Page 52 of Meet Your Match
My stomach soured a bit. “Yeah. Bobby seems to know you really well.”
He nodded. “We were close at Michigan. He’s a beast of a defenseman, just as good, if not better, than Brittzy.”
“Why didn’t he go pro?”
“He could have. He had teams who wanted him. He probably would have started in the AHL, though,” he said. “But even if they would have told him he could have come straight to the NHL, I don’t think he would have. Bobby has always wanted to coach, to be at that rink that helped him so much. Not everyone has parents who can afford to drop the kind of cash hockey requires.”
I let that sit for a moment, wincing as he dug his thumbs into my neck. I let my head fall back when he moved to my shoulders again.
“You’ve been off on this trip.”
It was a statement, not so much a question, and Vince didn’t answer for a long moment.
“I need to play better.”
I barked out a laugh. “Why, so you can win all three stars of the game instead of just one?”
“I didn’t score in either of these games,” he said.
“You had an assist.”
“It’s not the same.”
I pulled away, turning so I could face him. I immediately missed the feel of his hands on me — which was a problem in and of itself — but I wanted to look at him when I said, “You don’t have to carry the weight of the team on your shoulders.”
“No,” he agreed, his eyes glued to mine. “But I can play better.”
“You’re a perfectionist.”
“I just hold myself to a high standard.”
“That must be exhausting.”
He smiled, looking up at the sky before he looked at me again. “It’s the opposite, actually. I feel energized when I’m performing well, when I’m scoring goals and training hard. I feel my best when I’m performing on andoffthe ice.”
“What are you afraid of?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard, and Vince watched me for a long pause before he answered.
“Being worthless.”
I wasn’t expecting such an honest answer. In fact, I guess I’d been expecting a joke, because the vulnerability with which he said those words struck me like a bat against the head.
I frowned, and the longer I watched him, the more Vince shifted under my gaze. Eventually, he cleared his throat and motioned for me to turn around again, swirling his pointer finger in the air. When I did, he went back to massaging my shoulders.
I groaned. “God. This feels so good.”
“Still mad at me?”
I felt under the water for his side, and then pinched it hard enough to make him squirm away.
“Ow,” he said, pointedly.
“You deserved it.”
“Why? What’d I do?”
I didn’t humor him with a response, which made him let out a soft laugh.
