enough to wave me over, and I grimace.

“How are you, Z? You know me, remember?” she calls out, giving me a big smile. She’s practically jumping up and down, and she is vaguely familiar. After a few ticks, I recognize her as one of the reporters from ESPN who follow our team. She’s from Minneapolis and covers all our home games, so there’s a bit of a history there, which is why I can’t ignore her and just skate off.

“Great,” I call back. Please go away.

But she doesn’t. She’s still waving for me to come in closer.

My teeth grind. I really want to just skate, but it’s nowhere near game time, so obligation tugs at me. I glide over to where she’s standing on the carpet.

“You nervous about tonight’s game?” She’s got her phone out, fingers poised and ready to take notes. “My opinion is the Bears don’t have a shot against the Lions. What do you say?”

I look at her. “Never take any team for granted. Anything can happen.”

“May I take some pictures?” She’s not even looking at me, just pulls up her phone and clicks away while I stand there. One of the photographer guys is behind her, probably with her, and he’s clicking away too.

My head hurts and I frown.

She moves her phone. “Can I get one of you and Eric together? And then Reece? The three amigos, right?”

“Uh…”

She smiles and flutters long lashes, and I swear she sticks her boobs out more and her voice gets all breathy. “I think it’s cool that you were drafted and yet you chose to finish college.”

“Yeah.”

She nods, her gaze going past me and following someone on the ice. “How does Reece handle not being drafted?”

“I don’t speak for him. Ask him yourself.” I scowl, trying to think of a way out of this little interrogation, but I don’t see one.

Eric must read my body language because he skates over to where we are. He gives me a long look then gives her a broad smile.

“Eric! Just stand there, yeah,” she says as he leans in next to me for a picture. She takes a few shots. “Can you get Reece? A shot of you three together for tomorrow’s Tribune would be stellar.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her no, but then I see Stan a few feet away, watching us with keen eyes and probably imagining I’m racking up reporter points when really all I want is to get away.

Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m even worth having on their team.

I’m not worth it.

My gut twists.

I’m a bag of shit for what I did to Willow—

Stop! I shake off the negative thought.

The reporter is still asking questions, waving now and then to get Reece’s attention.

Eric looks over at me, dropping the arm that was around my shoulder for the pictures. His mouth is turned down. “Dude. You need a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“Reece,” she’s saying again, waving, but it’s clear he’s ignoring her. I can’t really blame him when all they want to do is talk about me or ask him why he’s not on the same level.

She looks back at us, batting those lashes. “Looks like he’s busy. Can I get some video of you two messing around with the puck? Just one?”

My arm is starting to tingle and my chest feels tight.

“Sure, babe,” says Eric, giving me a slap on the back. “Focus. Let’s do a drill for this nice lady.”

My lips compress. “Don’t tell me to focus. I know what I need to do.”

He stiffens. “Dude…”

“Z and Eric? The video?” calls the reporter.

My teeth snap. Enough. “No,” I say to her then skate off toward an exit. I step on the carpet, slap on my guards, and walk down the hallway.

“Z! Hey, wait up,” says a deep voice behind me, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

I wipe at my face, tucking my gloves under my arms as Stan walks toward me. Dressed in a suit that screams money, he’s a former NHL player who retired early with a back injury.

“Sorry, I’m a little off today. Just working the jitters out.” I force a smile and try to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right.

“I see.” He stops next to me and gives me a critical eye. I know what he thinks he sees: talent and money, his team’s investment.

But…

My heart picks up a notch and that clammy feeling starts a slow rise from my feet to my scalp. My stomach lurches a little, and I feel sweat beading on my face.

I nod as he talks about where I want to eat dinner, but my head isn’t with him. It’s taking all my mental concentration to just…to just…

“…Z?”

I blink.

“Son?”

I lift my hand and wipe at my mouth, pretending like I’m fine, trying to come up with some kind of normal mannerism or response to whatever he’s asking.

His hand is on my shoulder and his brow is furrowed as he looks at me. “Son, you’re shaking.”

I am?

I blink and look down. I look okay. I look fine.

But…

My chest hurts.

I rub at it. “I’m good, sir.”

I don’t know how I get the words out, and I must not do a very good job because he guides me until I’m sitting on a chair. He’s pushing my head down between my legs and barking out orders.

Fuck—ah fuck. Tears, fucking tears get clogged up in my throat, and I make this weird sound. Why is this happening to me?