Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Darcy.
She’s walking into the rink looking breezy and professional in a gray skirt and heels, notebook in hand like always. Her red hair catches the arena lights as she scans the bench, probably looking for her boss.
She doesn’t even glance my way.
The puck gets stripped from my stick before I realize what’s happening. Calder, the rookie from development camp, celebrates like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“Holy shit!” he whoops, raising his stick. “I totally just deked the captain!”
“Don’t gloat, kid,” DeLuca calls from the net, pulling off his mask. “Looks like Cap’s got something on his mind.”
Dahlberg skates by, shaking his head. “Reminds me of last season when Merritt was all broken up over the skating coach. Same energy.”
“I’m not broken,” I protest, maybe a little too quickly. “I’m just…
bent a little.”
Calder attempts to look wise beyond his nineteen years. “Yo, Cap, that’s lowkey giving big sad energy. You need to touch grass about whatever’s got you pressed. That’s not very sigma of you.”
I stare at him. “Are you speaking English?”
DeLuca snorts. “There was some wisdom in there. I’m pretty sure. Touch grass, old man.”
The whistle blows for a water break, and I skate to the boards, my legs feeling heavier than they should. This camp is only five days, and I usually love it. But this year is different. Instead of feeling that new season energy, I feel kind of hollow. Even the noise of the rink—the scrape of skates on ice, the thunk of pucks hitting sticks and boards—usually centers me. But today it’s just a soundtrack to the restlessness chewing at my insides.
I feel disconnected from everything. Like I’m sleepwalking through the motions of being the captain, being the leader everyone expects me to be.
At first, I thought it was just a temporary glitch. My focus was off in Colorado. I made some gains, but I had trouble concentrating. Then I came back to New York, and things only got worse.
The real problem is how much I miss Darcy. Not just the way she felt in my arms or the taste of her skin, though Christ knows I think about that more than I should.
But I really miss having someone to share the small moments with—like pointing out that Calder just used five different pieces of slang in one sentence or wondering aloud why the ice always smells different at Lake Placid.
Or—and here’s a wild idea—I miss someone in my life who didn’t only talk about hockey. I miss her thoughts on miniature food and how she made me laugh about my own neuroses.
For several precious days, I felt like I was part of something bigger than the careful performance of being Eric Tremaine. Now I’m back to being a population of one, and it’s lonelier than I remembered.
The whistle blows again, and I skate back to center ice and prepare for the face-off. But not before scanning the rink one more time for a flash of ginger hair.
But she’s gone.
On the last night at camp, I’m sprawled on my narrow dorm bed while Merritt and Zoe watch some rom-com on his laptop. They’re curled up together on his twin mattress, her head on his shoulder, sharing a bag of trail mix and whispering commentary about the movie.
“He’s totally going to mess this up,” Zoe murmurs, pointing at the screen.
“Nah, he’s got this,” Chase argues. “Look at his face. He knows what he wants.”
I am the world’s most pathetic third wheel.
Broody isn’t my style, though, so I leave them to their movie and head outside to the fire pit that sits between our two dorms. Weber is there, pacing back and forth, his phone pressed to his ear.
“I know, I know.” His voice is tight with frustration. “But it’s only been five days… No, I’m not ignoring you. Of course I miss you, too…”
He catches sight of me and gives me a helpless look, like he’s drowning and I’m the lifeguard. “She thinks I don’t care because I haven’t called enough,” he whispers, covering the phone. “But I called yesterday! And the day before that! What the hell am I supposed to say?”
It’s the same girlfriend troubles he’s been having since I’ve known him. The same cycle of drama and reconciliation that never seems to end.
“If you want my advice,” I tell him, “you can always come to office hours.” Then I turn my back on him.
DeLuca gives me a slow clap from an Adirondack chair, and I sit down next to him. “That office hours thing is straight-up brilliant.”
“Yeah, it is,” I agree. “He’s willing to whine at me now because I’m here. But he won’t take time out of his busy week to do it.”
“Glad you figured that out.”
“Oh, I didn’t. It was Darcy’s idea. Last week I only had two customers at office hours—a guy who wanted me to look at his lease, and a guy who wanted to ask which nutritionists I like. Mostly, I just put my feet up on the desk and ate mini donuts while watching game film.”