Page 23 of Body Check

My stomach roils. I have no claim to her. I’m only her neighbor. But I don’t like the idea of her hooking up with some other dude.

Forcing myself to eat, I make it through the meal without being sick. Guys filter in, looking markedly better than I feel. MacGregor and Logan nod as they sit at the other end of my table.

“You okay, man?” Logan asks quietly.

I arch an eyebrow in his direction.

“You were pretty messed up last night,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

MacGregor hums. “Okay. But if you’re not, that’s okay, too. It must be hard, getting back out there.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Bringing the coffee cup to my lips, I prepare to take a sip when Amelia walks in, Andrews on her heels. I choke on the steaming hot liquid, my throat scalded.

“Shit, dude,” Gonzo says, slapping me on the back. I have no idea where he came from. “Breathe.”

“I’m okay,” I mutter, wiping my face with a napkin.

“What happened?” he asks, flopping into the seat beside mine.

“Swallowed funny.”

He gives me an odd look. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Unfortunately, the commotion attracted attention, and I’m aware of everyone’s eyes on me.

Everyone, that is, except for Amelia and Andrews. They’re off in la la land, completely oblivious, as he hands her a plate at the buffet line. She smiles at him, the expression so unlike the scowl she aims my way.

Why does she like him?

And, more importantly, why doesn’t she like me?

Do I even want her to like me? We’re only neighbors; I don’t particularly like my other neighbors. Fuck, I don’t know most of their names. Even in the house Harper and I shared for five and a half years, I didn’t make friends with anyone outside of those immediately next door to us. And I wouldn’t say I made friends with them, per se, but we were amicable and chatted over the backyard fence line.

Since I moved into my condo the week before preseason started, I haven’t been home long enough to talk to anyone I don’t already know. Eight other players live in the building. It’s part of the reason why I chose that building over any other in the city.

Given that I’m in the last year of my contract, I could have gotten a one-year lease, but that felt like tempting fate. Like if I didn’t put down roots, there wouldn’t be an opportunity to do so later. Who knows where I’ll be this time next year? Hopefully, I’ll still be with Boston, still playing the game I love.

But I’m all too aware this could all be gone in the blink of an eye. Fourteen years in the big leagues, two in the minors, three of college hockey, two of juniors, and a lifetime more before that.

I’m not ready to be done. I sacrificed my marriage to play hockey. I’m not ready to give it up yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

Sooner or later, hockey will be done with me—whether I’m ready or not.