Page 118 of In It to Win It

I take in a shuddering breath. Yeah, I’ve lost it. I’ve totally lost it, and no amount of compartmentalizing or deep breathing or thinking calm thoughts is going to help me right now. I skate over to the gate, jump off the ice, and stalk down the tunnel to the visitors’ dressing room.

“How’s your hand?” Benny asks with unruffled composure.

I shake it out, only realizing now that the knuckles are grazed and throbbing.

“I’ll get you an ice pack.”

I drop to the bench in front of my cubby, toss aside my helmet, and let my head fall forward.

Then I hear it. A roar from the fans, so loud it almost drowns out the goal horn. Fucking Nashville scored.

I close my eyes, my heart still trying to pound its way up into my throat.

Benny hands me the ice pack and I hold it on my knuckles. “Thanks,” I mutter. “They just tied it up, didn’t they?”

“Yeah.”

Shit, shit,shit.

I’m stuck here listening and fuming as the game goes into overtime. And we lose.

The mood in the room is grim afterward. The guys are pissed and Uncle Mark is yelling at me. “What the fuck were you thinking? We were up by one goal! There was only four minutes left in the game, goddammit!”

I know. Iknow.

The air in the room is heavy. I can see everyone trading glances.

“Oh, for Chrissake.” Uncle Mark rubs his face. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

I nod miserably. I know I screwed up, but come on! I’m supposed to let him get away with that? “He was on me all night,” I say. “You guys saw it. He was trying to get a rise out of me.”

“It worked,” Frenchy says dourly.

I take a deep breath. Can’t argue with that.

Jordan Zorby, our communications director, is organizing media interviews and tells them I’m not available. I should probably face the music, but I’m glad I don’t have to tonight. After showering and changing into our suits, we all board the bus back to the hotel. Once there, Dutch says, “Come on. Let’s go get a beer.”

Like I want to go and be chewed out for losing my shit. Then I catch Dutch’s eye and he’s not looking at me like he’s judging me; he looks like he’s concerned about me. “Okay.”

We head out toward Broadway. Nashville is usually one of my favorite places to visit, but tonight I’m just cranky. Kitty’s, a bluegrass place, is packed, but some bills trade hands and we soon have a table and a waitress with a big smile and bigger hooters standing next to us to take our drink orders.

“Okay, what happened?” Dutch asks once we’ve all got beers in front of us and the flirty waitress has departed.

A live band is playing, so I have to lean in and shout to tell them what happened. “You guys saw it, right? He was riding my ass all night.”

“He was.” Copper shakes his head. “Dickhead.”

I draw in a slow breath. “He said something about Taylor.”

Everyone makes identical “Ooooh” noises.

“What did he say?” Dutch asks.

“Never mind.”

“Did he insult her?” Copper demands.

I glower into my beer. Steel guitar and banjo whine before the singer starts in about good corn liquor. That’s what I should be drinking. I lift my hand and the waitress hustles right over. She’s been watching us like a hawk.

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