Puck Shy (Carolina Comets)

Turns out not thinking is really stupid.

Like monumentally dumb.

We have our first home game tonight and we’re supposed to be preparing for it, but I can’t focus.

All I can think about is how I’m going to explain to Harper who the hell I am.

On our date.

Date.

The one I asked her out on tomorrow night.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This app thing was supposed to help me find someone to relax with, not cause me more stress.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

“Pull your fucking head out of your ass, Wright!” Colter’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I glower over at the prick. “This season isn’t all about you, Golden Boy.”

Golden Boy? Not even close.

“Fuck off, Colter.”

“I should fuck off?” He skates to a stop right in front of me, getting into my face. “How about you fuck off. You’re the one dragging the team down.”

“We’ve only lost one game.”

Our first three games of the season have been away games, leaving us without the home-ice advantage, and the one game we lost went to overtime, so we still got a point. We’re not exactly struggling out here.

“Yeah, no thanks to your shit playing.”

I grit my teeth, trying not to let it show how much his words get to me.

That’s the funny thing about hockey—your team can be winning game after game, but you can still be struggling. Dropped passes, shots missing the net by a mile, being outskated.

That’s where I am right now. We’re winning, but everyone else might as well be playing a different game than me. I’m screwing up basic things, and people are beginning to take notice. We can’t keep this up all season, winning games by just a point, almost letting the other team score on simple mistakes.

I know it and everyone else knows it too. Playing like this isn’t going to get me a contract extension, not by a long shot.

Colter inches closer, our noses nearly touching. “The only reason we won was because your ugly buddy Rhodes pulled your ass out of trouble. Scared Boston away with that ugly fucking scar of his.”

“Fuck. Off.” I growl again, my patience with the asshole wearing thin.

“Or what? Gonna have Rhodes come fight your battle for you again?” His lips pull into an ugly smile. “You don’t have the fucking balls to hit me. You’re weak, Wright. And if the captain wasn’t so in love with you and didn’t convince Coach you’re worth the ice time, we both know I’d have your minutes in a heartbeat.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

He’s jealous.

Which, given my piss-poor playing lately, is comical.

Rhodes skates closer in my periphery, and I shake my head at him, keeping him back.

This isn’t his battle. It’s mine.

I step toward my teammate. “Even at your absolute best, you couldn’t handle the extra minutes.”

And it’s true. Colter is a selfish player, and that’s what’s holding him back. I might be shit right now, but he couldn’t cut it. He’d be too busy trying to make fancy plays and costing us precious inches.

I might not be perfect out there, but I have years of experience and patience.

He shoves at me. “Fuck you, Wright.”

I let him have that shove because I deserve it.

But he won’t get another.

“You think you’re untouchable, think your spot can’t easily be filled. You’re wrong.”

Another shove, and I break.

The gloves come off, and I hear his nose crack under my fist. He stumbles backward, then charges me again, getting my jaw good. The unique metallic flavor hits me all at once.

I run my tongue over my teeth and grin at him.

I like this.

Shit, maybe I even needed this.

Colter goes for another blow and misses. He pulls at my sweater, trying to yank it over my head, but I’m bigger than him and easily wrench myself away, landing another hit to his jaw.

Around and around we go. Back and forth, swinging in circles now, matching each other blow for blow.

Nobody around us moves until we hit the ice, then suddenly they’re all pulling at us.

Rhodes grabs under my arms, hauling me up and off Colter, who scrambles to get out of Miller’s grasp to reach for me again.

“Enough!” Lowell yells, a hand on each of our chests, shoving us away from one another. “Fucking enough. Cool off.”

Miller tries to drag Colter away, and he shoves at him—which pisses me off all over again—then skates toward the dressing room.

We all hear the doors slam as he makes his way down the tunnel.

Lowell looks over at me. “You good?” I nod. “Good. Don’t pull that shit again.” When he’s skating past me, he mutters, “Been wanting to do that since day one.”

The laugh that’s on my lips is cut short when I catch Coach’s eye from across the ice.

He’s not happy.

Not fucking happy at all.

Awesome.

Colter doesn’t come back—which doesn’t matter to me—and the rest of the morning is uneventful.

We’re in the dressing room when Rhodes flops down onto the bench next to me.

“All right. Spill it.”

“What are you talking about?”

He presses a hard finger into the pinched skin between my eyebrows. “I’m talking about that shit. I’m supposed to be the broody one.”

I smack his hand away. “Piss off.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s nothing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s going to let it go.

But he’s Rhodes, so of course he’s not.

Instead, he leans down, tipping his head toward mine, and speaks low. “We have a game tonight, you know. So you better start talking before your head is so far up your own ass that we lose and your contract with the Comets turns to ashes right in front of you.”

Shit.

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.

I gnash my teeth, trying to rein in my frustration.

“Fine.”

I tell him about Harper. How we met…then met again. How I left out some minor details like the fact that I play professional hockey. How I haven’t told her that HockeyGuy69 is also the guy she played an awful game of nighttime “I spy” with.

When I’m finished, he just stares at me, mouth slackened, eyes wide.

“Are you…are you like extra dumb or something? Concussed?” He places his hand against my forehead. “Are you sick?”

I swat him away again. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re pulling shit like this, clearly you’re not. What the hell, man? Why?”

“I don’t know. I just…fuck!” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “She’s not into sports and doesn’t have a clue who I am. Doesn’t care at all.” I shrug. “It’s nice to not worry about all that for a change.”

Rhodes shakes his head. “I hate how that actually makes sense to me.”

“See? I’m not completely nuts.”

“No. You are. What the hell were you going to tell her when you met her, huh? Just hoped she’d laugh it off and you two would bone and that’d be it?”

I clench my fists at the thought of that being it.

“I was hoping she’d understand, yes.”

“You know the likelihood of that is almost nonexistent, right? Are you really sure this is what you want to do? It’s not too late to back out. You haven’t gone on the date yet.”

“I’m not going to ghost her like some asshole.”

“You have no problem lying to her like one.”

Another squeeze of my fists.

“Face it—you’re fucked.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I huff out a derisive laugh. “If this was supposed to be some pep talk, you suck.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d tell me this shit. I just figured it was Colter being a cock again or that look Coach gave you after the fight.” He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against his cubby. “Damn, dude. No wonder you’re playing like shit, missing easy passes and not having your head in the game. You’re all messed up from this.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, a few straggling teammates shuffling about.

I don’t know why I asked Harper out, like shit isn’t complicated enough already.

Okay, that’s a lie.

I know exactly why I did it—I like her. Probably a lot more than I’m allowing myself to admit.

But I could have found a better way for her to find out it’s me. I could have just been honest from the beginning too, but it’s too late for that.

Now I have to figure out how the hell I’m going to fix it all.

If this were any other chick, some random hookup, it wouldn’t be a big deal because it wouldn’t mean anything.

But Harper…she means something.

“You know you have to tell her before your date, right?”

“I know.”

“She’s gonna flip.”

“I know.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“I—”

“You’re not helping,” I cut him off, glaring. “I’ll tell her, okay? I’ll fucking tell her.”

“When?”

It’s a simple word, but the meaning behind it is anything but.

What he really means is before tonight.

He wants me at the game with a clear conscience.

I need to be at the game with a clear conscience.

“I’ll tell her,” I promise quietly.

“Good.”

There’s nothing like playing in front of a home crowd. There’s a buzz in your veins and in the air.

Tonight, mine is buzzing for a different reason.

I head for the dressing room, trying to block everything out.

Several heads swivel my way, probably because of my busted lip and the bruise on my jaw after the fight with Colter this morning.

I keep my head down as I change out of my suit into some shorts and a t-shirt, then pop my earbuds in and settle onto the couch we have in the lounge. I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on a random ’90s playlist to try to relax.

My eyes drift toward the BeeMine app.

I tried several times to message Harper earlier, but everything I typed out sounded horrible.

There is no doubt she’s going to be pissed. She may never forgive me or talk to me again.

And I’d deserve that one hundred percent.

But Rhodes was right. I need to tell her.

If I don’t, it’s all I’m going to be thinking about tonight, and I cannot be thinking about that tonight.

If that fight with Colter this morning taught me anything, it’s that I can’t keep screwing up.

I want to be better than that. Better than him.

I click on the app and pull up my messages with Harper.

HockeyGuy69: There’s something I need to tell you.

HockeyGuy69: It’s probably going to piss you off, but I have to clear the air.

HockeyGuy69: I’m Collin.

HockeyGuy69: Collin Wright. And I play for the NHL.