Page 12 of Securing the Pucking Rebound

I know they’re worried, that they mean well, but I also know how those conversations will go, and I just can’t hear them right now.

Maybe when I’m a little further into my rehab and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I’ll be able to have a conversation with them.

Maybe.

My eyes linger back to where the girls sit, all dressed in their boys' jerseys, but this time, I spot someone I didn’t see before.

Sienna Wentworth.

My breath catches at the sight of her, just like it always does.

That summer was the best one of my life.

I want to say it’s a shame only one of us remembers, but maybe it’s not. Maybe this is the way it’s meant to be.

I drag my hand down my face.

I keep my eyes on her, taking in the soft curls in her long blonde hair. I might be on the other side of the ice, but even from here, I know her makeup is flawless, emphasizing those glittering gray eyes that haunt my dreams. Or maybe my nightmares, I’m not sure. And just like the others, she’s wearing a jersey.

My fucking jersey.

Honestly, the whole situation is like one big, massive fuck-you from the universe.

Maybe it’s karma—though I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve this kind of punishment.

The crowd erupts, but I’m too enthralled by Sienna to see what’s happening on the ice. Although I get a good idea a few minutes later, when the arena explodes with noise and Kodie’s goal song floods my ears.

But still, I don’t look toward the guys to see them celebrating their first goal of the night. Instead, I watch as Sienna turns to the guy next to her and throws her arms around his shoulders.

As if my heart wasn’t already in the pit of my stomach. Sienna hasn’t just come to watch a game; she’s here on a fucking date.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says from behind me, forcing me to tear my eyes away from the girl who haunts me to focus on Hailee. “How’s it going?”

“Well, I’m standing here without any skates on my feet instead of being out there,” I mutter, jerking my chin toward the ice.

“They miss you too, you know.”

My chest compresses at her words.

“They don’t look like it. They’ve been killing it with Monroe in my spot.”

“Do you have any idea how hard he’s working to try and make you and everyone proud of him?”

My mouth opens and closes.

I guess it’s easy to think that he’s just stepped into my shoes with little effort. We’re hockey players; we’re the masters of hiding our inner struggles and going out there looking like we have all our shit handled. Spoiler alert: we do not have any of our shit handled. We just have the best form of therapy there is: skating and slamming grown-ass men into boards.

“He’s doing a fantastic job,” I say. It’s the truth, and that fucking terrifies me.

“Yeah, he is,” she breathes with nothing but pride in her voice.

“They’re not going to need me once I’m recovered.” I don’t mean to say it aloud, but the words spill free regardless.

“What? Are you crazy? Of course they need you.”

As she tries to convince me of that fact, the arena explodes once again.

Shit. They’ve barely been playing for five minutes and we’re up by two.