Page 35 of Facing Off
“I know.”
“There’s no reason to do that.” My voice echoes off the walls. “Jung needs a lot of work in his zone, but he’s elite at stretch passes. I’ll train him personally.”
“I don’t know if you want to invest your time?—”
The rest of his words don’t reach me. I’m too lost in my own thoughts.
Why is my time worth more than anyone else’s? Or my success? I don’t deserve to be captain if I still think that way.
The folder is tucked under my arm. I’m going to study it right away. Most of the players will be vacationing, or at Worlds, or spending time with their families during break, but as soon as we’re back, I’m setting up special practices. Meanwhile, I need to figure out their strengths and weaknesses. I’ll make charts. Map our plays. Different formations. Figure out how to inspire them, find the right words to say.
Coach must read something off my expression. He frowns. “I don’t want my captain to buckle under the stress.”
My grin is wide. Cocky. Careless.A lie. “What stress?”
Forrester reluctantly dismisses me.
I salute him, then stroll out of the room. I’m grinning—until I’m not. Safely away from his office, I slump against the wall, grateful the hallway is empty.
My hands tremble as I rub the back of my neck.
Those unwanted memories from my past surface. Another hockey player with short buzzed hair. The vintage jersey his parents bought him for his birthday that he let me wear sometimes. Eager brown eyes that told me he’d be known all around the world for scoring the game-winning goal on an international stage one day.
I shove a hand through my hair.Keep it together, a voice in my head chides.Get on the ice and clear your head.You’re no good to anyone like this.
Since I’m already in the arena, it’s quick work to head to the locker room. There, I put on my jersey and gear, and finish tying up my skates when my phone rings.
The opening notes ofThe Nutcrackerdon’t play long, because I don’t let them. There’s only one person with that ringtone in my phone, and she’s never called me before.
The image of her struggling on stage grips my mind. I was planning on calling Quinn later tonight to see if she’d mentioned it to him yet.
“Sonya?” Her name comes out in a rush.
“Butt-dial,” she mumbles.
Then Sonya hangs up.
Huh.What?
I call her back. My chest swells with this rush of strange anticipatory energy, overwhelming any stress I was facing minutes ago.
Sonya called me? Why?
I don’t know why, but I’ll always pick up her calls, no matter what. Regardless of where we last left off. That’s a fucking guarantee.
“Sonya,” I croon as soon the call is answered, before she can get a word in. “Were you staring at my number? Isthat how youaccidentallycalled me? Maybe your Adrian quota hasn’t been met after all. Did you want me to fill it? I’m really good at filling things up. Care for a demonstration, darling?”
Her silence is deafening, but she hasn’t hung up yet. That’s strange. I’m about to ask what’s going on when I hear it.
Beeping. A monitor. The muffled announcement of a code being announced on an intercom.
My grin dies. Fucking instantly and immediately. “Sonya. Where are you?”
She doesn’t answer.
Another announcement comes on, this one much clearer.
ER, room 15.Cancel code blue.
