Page 314 of Playing With Fire

“Maybe you should. Might improve your mood.”

He walks away before I can throw something at him.

Across the locker room, Easton Jackson is arguing with Resnick about who has the better shot. Jackson's a right winger who thinks every puck that crosses the blue line belongs on his stick. Resnick's just as competitive, but at least he occasionally acknowledges the existence of his teammates.

“I'm telling you,” Jackson says, “top shelf, glove side. Every time.”

Resnick snorts. “That's why you missed the net twice at practice?”

“Those were intentional.”

“Sure they were.”

Liam Sullivan, sitting a few stalls down, doesn't look up from taping his stick. “Maybe try hitting the net before you start giving lessons.”

Jackson flips him off.

Mercer laughs.

It's the usual pregame noise.

Music playing from somebody's speaker. Tape tearing. Skates knocking against the rubber flooring.

Guys talking shit to cover nerves they won't admit to having.

Normally, I'm right in the middle of it. Tonight, I keep checking my phone.

Delaney and I spent New Year's Eve at home. No party. No crowded bar. No pretending we weren't together. We ordered Chinese food, watched a movie neither of us paid much attention to, and kissed at midnight while Darcy tried to steal a piece of chicken from the coffee table.

Best New Year's I've had in a long time.

But since Christmas, there's been one conversation hanging over us.

Declan.

I promised her I'd tell him. I meant it.

And when he called yesterday to say he was flying into Chicago with the Archers, I asked if we could talk before the game.