Page 47 of Power Move
We walk toward the locker room. He unzips the thin jacket he always wears on the ice. “We’ve decided to have you sit out of tomorrow’s game. Probably Thursday too. We’d rather have you rest, so you’re fresh for the playoffs.”
Game one is next Tuesday. If I don’t play Thursday, that’ll give me over a week to recover.
“I feel sore enough to appreciate having tomorrow off, so I won’t argue.”
He pats my uninjured shoulder. “Good. Get changed. You have a treatment session today, yes?”
“Yeah.” I shake his hand, then head into the locker room where Maxim waits to help me get out of my gear and change clothes. He and Quinn keep me company on the way back to the hotel. I arrive for my treatment session with the trainer, physically and emotionally exhausted.
Lying on the table, while the ice packs do their work, I thumb through my texts. Sage and I haven’t gone a day without texting since early in our relationship.
It’s been a while so I don’t think he’s still at the arena. He’s not been active in our team chat either. I don’t know what to say, so I tap out:How did it go?
By the time my session ends, he still hasn’t replied. Maybe he’s still angry with me and wants time to cool off. I don’t want to annoy or upset him anymore than I already have.
I go back to my room, text Jonas to see what he and Soren are up to at the Slash house, receive pictures of them hanging out with Benny, and collapse onto the bed. A movie might distract me, but I doubt it. Music from Sage’s playlist could make me feel worse about the way things went down between us, but it also makes me feel close to him.
I hit play, and close my eyes, thinking about what I’ll say when I have him in front of me once again.
BANG. BANG. BANG!
Pounding on my door jolts me from sleep. I spring off the bed. “What the hell?”
The faintest shades of pink streak across the sky. I whip around to look at the time. How did I sleep for the entire afternoon?
No teammate has ever knocked like that. I stomp to the door and check the peephole. Remy and Morgan stand in the hall, their faces grim. Morgan raises his fist to knock again.
If they’re here, it’s probably to yell at me about Sage. I flip the lock, then wrench the door open.
Before I can say anything, Remy marches past me.
I step aside so Morgan can enter, then close the door. “What’s up?”
“Sage is spiraling.”
Concern for him crushes my chest. “Where is he? What happened?”
Morgan plants his ass on the desk. “He and Coach had a meeting with the doctor and trainers after practice. They won’t let him play. He can’t get enough power or control with the hockey stick.”
Standing at the window, Remy crosses his arms over his chest, his features pinched in worry. “The doctor said it’s too early in the injury, that maybe if it was three weeks into healing, things would be different. So no finishing out these last two games, and no playoffs next week.”
“They’re sending him down?” My mouth falls open as my mind races with the unfairness of it. Sage has been a major part of the reason we’ve gotten this far.
“Yeah. But it’s more like they’re sending him home. The Slash didn’t make the playoffs and this is the last week of their season. They won’t let him play either.”
“Sage is devastated. He’s mad at himself, the situation, the timing, and he’s worried about the argument you two had.” His words gathering in strength and volume, Morgan paces, then throws up his hands. “And then you say to him the dreaded we need to talk line? What the hell?”
“Well, we do need to talk. Shit, I didn’t mean it likethattype of ‘we need to talk’.I’m not breaking up with him.” I shove my feet into my sneakers because I need to straighten out things with my man ASAP. “Where is he?”
“Before we tell you that, you need to understand something. When he thinks he’s hurt someone else, the whole anxiety thing triples. He beats himself upso muchbecause he feels so bad about causing them pain.”
“Whether it’s something he’s unintentionally said or done, or an accident. Like, for instance, tripping and spilling a pint of Guinness on someone’s sweater.” Remy gives me a meaningful stare.
The profuse apologies and offers to make things right with my sweater that night suddenly make a lot more sense. “Shit.”
“Yeah. So imagine how he feels today. He defended you. Injured himself. Now, he can’t help the team. He can’t play hockey. Or guitar. He’s worried about how you’re doing, and he’s unsure of where the two of you stand.”
I feel even worse about how we left things last night. The knot in my stomach doubles in size. I scrub my hand over my face, then drag it through my hair.
