Page 152 of You're The One
TO IKEA AND BEYOND
FORTY-SEVEN
My body isat the first day of training camp, but my mind’s still where it’s been the last couple of weeks—back in bed with Mia.
We left the bedroom, sure, but never went far. Walks around the neighborhood. Quick bites at local spots I’d somehow never tried. Mia had a call with her therapist. I checked in with mine. Logan stopped by once to make sure we were still alive.
I even did the whole meet-the-parents thing when we swung by their house to pick up a couple of Mia’s things, just enough so she’d be comfortable at my place. Hopefully one day it can beours. Soon. As soon as I figure out how to ask her. For now, she’s agreed to stay until the season starts back up. We’re making the most of it before the schedule keeps us apart.
The rest of our time was spent in bed. On the couch. Once on the kitchen counter, for old time’s sake.
My need for that woman knows no bounds.
And after weeks of filming, with eyes and lenses on us twenty-four-seven, we needed the break. Time for us. A chance to settle in.
Which might take me the rest of my life. I’m good with that. Anything less would sell us short.
Helm cuts in front of me, looking like he could run this drill another dozen times. “Looking kinda slow, Foxy.”
“We’re not making that a thing, Rook,” I call after him. His only reply is laughter.
Fuck. I’m out of shape. It feels like there’s sand under my blades instead of ice. The first day of camp is never forgiving, but this year I’m paying for every second of training I traded for time with Mia.
Worth it. Every damn one.
Finally, Coach blows his whistle, a short blast that signals mercy. If he’d pushed us through another round of suicides, I would’ve ended up flat on the ice.
Exhaustion drives me to the locker room bench before my legs give out. I yank my helmet off, shake out the sweat-soaked hair plastered to my forehead, then peel off my practice jersey. My lungs strain for air as I sit.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my cubby. I don’t need to check the screen to know it’s Bodhi. He’s been calling nonstop about the reunion, and I’ve dodged every one. I look anyway, just in case it’s Mia. Nope. I was right. I let it ring through, and a text follows immediately after.
Bodhi:
Reunion?!?
Call me
You think he’d take the hint by now.
The guys move through their post-practice routine. Gear thuds into bins, showers hiss to life, laughter and ribbing carry over the sound of running water. By the time I’ve stripped down and pulled on fresh shorts, most of my teammates are already toweling off.
“Fox looks like he’s been to hell and back.” Helm grins, not even a flush on his face.
“You gonna make it?” Volk adds, also looking like he could’ve gone another round.
I glare at them both.
“If we’re going for the Cup this year, you better get your shit together,” King piles on.
Going for the Cup is ambitious, considering our performance last season. Still, every year we hope this’ll be the one we bring it home. It doesn’t matter how many years of evidence say otherwise. Hell, I’d be happy just making it to the playoffs.
“Me? I’m not the one who missed half of last season on injured reserve,” I shoot back.
“I’m good as new,” King replies, slipping into his sneakers.
Logan drops onto the bench beside me, shoving a bottle of water against my chest. “Drink up. Don’t want you keeling over before your big TV debut.”
I’m tempted to swat it away, but hydration wins.
