Rebound (Seattle Steelheads #1)(17)

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s an off week.” I forced a laugh. “Better now than during the season, right?”

He frowned as if he didn’t quite believe me. I was equal parts freaking out that he might see through to the truth and silently pleading for him to do exactly that.

Does anyone on this team hear me?

But then he shrugged and clapped my shoulder, the smack of his palm on my hard pad making me jump. “Get it together, yeah? If you’re not playing hockey in practice, you won’t be playing on game night. Got it?”

Teeth clenched, I nodded but didn’t speak.

He responded with a sharp nod, gave my shoulder another heavy clap, and turned to go.

I exhaled. What was left of the aggression that had been driving me a moment ago died as Hale skated away. Every time a coach or teammate took me at my word, a little piece of my heart broke off. I couldn’t actually say the words my boyfriend abuses me—or my ex-boyfriend abused me—but I needed someone to know, and it killed me whenever they accepted whatever bullshit came out in its place. Like the time I’d had to explain away some clearly not-hockey-related bruises with a red-faced explanation that my boyfriend and I were into rough stuff, and sometimes rough stuff meant choking. My teammates had been theatrically horrified, rolled their eyes, and laughed, and I’d stood there wishing just one of them would see through the cracks and know the truth. They hadn’t. They’d had no reason to.

With a sigh, I adjusted my grip on my stick and skated toward one of the pucks scattered across the ice.

I fired it toward the net, but without nearly as much angry enthusiasm this time.

*

My post-practice routine was as set in stone as my warm-up routine before a game. Call it habit, call it superstition. I wasn’t even sure which it was, to be honest. At some point, it had become a thing: Off the ice. Shower. Get dressed. Check my phone. Return texts. GTFO.

Sometimes, after my routine, I joined in with some locker room shenanigans. After all, hockey players were basically overpaid frat boys, and we could absolutely be trusted to get up to trouble in the locker room. Towel-snapping, pranks involving… Well, let’s just say “overpaid frat boys” and leave it at that.

I sometimes went from practice to a bar or something with the guys—again, overpaid frat boys—especially when we had the luxury of not hurrying off to the next city for the next game. More often than not, though, same as I did after a game, I went home. If they went out partying after an away game, I sometimes joined them, but I never did when we were in Seattle. They all mercilessly teased me about rushing home to the old ball and chain. That was closer to the truth than they probably imagined.

Today, after I’d gotten dressed, I sat on the bench on the locker room and turned my phone on again. My notifications immediately lit up. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Geoff had responded Any time to my last text. Some friends had sent benign messages. There were a few from teammates—probably crude memes or discussions about where everyone was drinking tonight.

And Nathan…

Nathan had sent fourteen messages.

When I saw the number beside my phone app, I didn’t have to look to know who the eight missed calls had come from.

Bile burned the back of my throat. Oh no.

Stomach suddenly queasy and hand suddenly shaky, I opened the text window.

We need to talk.

WTF Asher? Why are you ignoring me?

Against my better judgment, I scrolled through the rest of his texts.

Answer your fucking phone.

This isn’t over.

Stop ignoring me.

“Hey, Crows.” Grady’s voice calling out my nickname made my head snap up. He looked at me as he hoisted his duffel bag on to his shoulder. “You coming out with us tonight?” They always asked even though I always said no.

“Uh.” I swallowed hard, and for a second I seriously considered it. Getting shit-faced sounded really good. Getting shit-faced while surrounded by equally shit-faced hockey players who collectively considered me their little brother and would break someone in half for looking at me sideways? That was really tempting. But the thought of Nathan showing up wherever we were… No. That wasn’t an unrealistic worry, either. Word invariably got out that the Steelheads were at such-and-such bar, and fans would flock to party with us. Nathan would find out, and he’d show up, and no way in hell was I bringing this to where my team was.

I cleared my throat and got up, sliding my phone into my back pocket. “I’m just going to head home.”

“You sure?” Grady’s brow creased with concern, and he gestured toward the chute leading to the ice. “You seemed like you could use a drink.”

You have no idea.

“I’ll be fine.” I smiled despite my coiling stomach and my vibrating phone. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“All right. Take it easy.”

“Will do.”

As Grady and the other guys started filtering out of the locker room, bantering about who was going to end up puking first, I took out my phone. Sure enough—the new message was from Nathan.

We need to talk. What time can I come over?

Come over? I gaped at the message. Christ. What part of “no contact” did he not understand?

“Let me make this perfectly clear, Mr. Warner,” Logan had growled in Nathan’s face. “Mr. Crowe has made it known that he doesn’t want contact from you. Consider this your one and only verbal warning that any contact—verbal, text, face to face, fucking carrier pigeon—will be considered harassment. Possibly stalking. So you can either leave him alone, or we can have another one-way conversation. Got it?”