Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“We’ll get them next time,” Chuck says.
I tune out the locker room and mentally reassess the moments I failed. I go over the patterns and the player’s speed, but it’s all useless. It’s not like it usually is. This time, it had far less to do with the tactics and far more with the fact I couldn’t stop thinking about Emma.
A few times, I looked up and saw her or thought I did. It’s difficult to know during the game, and that’s the point. I shouldn’t even be thinking about that, about anything else during the goddamn game. Just the logic of it. The ice.
“Let’s hit the town,” Chuck says.
“I’ve got a friend up from California,” I tell him. “Next time.”
“Yeah, yeah, next time. You don’t drink, Ice.”
“No, you’re always out on the town, Chuck, and me, a teetotaler. Look what it’s gotten me—nine goddamn rudimentary errors.”
Chuck pats me on the arm. He’s a year younger than me. We’re known as the old men to some since many players would be retired by now, but not us. “We will get them next time. You’ll see.”
All around us, my teammates are undressing. I stand and strip off my gear, thinking of seeing Michael and Emma. I feel ashamed after my performance, after all those basic errors. I let the other team dance around me like I’ve never set a skate to ice.
I meet them in the booth. The windows are tinted dark now, blocking out the rink and turning it into more of a function room. There’s no bartender, only three of us. There’s a fridge, though, stocked with all kinds of alcohol. If the way Michael is leaning against the bar is any indication, he’s had a few. Not that I’m judging. I’d join him if it weren’t for my career, though I wouldn’t want to get this drunk.
I can hear Emma rustling in the fridge on the other side of the room. I wonder if she’s been drinking, too. She’s only nineteen. It’s legal here, but not in Cali.
“You okay, Michael?” I ask, sitting beside him.
He turns, cheek resting against his fist, a not-really-there smile spreading across his face. “That was one hell of a game, Logan.”
We lost, but Michael’s clearly had a good evening. Whatever else, my old friend has enjoyed himself. He was more of an older brother figure for the few years we spent together, though we were the same height. I’m doing everything in my power not to turn and watch as Emma walks over.
“Thank you,” I say, and then I can’t fight it anymore.
She’s a diamond at the periphery of my vision. When I turn, I see it’s because she’s wearing a dress in a glittery material. It hugs her body as though it was shaped for her, but not in an obvious way. I don’t think she did it intentionally, but the effect is the same. Her hair is wavy down past her shoulders, and she’s still got that flush in her cheek. She hasn’t hidden it with makeup.
“Here, Dad.” She places an open bottle of water on the bar.
Michael takes it, sips it, then places it down. “Ah, thank you, Em. I’m not much of a drinker, Logan, but when in Rome…”
I laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, but I still have to force it. Maybe that’s a contradiction. It’s just that everything is more difficult with Emma standing right there. I didn’t look at her long enough to tell if she had any cleavage on display. I can’t do it now. “I get it. Don’t worry about it. Want a ride to the hotel?”
“A ride?” Michael stands, gripping the bar with one hand and clapping me on the arm with the other. “I remember when you were a little kid, mon frère. Please come up to the suite. Spend awhile. We’ll talk about old times. Maybe I can even tempt you to have a drink.”
How could I say no to this? I was the one to reach out to Michael, finding his email online through his contracting business. I thought he might see me as desperate. Maybe, on some level, I was—desperate for a real friend. It’s my fault. I lock people out like Chuck. I haven’t gone for a drink with him in years, using the booze as an excuse, but really, it’s just me.
Dammit. The loss, Michael… It’s got me thinking of old times. Or maybe it’s Emma breaking me open.
“I don’t want to impose,” I say.
Michael looks at Emma. I turn, too, even if I know I shouldn’t. Her dress is high cut, not showing cleavage, just the shape of her breasts. She looks me in the eye bravely this time, far more confident than she was earlier today. “I don’t mind.”
I swallow, knowing I should somehow stop this. This is my chance to make another excuse. Fake another phone call, but I don’t. Instead, we all walk toward the exit together.