Page 18 of Scoring Slater
The reporter gaped at Slater. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
"We're done here." Slater turned, dismissing the floundering reporter, and met Noah's gaze. "Let's go."
Noah jolted out of his spot and fell in step beside Slater. "Thank you."
Slater kept his gaze straight ahead, his long strides ate up the room. "I'm still angry with you, but I wasn't going to leave you alone with him. I saw him weaseling around during your media interview. He was watching you and headed right for you as soon as you were walking away. What a scumbag. He hasn't changed."
They reached the doors and Noah breathed easier as soon as they exited the room. "What are you up to now?"
"Hanging out with Max until rehearsal for the auction." With a curt nod, Slater strode away.
A heaviness descended, overtaking his already exhausted body. He rubbed a hand over the ache in his chest and watched Slater melt into the crowd. He'd really messed things up.
The quiet retreat of his room wasn't enough of an escape. He took to the streets, walking around the city, caught up in memories as cold wind whipped through his hat and coat and stole his breath. A lot had changed in seven years and a lot had stayed the same. He was still lonely, alone, wandering the streets with a troubled heart.
Returning to the hotel, he ran into Slater and a few of the other auction participants on their way to rehearsal. He chatted for a few minutes with Kyle Pressgrove, Garrett Walker, and Layne Coleman, acutely feeling the absence of Slater's smile and touch. Emptiness enveloped him as he wished them a good rehearsal and let them go on their way.
Dinner was deep dish pizza at a highly recommended restaurant with five players from New Jersey, Boston, and Toronto. He travelled to the arena with them afterward for a run through of the skills competition events that would take place the following night. Slater and Max showed up late, and Noah stayed out of his friend's way. They weren't competing in the same event, so avoidance wasn't difficult, especially when they both seemed to go out of their way to ensure zero contact. He didn't look forward to enduring two more days of uncomfortable tension.
* * *
The following morning, Noah holed up in his room binging on a space exploration miniseries and reading until the time came to head to the arena for the skills competition. Hiding from the world was better than the risk of running into Slater.
When he arrived at the arena, a cluster of fans shouted his name. He signed autographs and posed for photos, smile in place, and pretended not to hear the questions asking about his teammate's whereabouts. Seeing his and Slater's jerseys hanging side-by-side in adjacent dressing room stalls made his throat thicken. Regret swelled once more. This should've been an awesome experience for them to share. Instead, Slater was angry, and he was conflicted and frustrated and lonely, and everything was a mess.
Noah put on his gear, grateful when Matthews and Anderson, with adjoining stalls on his other side, pulled them into their conversation. He focused on forming new friendships, compared tattoos with Anderson and learned that Matthews shared his passion for reading. They were asking him about the team's book club when Slater entering the room, laughing with Max Reilly and a trio of players from Colorado and Vancouver.
Slater and Max came over and shook hands with Matthews and Anderson. Then Slater moved to his stall. He nodded at Noah as he passed. "Hey."
"Hey." He waited, but when Slater didn't say anything further, he stood and followed his new friends onto the ice.
A mix of jerseys from every team in the league were scattered through the crowd, but the heavy favorite was the home team. He spotted a few Bedlam jerseys in seats not far from the bench and waved to those fans. Soon, all of the players were on the ice. Slater and a handful of players recorded videos and took photos. His outgoing roommate posed for selfies with over half the guys on the ice, but didn't approach him.
"Noah. Slater." One of the league's cameramen waved them over. "I'm getting shots of all the teammates participating. Stand here by the circle."
Noah obliged and a moment later, Slater joined him. Doubting the touch would be welcome, he resisted the urge to put his hand on Slater's shoulder as they smiled for the camera.
"Thanks guys. You're done."
Maybe they were, in more ways than one.
The competition got underway. Throughout the fastest skater and the shooting accuracy competitions, he cheered, congratulated and commiserated, trying his hardest to ignore the ache in his chest.
Nervous energy filled his body as his name was announced in the hardest shot competition. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Performing well, holding his own against the best in the game, mattered. He glanced at the bench and met Slater's cool blue gaze. No smile, no thumbs up, nothing.
He got into position, pulled back, channeled of all the frustration with the situation with Slater, and the anger he still felt at Preston, and fired.
After a moment, the radar's screen read 104 miles per hour.
"Whoa. Not too bad." Skating back to the bench, he sought out Slater, but the redhead's attention was focused on his phone.
Three more players took their shots, and all fell short of his record. A rookie from Vancouver was up next, the final competitor. His shot registered 104.1.
Damn it. Lost by a tenth of a point. The rookie's ecstatic smile took away some of the disappointment. Noah high-fived him in congratulations. "Nice shot."
He skated over to join Matthews and together they cheered on their dinner mates in the goalie challenge.
Slater competed in the final event, the obstacle course. He had to guide the puck through a series of cones and moving objects in the least amount of time. Noah silently wished him good luck.
