Page 35 of Total Shutdown

She tenses, my suggestion turning her on. She’s tempted—I can see it in her eyes, written across her face as she looks off to the side.

I’m so close to winning her over that I can feel it, the wordyesbalancing on the tip of her tongue, when Archer laughs loudly—a pop of reality snapping her walls back up.

“No,” Collins denies me for a second time, though this response is even less convincing than the first. “Like I said, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

SAWYER

When I recall the worst games in my NHL career to date, I generally think about the ones played in Colorado.

As an athlete, my biggest weakness is—and likely always will be—my psychological approach. If I’m in a good headspace and locked in on the ice, it’s all about the game and nothing else. Even if we’re down by four in only the second period, it doesn’t matter. I’m focused, never wavering from the task at hand.

Over the years, the team’s psych has encouraged me to mentally prepare for games by running through my strongest performances, virtually playing out my best moves, passes, shots, and even hits. A lot of those moments have happened on the Philadelphia Bolts’ home ice. I don’t know why, but this arena brings me good juju. It was the first game I played where I felt a fraction of myself after Sophie’s death. It’s also a place where I’ve scored the most goals, and as a defenseman, that’s the kind of shit you never forget.

Tonight, I’m playing on that exact ice, and we’re up one, deep in the third.

No thanks to me.

This is not an away series I will remember, other than for the way my head has been firmly up my ass the past few days.

The puck spills from Jack when he’s boarded by a Bolts defenseman. I just fucking stand there. I see it sliding toward me, but my skates don’t move. Well, they do, but way too late and slowly.

Jack’s one of the most chill guys I’ve ever played with, but even he’s nearing the end of his patience when he throws his arms out just as the Philly center intercepts the puck and breaks for a turnover.

They score, drawing us level and ending Archer’s recent run of shutouts.

He’s pissed. I can feel his eyes as they bore into the back of my head.

As I skate off the ice for a switch-out, it’s clear Coach is feeling the same kind of way, shaking his head as I flop onto the bench and remove my mouthguard.

With one eye still on the game, he turns to me. “The fuck is going on, Bryce?”

Would this be a good time to tell him I’m playing like shit because of a girl I can’t get out of my fucking head?

She blew me off—for a second time. But unlike the first instance at Lloyd’s last November, this isn’t about my ego; my feelings run way deeper.

“Just not at it tonight,” I groan.

Emmett, who got handed a penalty two minutes earlier—which didn’t fucking help my cause—knocks on the plexiglass next to me.

What’s going on?he mouths.

I shrug and turn back to Coach, who’s looking straight at me.

“If I put you back out there for the final three minutes, do you think you can move faster than my gran?”

I deadpan, knowing he’s not wrong. I’ve been slow as fuck.

“You’re playing like you’re carrying some kind of injury,” Coach’s tone is exasperated, reflecting how I feel.

With zero excuses and consequently no answer to his statement, I replace my mouthguard and stand, ready for the switch when his hand lands on my shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, Bryce. But you’re the captain, and you need to lead by example. That includes keeping any personal issues out of the rink.”

* * *

News flash:they didn’t stay out of the rink.

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