Page 92 of On the Breakaway

“No, I said ‘I’ll be right over’, so I’ve got to go.”

“Who the hell is Shelby?” Wyatt asks.

“We met at the bar a couple of weeks ago.” He shrugs as if that explains everything.

“And now she booty calls you at eleven-thirty,” Wyatt adds.

“Gross.” Sloane scrunches her face.

“As far as booty calls go, it’s pretty early time-wise. Pretty sure I messaged Piper at two a.m. last weekend.”

“Double gross,” Wesley chimes in.

“Who the hell is Piper?” Nathan asks this time.

Liam sighs, grabbing his keys off the table. “If we do this for every woman I sleep with, I’ll never actually get to go sleep with them.”

Wesley smacks Nathan’s arm when he laughs.

Liam jogs out the door as I hit play on the game.

I’m killed before pressing a single button on the controller, my mind unable to focus on this when it’s still lingering on my texts with Avery. I wait to restart the game until I check my phone.

Chaos: You’ll see me in a couple of days anyway.

And just like that, awareness slides low into my stomach.

Both the Tempest and the Blades play in New York this weekend. Nathan and Wesley compared notes and found out that we’re staying at the same hotel and both get in early enough to hang out the night before the games.

Me: I’ll see you then.

I slide my phone back into my pocket, hitting play again.

This was the second conversation in a row that we’ve had without fighting. I don’t know what to do with that.

But for the first time in weeks, I’ve stopped wondering if Avery’s avoiding me. Now, I’m just wondering what’s going to happen when she finally stops.

19

Grayson

Barrett’s doing better,” Coach Rylan says from the front of the conference room.

“He’s a good kid.”

“Not quite Nathan Wilder, though.”

I laugh. “No one is Nathan Wilder.”

Up until five minutes ago, the room was filled with my teammates sprawled across rolling chairs with film clips playing on the projector. It’d been an hour and a half of hell with Coach pausing constantly to bitch about our positioning.

“I appreciate you taking the extra ice time with the kid. It’s making a difference.” Coach shoves the lineup sheets back into his binder on the desk. “Do you think he’s ready for the first line?”

“You’re the coach.”

I always respond this way first. While I appreciate his willingness to take my thoughts into account, I never want to take it for granted. Most coaches wouldn’t even ask.

“I know who the hell I am. What do you think?”