Parental Guidance (Ice Knights #1)(59)

And now her life seemed to be nothing but time. She should be out at a museum or taking Anchovy to Fido’s Café or meeting Gemma for drinks. Instead, she was wandering around her tiny studio apartment wondering what Caleb was up to and sneaking glances at her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed his call. She hadn’t. The damn thing had been obnoxiously silent. She’d shot off a few gif texts—feeling as awkward as a fourteen-year-old messaging her first crush—but hadn’t gotten anything back. Not even a K or an emoji.

“Not that it matters. It’s not a relationship,” she told Anchovy as he watched her pace from one end of her apartment to the other. “He’s just busy. Working. Having team dinners with the other players. Sleeping.”

There. It all made perfect sense.

Unfortunately, that lizard part of her brain that held on to every fear and unquenchable worry she’d ever had in her life was reminding her with each passing minute of all the times she paced waiting for her dad. When she was ten waiting to see if his sure-thing pony had come in first like his buddy had sworn he would. When she was fourteen and he’d gone off to sweet-talk their landlord into floating them another week on the rent. When she was seventeen and he’d been so sure that taking out a loan for an oxygen bar was the winning idea he’d always been waiting on. The other day, when she’d waited for two hours for him to stop by to help her pack her author dollhouse for the ball and he’d never shown, leaving a voicemail later telling her he’d ran into a friend from the neighborhood. In each of those instances, she’d come last, been his lowest priority. Oh, her dad had never meant to make her feel that way, but it didn’t change anything.

Now here she was again, wearing a hole in her apartment’s carpeting while the person she loved left her hanging without any communication.

She jolted to a stop, all the oxygen in the room gone.

Loved.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. She’d skipped over breaking rule number one and had landed smack-dab in the middle of falling in love.

The white-noise static filling the space between her ears where her brain had been previously was so loud, she almost missed the chirp-chirp sound of her incoming text notification.

Caleb: New phone. Left mine in the truck before we left. Just got replacement and downloaded contacts from the cloud.

All the pent-up ugly in her whooshed out in one deep exhale.

Zara: That’s crazy.

Caleb: Miss you.

She wasn’t goofy smiling. She wasn’t goofy smiling. She was totally goofy smiling.

Zara: Miss you too.

Caleb: Gotta go, plane’s about to take off for Vancouver. Can’t wait to see you when I get back.

All the bounce returned to her step, and she did a shimmy dance move across her apartment. She was in love and in trouble and so far out of her comfort zone, she didn’t know what to do, but for tonight, at least, she’d go with it, let herself go with her gut. Feeling like she did right now, it didn’t seem like anything could go wrong.

…

Caleb couldn’t explain it, but the ice smelled different when the clock had ticked down to almost regular season. He moved faster on the ice, checked harder when it counted, and got the puck like it was meant for him. At least that’s how it usually went. During today’s game, though, he was sucking wind.

He sat on the bench in front of his locker with his forearms resting on his knees and the towel draped around his neck. Something was off, making it hard to concentrate, but he couldn’t figure out what. He hadn’t changed his skate laces. The tape on his stick was the same as he always used. He’d even put on his socks left and then right, just like always.

“Is it the tape?” Phillips asked, because if there was one thing that united all hockey players besides their love of the game, it was their belief in the power of superstition and routine.

“Nah,” Caleb said. “I put it on myself.”

“How about Zara?” Petrov asked, no doubt still grudge-holding about the no-trade thing. “Has she finally kicked you to the curb?”

He glared at the center, who was dripping everywhere because the asshole never bothered to use a towel, preferring to air-dry. “She’s not available for other dates.”

“Has she agreed to that? If not…” Petrov shrugged. “By my count of the videos, you guys only have one more date.”

Caleb wasn’t going to take the bait—he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He fell into it anyway, all but snarling at the other man and all but hearing a countdown clock on his time with Zara. “That’s not how it’s gonna go.”

“What are you going to do to make that happen?” Blackburn asked as he sat on the bench opposite and tied his street shoes.

“I have no fucking clue.”

And wasn’t that the case. The rules had made perfect sense in the beginning. Neither of them wanted to be there. Now, he didn’t want to stop being with her. Everything was better when Zara was there.

Christensen, fresh from the shower, stopped in front of his locker next to Caleb’s. “You need help winning a woman? I have the answers.”

Everyone in the locker room laughed. On the ice and off it, the forward was known for playing fast and loose. Taking advice about women from Christensen was just asking for trouble.

Petrov chucked an empty water bottle at their line mate. “When was the last time you were with someone for more than three dates?”