Page 92 of The Puckable Playbook

With a stomach full of mac and cheese, I walk out hand in hand with Zaiah, his teammates in front of us. We all break apart, going to our respective vehicles, and I drive Zaiah back to Knightley in silence. At a stoplight, I peer over to find him drawing hockey pucks in the fog of the window.

I seal my lips shut, reminding myself that he’s allowed to take the loss in whatever way he sees fit. What I don’t understand is why he invited me out with his teammates if he was going to wallow in his own misery, bringing up what they could’ve done better in the game over and over. Adam seemed to be the only player who wasn’t taking it like a knife to the chest.

After parking, I push the button to turn off the car and hesitate. Zaiah reaches to release his seat belt and gives me another distant smile. I return it, and we both get out and walk to the suite the same way we endured the ride—lips tight and unmoving.

Once we step into our suite, I head for my bedroom. It’s late and I’m tired, and Zaiah obviously needs some time for himself. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.

“Hey,” he says when I’m in the doorway to my room. I stop, turning slowly.

“I’m sorry I’m no fun.”

I shrug, not knowing what to say. All these new feelings and old feelings are mixing, and I’m not sure if the anger bubbling up inside me is directed at Zaiah or my dad. Or both. “You have every right to be sad.”

“I’m not sad, I’m disappointed.”

I sigh. I don’t want my life—my emotions—to be dictated by hockey anymore. I don’t want to have to walk on eggshells after a loss, wondering when the person I live with will return to normal. “It’s fine, Zaiah.”

My stomach tumbles over when my response sours like a lie inside me. I don’t want to be the person who takes it anymore. I don’t want to be the person who needs to write letters years after because they felt like they couldn’t say what they wanted to, and I shouldn’t feel that way around Zaiah. I take a deep breath. “Next time, please don’t invite me to eat if you’re going to stick me in the corner, barely talk, not introduce me to your teammates I haven’t met before, then sulk the whole time.”

He lifts his gaze, and for a few seconds, he isn’t bleak anymore. A storm fires in his eyes. Like thunder, he glares my way. “You’re mad at me?”

“A little, yeah.”

He breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring. It’s the same look he had on his face the whole game.

Old Len would’ve backtracked to keep the peace, but I can’t. Not with him. He deserves the best of me. “It’s not all you. My father would take losses hard, and it bothered me. I would get ignored or have to listen to tirades for hours—sometimes days—and I despised it, okay? I realize you’re allowed to take the loss however you want, though, so I’ll be in my room. If you want to talk about it, I’m here. I promise.”

A shiver runs through me, the memories crashing like glass shards from the sky that splinter at my feet. No one knows what having to hide from your own family member is like unless you’ve been through it. Or having to walk on eggshells so you don’t poke the beast.

Immediately, his gaze softens. He moves toward me, grabbing my hands. “You’re right. Adam wanted to go out and I didn’t. I really only wanted to see you. Hold you. I’m sorry.”

I lift my shoulders because I really don’t know what to say. Zaiah isn’t my dad. I know that. Closing my eyes, I lean my head on his chest. His heartbeat thumps, reverberating through me until it’s all I can hear. “Losses happen in your line of work. We can figure something out. We have to.”

“We’ll make a new tradition. Something happier.”

His hands filter through my hair, and I smile against his shirt. “I like that.”

“You’ll have to help me come up with one because everything that springs to mind revolves around me taking you to bed.”

“Typical hockey player,” I tease, leaning back to look at him.

He bands his arms around my body, not letting me get too far away. He traces the lines of my face with his stare like he’s imprinting them to memory. “No, that’s not it at all. I’m addicted to you, Len.”

“Zaiah…”

“It’s true. I played like shit because I kept thinking about you in the stands wearing my jersey. Sneaking glances at you in my number when I should’ve been listening to Coach. Imagining your thighs wrapped around my head while I tasted you. You don’t understand what it did to me seeing you wear my name across your back. I wanted to stop the game and take you in the locker room.”

“And then?”

“No,takeyou, sweetie. Drive inside you until it felt as if we were the only two people in the world.”

All thought leaves my body.

“You’re blaming me for your poor play.”

“I’m blaming you for this feral need inside me.”

“No wonder you were slow off the puck.”

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