Over the last year, because Rafe didn’t text her back, her comments had become shorter and less enthusiastic, but she’d always texted him. Great moves or tough game, you’ll get ’em next time. That ref was a hard-ass, or congrats, you killed it. Something. Last night was the first time in his entire hockey career that she hadn’t texted him. And Rafe had fallen asleep alone in his hotel room with his phone clutched in his hand, just waiting for some sliver of connection with her.
She wasn’t even returning his texts. He’d texted her the night after their argument at the bar with Tate, apologizing. He’d texted her twice yesterday, checking in to see how she was, and once earlier today asking why she was ignoring him—even though he already knew why. He didn’t deserve the effort of a text. He didn’t deserve her. Which was exactly why he needed to leave her the hell alone.
The ref called them into the face-off, and Rafe glanced at the stands as he slid into position. The fact that she’d missed a hom
e game was bad enough. But missing one when she should have been sitting beside a man she considered a father was even worse.
Rafe bent at the waist and positioned his stick, but the ache cutting a path from his chest to his gut distracted him. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t 200 percent invested in the game.
The puck dropped, and Isaac smacked it toward Rafe, but a Bruin intercepted. Muscle memory had Rafe stealing it back. He skated backward, protecting the puck while he searched for an opening to pass. One of the Bruins’ defensemen came out of nowhere and slammed Rafe into the boards. Another Bruin stole the puck and headed toward the opposite goal.
God dammit!
Before Rafe could even sprint down the ice after the other player, Andre Kristoff, their first line center, cut across the Bruin’s path, stole the puck, set up, and slammed the damn thing right past the goalie and into the net, putting the Rough Riders on the board for the first time tonight.
Lights and sirens joined applause from the crowd, but Rafe still heard Tremblay’s order to return to the bench. He’d spent more time on the bench tonight than he had in any other game since he’d joined the NHL.
He dropped beside Tierney, and before Rafe could pick up his water bottle, Tremblay’s hand settled on his shoulder from behind.
“You hurt?” he asked. “Sick?”
Rafe’s stomach dropped. As if playing shitty wasn’t bad enough, now his coach thought he had a physical impediment. Which meant Rafe was playing worse than shit. “No, Coach. Just having a bad game.”
“Professionals don’t just have bad games,” he said. “Figure it out. Whatever you did to play like you played last week is what I want you doing before every fucking game from now until we win the Stanley fucking Cup. Got it?”
Rafe nodded and shot water into his mouth. But he doubted Mia would be amenable to “doing” him senseless before every game. Though he was starting to think that was exactly what he needed to get back on track.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Tierney wanted to know. “You went from white to black in twenty-four hours, and now you’re stuck there.
“You think I haven’t noticed?”
One of the Bruins’ defensemen tripped Tate and took a penalty. While the Bruin skated to the penalty box and the others set up for a face-off, Rafe’s gaze drifted to the stands again. That empty seat made his gut squeeze. He wondered if she’d show up to the dinner they had planned with Joe tonight after the game. Rafe wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Who needed this bullshit? Tate on her back, Rafe acting like she didn’t matter. Hell, maybe she’d hopped a plane back to New York like she’d threatened a week ago.
That thought stabbed him so deep, he closed his eyes and rubbed them.
The puck dropped, and Rafe refocused on the game. Watching the movement on the ice, he asked Tierney, “You’re not a suspicious guy, right? You don’t believe in habits and good luck charms, right?”
“Not like those disgusting socks Belanger wears, or that stupid rabbit’s foot Jaeger sticks down his shorts before every game. But I believe there are things you can do to get you into the zone. The way Lawless goes into the rink before anyone arrives and piles those stupid pucks into two R’s on the ledge of the bench box when it’s quiet. That’s like meditation. It gets your head and your heart in the right place, you know? It focuses you. Centers you. That I believe in.”
Centered.
Rafe’s chest warmed and chilled at the same time.
That was what he’d been missing since he’d pushed Mia away. He was fragmented. Distracted. He felt like all his pieces were jumbled and mixed up. Some of them missing.
Mia centered him.
But a lot of good figuring that out did. It took a lot to keep Mia away from a game. She’d clearly had enough of his and Tate’s bullshit.
The second period ended with the Rough Riders two points behind. And as they filed into the locker room for the break, frustration permeated the air around the team. Rafe shouldered his share of the blame, and even though his teammates never said a word about Rafe’s shitty play, he knew they were all thinking about it.
The coach didn’t lecture. He highlighted the good, gave direction to improve the bad, and let the guys have a few quiet minutes to rest.
Rafe set his helmet on the bench beside him, wiped the sweat from his hair and face with a towel, then kept the terry there as he rested his head in his hands. He needed to get his groove back. Needed to find a way out of this funk.
“What’s going on?” Tate’s voice interrupted Rafe’s thoughts, and he mentally rolled his eyes before dragging the towel away and picking up a water bottle.
“I’m playing for shit, that’s what’s going on.”