Page 99 of The Puckable Playbook

I wished I’d let Zaiah read it first, but he hasn’t wanted to talk about hockey or the video.

I rub my throbbing temples. I didn’t want the “crushing defeat” scenario to play out in front of me. Zaiah’s story should be different.

My eyes start to water, my throat closing.

“Hey.” Izzy grabs my shoulder. “Whatever happens, it won’t be your fault. Zaiah should try. I’m glad you had a hand in this. He’s changed with you. Completely changed.”

“Yeah, now he’s losing games. Go me.”

I wipe at an escaped tear and breathe out, hoping I can stop the waterworks before Zaiah’s parents come back. The last thing I want to do is explain to them why I’m crying.

“That’s on him,” she explains. “Losing happens in sports. He knows that. He’s been playing his whole life. Plus, he’s not the only player out there. He doesn’t have to carry his teammates on his back, and you don’t have to carry him either.”

I nod, taking a deep breath, willing the tears away. Several even breaths later, I have it under control.

She pats my arm. “Good?”

“Better.”

Mr. and Mrs. James return, so I sit back in my seat, nerves still frayed. When the players come back out on the ice, I pick up the cowbell and stand with Zaiah’s family because it doesn’t matter how he plays, we’ll be cheering him on no matter what.

Luckily, they eke out a win, and when the Swaggin’ Wagon drops me off, I’m not as tense as I could be as I make my way into the suite to wait for him.

I dress in my pajamas and put onThe Secret CircleTV show so I can get mad that they canceled it again. Luckily, I’ve read the books, so I know how it ends, but the show was so good. Jerks.

Time passes, and the next thing I know, I’m roused by hands sliding under my thighs. My eyes fly open, and Zaiah is there, lifting me from the couch. “What time is it?” I ask sleepily.

“Late. I went out to get something to eat with some of the guys. I texted you, but you didn’t respond.”

“I must’ve fallen asleep.”

I wrap my arms around him, and when he goes to lay me on the bed, I hold on, giving him no choice but to follow after.

He scoots in, and I lay on my side. “Congratulations on the win.”

He shrugs. “None of it was my doing.”

I watch different emotions play over his face from the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains. “You’re a team.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, so you take credit for the wins when you play well?”

“Of course not.”

I give him a look, and he sighs and rolls onto his back. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I chew on my lip, reminding myself that I wanted it this way. He can choose what to talk about when it comes to hockey. I’d rather this than sitting in a booth being ignored.

Scooting closer, I lift his arm and sneak underneath it so I can lay my head on his chest. He closes it after me, rubbing my arm.

We lie there in silence, a heavy tension filling the room. Pressure screams off Zaiah like a banshee. I don’t know how long it takes me to fall asleep, but when I wake the next morning to an empty bed, my eyes itch and they’re hard to open, like they’re still clinging to sleep.

The sun streaming in through the open curtains doesn’t help. I get up to shut them, but it’s too late. Once I’m up, I’m up, and when I check the clock, I can see why. It’s nearly eleven a.m.

Begrudgingly, I head to my en suite to get ready, and when I finally walk out into the common area, Zaiah’s seated at the small kitchen table. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he says, distracted.

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