Page 4 of Empty Net

And“Think maybe you need to sit out a few games? Regroup?”

I know it’s exactly what they’d ask because it’s what I’ve been asking myself since the final buzzer sounded. My one job last night was to stop pucks, and I sucked. The rest of the team showed up, and that’s the only reason we won. It certainly wasn’t my goal-saving abilities.

I push the unwanted thoughts aside, trying not to dwell, especially since we walked away with two points in the end, and that’s all that matters. Besides, tonight is supposed to be about fun, not hockey.

I’m sure I’m not expected to bring anything, but my mother would hand me my ass if she knew I went to a party empty-handed. I set my basket on the belt, then unload my provisions. I’m sure the party hosts—and the rest of my team, for that matter—will endlessly make fun of me for bringing something, but it’s just ingrained in me at this point. Champagne and cookies it is.

“Hey, Fox,” the cashier says as I approach the payment terminal.

“Hey, Rico. How are you?”

The lanky, overgrown kid with hair down to his shoulders who smells suspiciously like pot shrugs. “Well, I’m stuck here until next year, but it’s overtime, so I guess I can’t complain.”

I can’t help but laugh at his horrible “next year” joke.

“What are you up to?” he asks as he drags one of the boxes of cookies across the scanner. “Must be something fancy with you dressed like that.”

I glance down at the tux I’m wearing, then grin back up at him. “What? This old thing?”

“Yes, that old—what is it, Tom Ford?—tux you’re wearing.”

It’s Armani, though I’m not sure that makes it any better, so I don’t correct him.

“Got a thing with some teammates.” I purposely keep my answer vague. Not that I think Rico would tell a soul where I’m off to—he’s too cool for that—but still.

“Teammates.” He shakes his head with a smile. “I love how you casually say that like you’re not going to hang out with the entire Seattle Serpents team. Still wild to me that you even come through here and you don’t have someone buying your groceries for you.”

“I’m just a normal guy, Rico,” I tell him, certainly not for the first time since I’m here at least a few times a week when I’m not on the road.

He snorts. “A normal guy who makes six point four million a year.”

I don’t tell him I actually make $6.6 million, which means he’s right—I’m not a regular guy. I’m a professional hockey goalie being paid millions of dollars a year to play a game I love more than life itself who is off to a catered party where we’ll no doubt drink thousands of dollars’ worth of champagne like it’s something we do every Tuesday and not even bat an eye. There’s nothing normal about that at all.

He gives me my total, and I slide my black card into the reader.

“Stuck at work or not, I hope you have a good night and a happy New Year, Rico,” I say as I grab my bags full of supplies I don’t really need.

“Thanks, Fox. Don’t party too hard, yeah?”

I’m halfway to the exit when he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “And go Serpents!”

I hustle out of the store faster than ever, practically running to my blacked-out Denali Ultimate in hopes nobody decides to stop me. I only laugh at the absurdity of everything when I’m tucked safely inside and there have been no incidents to speak of.

My mind spins as I navigate the Seattle streets, heading toward The Sinclair, where our team’s New Year’s Eve party is being hosted by our captain and his girlfriend, Auden. This time last year, the hotel belonged to Auden’s company, Sinclair Properties, but she sold it, having felt the luxury hotel empire was running fine without her and wanting something else out of life. Now, here we are, holding team parties there.

The Serpents got lucky with no games today and tomorrow. Otherwise, I highly doubt we’d be doing anything like this. Everyone would be holed up at their houses, ice packs on their quads and massage guns working their calves, recuperating after the game. I know that’s precisely where I’d be, especially since every game lately feels like a grind.

Fuck, I should have played better last night. We had to work too damn hard for that win. For all our wins lately, actually. It’s taxing for the whole team, and the worst part is that it’smyfault. If I could just keep the puck out of the back of the net, we wouldn’t have to work from behind so much. If I could push from post to post just a little faster, I could save us from going to overtime and adding those extra minutes of ice time. If I could get my glove injustthe right position, I could keep us ahead. So many ifs, yet none of those things have happened. I need to be on my A game going into the new year because I don’t know if the rest of the team can keep going like this, barely hanging on each night, thanks to all my screwups.

When Dash, our backup, is in net, it’s like we’re a whole different team, but I’m supposed to be the starting goalie. I’m supposed to be this team’s winner, this city’s champion. I’m none of those things.

I shake away my doom-and-gloom thoughts as I pull up in front of the hotel, then toss my keys to the valet—who looksveryexcited to get behind the wheel of my baby—and make my way inside to the party on the top floor.

“Why does it not surprise me that you’re the first one here?” Hutch asks as I nod at the guard standing by the entrance, who lets me pass without an issue. Guess he’s aware of who is on the team and who isn’t.

“Or that you brought…gifts?” My captain’s eyes drop to the paper bags in my arms.

“Champagne.” I hike the bags higher. “And cookies.”

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