Page 134 of On the Breakaway

For most of the season, making the playoffs wasn’t even a guarantee. We spent weeks clawing our way back into contention after Nathan got hurt, and there were plenty of nights where it felt like we’d dug ourselves too deep a hole to climb out of.

Now, we’re sitting three games up in the series. One win away from advancing and proving a lot of people wrong.

I’m damn proud of this team. And I haven’t gotten my hopes too high, but I think we really have a shot at the cup.

Nathan powers through his set before reracking the bar.

“We finish it tomorrow.”

“Assuming nobody listens to Liam’s game plan,” Wyatt says.

Liam looks offended. “My game plans are excellent.”

“You wanted to celebrate Game Two by going to a nightclub when Game Three was the next night.”

“Better than crawling back into my hidey hole, grandpa.” Liam points at him. “Not all of us want to live in the middle of the woods by ourselves like a recluse.”

He’s loud enough that even Barrett, three racks over, snorts.

“Hey, rook,” Wyatt tosses out, turning to Barrett. “Shut the hell up before I end you.”

Barrett’s smile flickers, genuine fear flashing before he turns back to his weights.

I smack him. “Stop scaring people. It isn’t good for team morale.”

“Can’t help who I am.”

Nathan chimes in, “We know deep down you’re a softie.”

I shake my head, agreeing. “You pretended to be a racecar while running Mason around the backyard less than a month ago.”

He glares at me as if that were some deep, dark secret. “Even I can’t be an asshole to that kid.”

“See?” Liam throws his arm over Wyatt’s shoulder. “Softie.”

Wyatt shrugs him off, shoving him a solid distance away. “Fuck off. All of you.”

We laugh. Wyatt might act like he can’t stand us, but knowing what he’s gone through, I see it for what it is: mile-high walls.

Maybe that’s why Avery’s walls never scared me off. I’ve seen worse. And Wyatt’s got every reason for it.

I step underneath the bar while Liam swaps out the weights. The steel settles across my shoulders. I’d already told everyone to keep things light today, mostly because of tomorrow’s game.

Also, because I’m exhausted for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with hockey.

Every night that we haven’t been on the road, I’ve somehow found a way to spend it with Avery.

They’ve had a long home game stretch that’s about to come to an end, but we’ve taken advantage of it.

Last night, she’d shown up at my place after the game with takeout, which I’ve come to recognize as her version of home cooking. Then, I spent the rest of the night buried inside her, wondering why the hell there was ever a time we weren’t doing exactly this.

I’m in over my head because it’s still a secret. Still not a relationship. Still not enough.

Casual has never been something I’m good at. And I’m proving that because despite the constant reminders that I am supposed to be steering clear of dating, and despite her saying she doesn’t want a relationship, this sure as hell feels like exactly that.

We don’t talk about it, though. Both of us skirt around the edges of what we’re doing, completely ignoring the fact that we seem to gravitate toward each other, whether we say it’s casual or not.

“Are you going to squat or just keep zoning out?” Wyatt asks, snapping me out of my head.