Page 101 of Bleacher Report
Breathing through the ache in my shoulder, I let the sting of the loss sink into my bones.
And still—when I glance up one last time...
Peyton’s looking at me. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just...there. And that means more than she’ll ever know.
The locker room is a graveyard after a loss like that.
Nobody says much.
I just sit there, jersey peeled halfway off with an ice pack strapped to my shoulder, letting the frustration burn through me like acid. I feel like I let down my team tonight, though there was little I could have done after Kendall and Coach Wrenley took me off the roster.
A few guys mumble curses under their breath. And then Aleksi strolls in singing some oldies song, breaking the dark cloud hovering over most of us. Then chirps start flying, guysstart laughing. There's still an uncurrent of disappointment, but our team is getting back to its normal locker room rumble of lighthearted shit talking and funny YouTube videos making their way around the players.
I head for the shower, ready to get this night behind me and head home with an ice pack, Peyton’s couch sounding pretty damn good about now.
I’m freshly showered and headed for my locker to grab my duffel bag to head home when I hear JP’s voice.
“Reedman…you’ve got a visitor.” He’s standing at the locker room door, smiling and nodding, and just past him, I’d know that blonde hair and smile anywhere.
Peyton stands there, shifting on her heels, my jersey wrapped around her.
The second our eyes meet, her face softens with something achingly close to relief.
I yank my duffel bag off the bench and head straight for her.
"Hey," she says, voice low. “How’s your shoulder?”
“It’s been better. Nothing a night with an ice pack won’t fix,” I tell her, keeping it to myself that it hurts like hell. My neck doesn’t feel all that great from crashing down on top of it either, but I’d still like to hold on to some remnant of my pride. I’m a defender on an NHL hockey team—complaining about getting served up on the ice won’t do well for my reputation.
“Are you going to tell me I’m a sore loser, and that you’re going to avoid me on the night that I…how did you put it again? ‘Suck a big L?’” I say.
The first night we met.
When I’d been an absolute dick to her after a loss, and she’d promised she’d avoid me like the plague next time I blew it.
"You remember that, huh?"
“Hard to forget it when the most beautiful woman in the room just called out your bullshit.”
“Keep going with that compliment, Reed. You’re almost out of the doghouse.”
Despite the knot of pain in my shoulder, I huff out a laugh.
"Yeah... sorry about that. Again."
Her eyes soften even more. "You’re forgiven. You were drunk, emotionally stunted, and hangry. Triple threat."
A real laugh escapes me this time—gravelly, but real.
"I’m still emotionally stunted, by the way," I say. "And continuously hangry."
"Good to know," she teases, stepping closer. "I'll tread carefully."
There’s something easy between us now, something that wasn’t there before.
Something that feels dangerously close to real.
She looks down at my gear bag.
