Page 9 of The Final Faceoff
Hailey: And yet, you texted me.
Leif: Bad habit. Should break it.
Hailey: Good luck with that, Crawford.
Leif: Fuck you.
Hailey: Awww, is that goalie-speak for “thank you for always talking me through my existential crises?”
Leif: I don’t like you.
Hailey: You love me. You just don’t know what to do with someone who actually gets you.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Because she’s right. She’s always fucking right. Instead of responding, I do the only thing that makes sense. I hit call before I can overthink it. It rings twice before Hailey picks up, and I can already hear the smirk in her voice.
“Wow. You caved fast.”
I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “You were being unbearable over text.”
“Sure, it was all me. Let’s highlight who called whom—you did. Not me. Like a man who needs comfort but refuses to admit it.”
Why does she have to be so—so—so . . . fuck. If only she could be right here and not in fucking Greece. “I’m hanging up.”
“No, you’re not,” she states. “You need to solve this now and if I don’t listen, no one else will.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. I drag a hand through my hair and pace across my kitchen, socked feet sliding over the hardwood.
I lean against the fridge, pressing my forehead to the cool metal. “I hate how much sense you make sometimes.”
“Yeah, that must be really hard for you.”
A beat of silence stretches between us, comfortable in the way that only exists when someone knows you down to your worst habits, your messiest thoughts. The fridge hums behind me. My fingers tap against my thigh. A leftover piece of packing tape curls at the edge of the counter.
“I can’t stop thinking about how wrong it all feels,” I murmur, half to myself. “Like it’s already off before I even step onto the ice.”
Hailey sighs, soft but knowing. “Maybe ask for time on the ice before training begins. The sooner you say yes, the better. Then you can be there until you break the ice—and you become one with it.”
“Stop using so much logic,” I groan, because seriously why does she have to be right instead of telling me that I should demand more time, more money, more . . . something.
“You’re going to take it, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
I flex my fingers, roll my shoulders back. “I might know.”
She hums, the sound slow and smug. “Mmm. Sounds like a man who’s already picked out which new corner he’s going to claim in the locker room.”
I groan. “I knew you were going to bring up the fucking corner.”
“It’s your thing, Leif. You literally sit in the exact same spot before every game, with the same weird stretching routine, and act like the universe will implode if someone breathes in your direction before you’re done.”
I push off the fridge and cross to the window, staring out over the darkened skyline of Arizona. “It could implode. You don’t know.”
She laughs, and it’s infuriating how much it steadies me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I am a goalie.”
