One of them is ballsy enough to wave me over, and I grimace.

“How are you, Z? You know me, remember?” she calls out, giving me a big smile. She’s practically jumping up and down, and she is vaguely familiar. After a few ticks, I recognize her as one of the reporters from ESPN who follow our team. She’s from Minneapolis and covers all our home games, so there’s a bit of a history there, which is why I can’t ignore her and just skate off.

“Great,” I call back. Please go away.

But she doesn’t. She’s still waving for me to come in closer.

My teeth grind. I really want to just skate, but it’s nowhere near game time, so obligation tugs at me. I glide over to where she’s standing on the carpet.

“You nervous about tonight’s game?” She’s got her phone out, fingers poised and ready to take notes. “My opinion is the Bears don’t have a shot against the Lions. What do you say?”

I look at her. “Never take any team for granted. Anything can happen.”

“May I take some pictures?” She’s not even looking at me, just pulls up her phone and clicks away while I stand there. One of the photographer guys is behind her, probably with her, and he’s clicking away too.

My head hurts and I frown.

She moves her phone. “Can I get one of you and Eric together? And then Reece? The three amigos, right?”

“Uh…”

She smiles and flutters long lashes, and I swear she sticks her boobs out more and her voice gets all breathy. “I think it’s cool that you were drafted and yet you chose to finish college.”

“Yeah.”

She nods, her gaze going past me and following someone on the ice. “How does Reece handle not being drafted?”

“I don’t speak for him. Ask him yourself.” I scowl, trying to think of a way out of this little interrogation, but I don’t see one.

Eric must read my body language because he skates over to where we are. He gives me a long look then gives her a broad smile.

“Eric! Just stand there, yeah,” she says as he leans in next to me for a picture. She takes a few shots. “Can you get Reece? A shot of you three together for tomorrow’s Tribune would be stellar.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her no, but then I see Stan a few feet away, watching us with keen eyes and probably imagining I’m racking up reporter points when really all I want is to get away.

Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m even worth having on their team.

I’m not worth it.

My gut twists.

I’m a bag of shit for what I did to Willow—

Stop! I shake off the negative thought.

The reporter is still asking questions, waving now and then to get Reece’s attention.

Eric looks over at me, dropping the arm that was around my shoulder for the pictures. His mouth is turned down. “Dude. You need a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“Reece,” she’s saying again, waving, but it’s clear he’s ignoring her. I can’t really blame him when all they want to do is talk about me or ask him why he’s not on the same level.

She looks back at us, batting those lashes. “Looks like he’s busy. Can I get some video of you two messing around with the puck? Just one?”

My arm is starting to tingle and my chest feels tight.

“Sure, babe,” says Eric, giving me a slap on the back. “Focus. Let’s do a drill for this nice lady.”

My lips compress. “Don’t tell me to focus. I know what I need to do.”

He stiffens. “Dude…”

“Z and Eric? The video?” calls the reporter.

My teeth snap. Enough. “No,” I say to her then skate off toward an exit. I step on the carpet, slap on my guards, and walk down the hallway.

“Z! Hey, wait up,” says a deep voice behind me, and I don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.

I wipe at my face, tucking my gloves under my arms as Stan walks toward me. Dressed in a suit that screams money, he’s a former NHL player who retired early with a back injury.

“Sorry, I’m a little off today. Just working the jitters out.” I force a smile and try to laugh, but it doesn’t sound right.

“I see.” He stops next to me and gives me a critical eye. I know what he thinks he sees: talent and money, his team’s investment.

But…

My heart picks up a notch and that clammy feeling starts a slow rise from my feet to my scalp. My stomach lurches a little, and I feel sweat beading on my face.

I nod as he talks about where I want to eat dinner, but my head isn’t with him. It’s taking all my mental concentration to just…to just…

“…Z?”

I blink.

“Son?”

I lift my hand and wipe at my mouth, pretending like I’m fine, trying to come up with some kind of normal mannerism or response to whatever he’s asking.

His hand is on my shoulder and his brow is furrowed as he looks at me. “Son, you’re shaking.”

I am?

I blink and look down. I look okay. I look fine.

But…

My chest hurts.

I rub at it. “I’m good, sir.”

I don’t know how I get the words out, and I must not do a very good job because he guides me until I’m sitting on a chair. He’s pushing my head down between my legs and barking out orders.

Fuck—ah fuck. Tears, fucking tears get clogged up in my throat, and I make this weird sound. Why is this happening to me?

I hear people running around me. I hear Coach and Eric and Reece.

I’m coming apart, falling down a deep hole of not being in control of my body.

It’s not working. None of that shit I did is working.

Why is my brain jacked up?

I have everything.

I have her.

Yet guilt eats at me. Dark thoughts hammer inside my head, telling me I don’t deserve happiness.

I put my hands to my face. No matter what I do to make myself better, there’s a flaw so cavernous, so deep in the recesses of my mind that nothing will ever be able to repair it.

Her body on the rocks.

My baby inside her.

My fault.

My face is wet, but I can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop.

32

Sugar

I keep checking my phone hoping to hear from Z, but he hasn’t texted or called all day. He’s at the game, I reassure myself again. He said he’d call you when it’s over.

Fine. I feel off, but Taylor’s giggle brings me back.

I’m curled up in my bed while he braids my hair and Poppy paints her fingernails at my desk. An empty box of pizza sits on top of the TV, an empty bottle of Prosecco beside it.

“Girl. You look like a Viking princess with this crown braid,” Taylor says, handing me a small mirror so I can see his handiwork. I twist and turn my head. “Just right for a big old strapping Viking warrior,” he adds with a grin.

Poppy wails. “I want a Viking warrior.”

Taylor stands up in his bright red skinny jeans and Sex Pistols T-shirt and does a pirouette. “Just tell me which hockey player you want, and I’ll put a bug in his ear, love. I’ll go to one of those games and hold up a big sign for you and pay someone to put it on the jumbotron. Call Poppy. She’s a goody two-shoes but wants some stick. She might clutch her pearls, but she’ll love every minute.” He gives her a smirk. “By the way, what happened with you and Boone?”

She turns beet red. “Nothing. We kissed and that was it.”

“Come on,” I say. “Really?”

She shrugs. “Actually the hockey guys kind of scare me. I need a nice, quiet Viking.”

Taylor points a finger at her. “No, you need someone who isn’t like you at all. You need someone to teach you the mighty ways of the sword, grasshopper, and by sword, I mean stick, and by stick, I mean dick.”

Laughing, I get up off the bed to dig around for another bottle of Prosecco in the closet. “Girls, girls, stop bickering. Obviously, we need more alcohol.”

Before long, I’m pouring us all new glasses of wine as I retell the story of Frat Boy and Pixie Girl. Taylor has started what he calls his FBPG Watch where he takes random photos of students on campus and then texts them to me, hoping he’s found them. They are nowhere.

“I wonder if he got rid of the clap,” Poppy muses, and we burst out laughing just as Julia walks in the door, still wearing her silver corset and tight bikini bottoms—with no coat. Shit. Her hair is sticking up in crazy directions, and she looks like she’s been mauled.

My eyes widen from my side of the room and I stand up. “Hey. Uh, is everything okay?”

“No.” With a tight headshake, she tries to keep her face averted from us, but I see dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

I frown. It takes a lot to get her to cry.

Taylor and Poppy have both come out of their slouched positions, and I quickly reintroduce them. Julia and I have become…well, maybe a little bit closer since she started working at BB’s.

“Gah, I look horrible,” she says breathlessly, her voice a bit shaky as she looks in the mirror and wipes at the mascara under her eyes. “I don’t even care.” Her shoulders slump.

“What happened?” I ask.

She yanks a cheap tiara off her head. “Football team came in tonight and the guy I hooked up with at the Kappa party saw me—” She shakes her head and bites her lip. “He called me a slut then got into a fight with one of the suits who was sticking money in my bikini.”