Page 119 of Facing Off
It’s only for a few more days. After that, they’ll all fly home. I can’t wait. Night and day, all I think about is our kiss. Between meetings with agents, Jung, and Forrester, I keep taking out my phone and staring at it, wondering if I should ask her if she’s suffering the same way.
I don’t, because text messages can be misinterpreted. I won’t be able to hear her tone and she won’t be able to hear mine. For a conversation as important as this one, I want her here. Preferably in my arms, biting back those little whimpering noises she made as I whispered into her ear.
Because I can’t stop thinking of her. She’s inside my head, and I don’t know what to fucking do. I have no idea how she feels about me.
She might not want me. How do I survive that?
My focus dims as I skate aimlessly around, blood pumping through my veins hard enough to make my earshowl. I keep trying to play like normal, but my hands aren’t working. This isn’t helping. I need to hit something. I need to pound a punching bag.
Throwing my stick to the side, I get out of the rink.
I’m about to find myself a punching bag when my name is called. I keep my expression neutral as Owen intercepts my exit. His mustache bristles as he considers me. “Coach Forrester mentioned you’d be working with Jung.”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t take what I’m doing personally, Adrian.”
I tuck my hands into my pockets, so he doesn’t see them turn into fists. “Respectfully, I disagree. Everything about hockey is personal. From the players who grew up loving this great game to the fans cheering us on from their living rooms, believing in us, saving up and buying tickets to come support us in the arena.” My eyebrow slides up. “Just so you’re aware, Eric Jung is the first person in his family to earn the kind of money he has. His parents worked rotating overtime shifts to afford him the gear he needed and to pay for all the junior club fees. Now, they come to every game they can. I have a feeling he’s going to be one of the greats. By the end of the season?—”
“End of season?” Owen interrupts. “I’m sorry, Adrian, but this team needs to come out of the gate winning. Otherwise, I’ve got approval from the owners to do whatever it takes to make the Wings great again.”
“Wait, thatisn’tenough time?—”
“It’s pretty generous, I’d say. Preseason starts soon. That’s three weeks of games to get your players ready for the real season. Use it wisely, or better yet, don’t. Stand down and let me shuffle our roster. We’ll start over with fresh talent.”
Dread turns me rigid. Doesn’t he get it? “The reasonwe won the Stanley Cup beforeisbecause the Wings are a family. We know each other, trust each other, and already have what it takes to win again,” I grind out.
Owen whistles. “Love your optimism. Now, you just have to prove it.”
With that last word, he stalks out.
47
SONYA
A few hoursafter I fly back home, I’m drained on the floor of a dance studio I’m renting by the hour and watching a video on my phone for my “break.”
It was posted this morning on the Vancouver Wings’ social media account. It’s five minutes long, and this is my third rewatch.
This is pathetic, don’t you dare restart it again, Sonya.
I do.
He’s in shorts and a muscle T-shirt that dips low enough on the sides to flash taut obliques, which shouldn’t be a sexy part of the body—but are. His baseball cap is turned backwards, constraining sweat-dampened blonde hair. And he’s skipping rope, but not leisurely. The rope blurs in the air as he faces a few of his teammates.
“Push harder,” orders Adrian. “Come on, you can do anything for thirty seconds.”
He’s training players. Familiar faces and names weave in my mind, coming from memories of games I’ve seen in the past. There’s Jai and Raghr, and rookies, Waris, O’Brian, and Jung.
Shirts are plastered to bodies. Faces are red. Breathing is thick. Clearly, they’ve been going at it for a while.
Adrian’s pace doesn’t slow as he goes backward with the rope. My mouth falls open. His footwork is unreal. I can’t track it.
“If you don’t test your limits,” Adrian reminds them, “your limits never change.”
His team curses him, but they don’t stop lifting weights and doing jumping jacks. Maybe because their drill sergeant is also doing the work, while having enough breath control to give them feedback.
“Jai, tuck your elbows in.”
