Page 92 of Blocked Shot
JAKE
The locker room is a madhouse.
Music blasts from a speaker in the corner, someone’s off-key singing adding to the chaos. Guys are still half in their gear, pounding each other on the back, pounding fists against lockers in celebration. The scent of sweat, tape, and victory hangs thick in the air. Someone cracks open a beer—probably against the rules, but no one gives a damn.
Jake exhales, long and slow, leaning back against the cool metal of his stall. His jersey is off, his shoulder pads peeled away, but his undershirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat.
Two wins in two nights. His body feels every second of it. Last night’s game had been a grind. Exhaustion settled like lead in his limbs during overtime, the sharp edge of competition pushing him past it. And then, that moment—his huge hit, catching the puck on his stick,threading it through traffic, watching as his linemate Griz buried it in the back of the net. The surge of elation, the way the arena exploded around him, the way his teammates swarmed, pounding him on the helmet, shouting in his ear. He should still be riding that high. And maybe a part of him is. But after back-to-back games, his body is screaming for a break, muscles tight, bruises blooming under his gear. At least now, with the series wrapped up, they get a couple of days to breathe.
He rolls his shoulders and a familiar dull ache settles in. His right arm throbs where he took a slash in the second period. His ribs are tender from a hit he didn’t see coming. His knuckles are bruised, raw from where they met someone’s helmet, or maybe a visor—he isn’t sure.
He doesn’t mind the pain. It’s part of it. A reminder of the job he does, of what he’s built himself to withstand. Still, a couple of days off before the next round sounds like a goddamn gift.
“Mac! Come on, man!”
A hand claps hard against his back, jolting him forward. He glances up to find Jonesy, grinning ear to ear, cheeks still flushed from the game.
“You just gonna sit there brooding, or are you actually gonna celly?” Jonesy gestures around them. “Second round, baby! We’re still in this thing!”
Jake forces a grin, reaching for the roll of tape beside him, tearing off a strip to wrap around his fingers. “I’m celebrating.”
Jonesy snorts. “Yeah? You look real thrilled.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he watches as more guys pile into the room, hollering, laughing, caught up in the energy. He wants to be there with them, caught in that same adrenaline-fueled euphoria. But instead, he feels… tired.
Good tired, though. The kind that settles deep in his bones, that makes him feel like he left every ounce of himself on the ice.
A few stalls down, someone is FaceTiming their wife and kids, showing off the scene. Someone else is chirping about who had the worst shift of the game. Jake barely listens. His mind drifts—back to the moment the final buzzer sounded, to the rush of the crowd, to thedejected faces on the other team as they shook hands. Then further, beyond the game itself, to something else entirely.
Or rather, someone.
The last time he looked up into the stands, she wasn’t there. He told himself he didn’t expect her to be. But still.
Jake drags a hand down his face, his palm catching on the rough stubble along his jaw. His body is still buzzing with exertion, but underneath it, something else churns.
He swipes at his phone where it sits in his stall. No messages. No missed calls.
With a sigh, he pushes to his feet, wincing slightly as his ribs protest. Jonesy is still watching him, eyes sharp despite the easy smile.
Jake shakes his head, forcing himself back into the moment.
“I’ll grab a beer,” he says, rolling out his neck. “Then I’m hitting the cold tub before I seize up completely.”
Jonesy laughs, tossing him a can. “There he is.”
Jake smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The concrete walls of the arena hallway are cool, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. The post-game energy still lingers, with the occasional echo of laughter bouncing off the concrete. Equipment managers wheel carts of jerseys, security guards chat near the exit, fist bumping players on their way out.
The adrenaline of the game has worn off, leaving behind exhaustion that sits heavy in Jake’s bones. His suit jacket feels too stiff, the collar of his dress shirt too tight. He wants to get to his truck, sink into the driver’s seat, and let his mind go blank for a while.
“Jake.”
The sound of his name stops him dead in his tracks.
His head snaps up. His pulse slams against his ribs. He must be imagining it. There’s no way. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s lived in his head, her voice ghosting through his thoughts when he least expects it.
But then he sees her.
