Page 45 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
I don’t blame him. That’s almost word for word the statement my publicist released, after conferring with Evan’s publicist. The story is already dead.
A few players dart curious glances at me, but they’re soon distracted when Owen starts to belch the national anthem.
Thankfully, they throw their clothes at him, and he stops, though I think most of the reason he stops is because belching any song, especially the national anthem, is impossible.
Evan comes in. He doesn’t sit near me. He barely looks at me.
My heart trembles, and I hate it. I hate everything.
I’m relieved when we’re called to the tunnel. But my heart still aches, just like it did all yesterday, and the day before, right after those pictures came out.
I’m bleary-eyed. I hope my reactions won’t be delayed, and I hate the swell of nervousness that hits me. The only way I got to sleep was pretending that everything was okay between Evan and me and remembering all the good things that happened.
I hated myself for it in the morning. I shouldn’t be remembering him. Not like that.
I glower in case any of the guys want to ask me about the paparazzi photos. Isaiah has gone right back to ignoring me, and I hate the feeling that I’m somehow in the wrong.
This is for the best.
Evan and I can’t be anything together.
Not after I kissed him. Not after I slept with him. Not after it took less than twenty-four hours for speculation about the two of us to inundate hockey gossip.
I didn’t protect him, and my job is literally to protect him.
Finally, it’s time for us to skate onto my ice, and my body takes over. The whoosh of skates might not mask the thunder of my heart, but it’s all I have. At least I’m supposed to be keeping track of him when we skate together. At least any glances at him will be seen as professional and not overtly personal.
And so I allow myself to peek.
I regret it at once.
He doesn’t look good.
I mean, obviously, he looks amazing. He’s still the handsomest person I’ve ever seen. But his pallor lacks his normal flush, and his skin isn’t supposed to be slick with sweat so early in the game.
It’s not like this arena is hot.
It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.
The puck roars toward Evan, and one of the players from the opposing team heads toward him. I’m there in an instant. I’m not going to let Evan get hurt again. For some reason, Evan doesn’t look happy to see me, and that shame fills me again, coating my stomach like nausea.
The opposing player takes hold of the player and skates away.
“Hold it together,” Evan says.
I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or him.
A roar sounds. Our players aren’t celebrating.
“You’re in my way,” Evan says.
Okay, it’s possible I’m crowding him.
He pushes himself against me, knocking my shoulder, then he’s off.
Shit.
I was crowding him.
