Wasted Time (The Steel City #1)

8. Declan

CHAPTER EIGHT

declan

I’ve been back in Pittsburgh for almost two months, and in that time, I have not spoken a single word to Penelope Anne Sweeten. I promise you that I am just as shocked as you are.

After my colossal failure with The Goodbye Parade, my anger decided to take the reins and keep me motivated—keep me too stubborn to text her. I wouldn’t say that’s a good plan when dealing with a woman who wants an apology, but do as I say and not as I do.

The first couple of weeks with absolutely no word from her, it was my ego that kept me from reaching out. Every single day after that, it was my pride that suffered. I don’t like losing, and I hate admitting that I’m wrong, so based on principle—I won’t reach out to her first. I still don’t think I was wrong, by the way, but I know it’s the only way to get her talking to me again. So, I either bend the fucking knee, or we continue this game of who caves first.

If she doesn’t want to be friends with me because I was honest with her, fine. I’ll have to live with it, even though I think this is too severe a punishment for my crime. It’s like if you got caught nicking a loaf of bread from a shop, and they toss your ass into the slammer and cut your hand off for extra measure.

A bit of an overreaction.

I guess I did this to myself. She did warn me that this would happen if I kept running my mouth. I just never thought she’d actually go so far as to cut me out. That’s my bad. It doesn’t mean that this isn’t really fucking weird.

I’m not used to being the outsider who’s looking in on her life. Even though I’ve lived away from home for years now, this is different. There’s a separation that seems more vast than simple distance. Penny feels like a friend that I last spoke to in college, not two months ago. That’s a pretty drastic change when we’ve barely gone two days without speaking in almost a decade.

I know she’s relocating to London, Ontario, but she isn’t the one who told me that. I know she’s quitting her job to follow that dickwad in the new year, but that information came second-hand from the boys. I know that she went to Newfoundland to visit Aura for Ellie’s birthday two weeks ago, but only through watching her life unfold on Instagram.

I didn’t get a single picture of all the cute dogs that she saw during her visit. That’s how I know this is serious.

I know way too much about someone who cut me out of her life. I feel like a creep at this point, but it’s unavoidable. We’re intertwined. We always will be. Our crew, we’re family. We molded ourselves together all those years ago, and only life-threatening surgery could separate us from one another. That sucks when someone is trying to physically detach you from themselves with their bare hands.

I’m bleeding out here, Lucky.

Speaking of London. That news irked me to a whole new level when it came to my thesis about Penny and Gandalf the Goober. Penny loves Windsor. I’m not kidding. She is obsessed with living there. She has told me numerous times that she never wants to leave that city unless it’s to bring her ass right back home.

Home is the only place that could ever trump Windsor for her.

I would put money on the fact that she had next to no say in this new arrangement. The puppet master is pulling the strings, yet again.

Garrison is the puppet master, by the way.

The image of her basically breaking up with me flashes in my head again. Right in the middle of thinking about that idiot, her face appears out of nowhere. That memory keeps popping up as if I want it there.

I don’t.

Hearing her tell me that she doesn’t want to see me again doesn’t feel any better after the hundredth time I’ve replayed it in my mind. I always assumed she knew that I was coming from a good place when I spoke to her about Gavin. That even when it comes out in a way that I don’t intend it to, my only goal is to protect her. That’s all it ever is.

Clearly, I was wrong.

I almost can’t blame her. Key word, almost . She’s invested a lot of time in that guy. I could see in her eyes that she was acting on defense, guarding that weak wall she built around herself that apparently only I could see—hiding all her secrets just beyond it.

I don’t believe for a minute that I was far off. I know I am right, but now I know that she is also very aware of how right I am. It was written all over her face. She just doesn’t want to acknowledge it. The easiest solution was to push me away instead of him .

I drop myself onto the couch next to Forker, handing him a cold beer from his fridge. He takes it with a toothy, blinding smile, but with zero focus in my direction.

Forker is my guy in Pittsburgh. My right-hand man. My better half.

Don’t tell Seth.

Carter Forkerro is a six-foot-three demon on skates, and he’s my absolute favourite person to have watching my back, on and off the ice. He’s got two personalities on two polar opposite sides of the spectrum, but I love them both.

He runs a hand over his buzzed blond hair, quickly averting his eyes back to the television. He places his beer on the table with expert precision for someone whose eyes are melting into the TV.

He’s playing Warzone with some of his guys from college. I’m waiting for him to finish what feels like his fiftieth game so that we can go out to the bar with the rest of the team. He promised he’d be done two games ago, but Forker is an addict, and this is his drug.

I’m unplugging the game after this round if he doesn’t do it himself.

Knowing that it’ll be another twenty minutes minimum until he’s done, I pull out my phone, checking the team chat for updates. Most of the guys are heading to Icebox , our regular bar, as we speak. They treat us well there. They understand that we garner a bit of attention and have the security and staff to support that. If anyone is too obnoxious and steadfast in ruining our night, they’re quick to toss them to the curb.

Elliot and Cole, the owners, have saved Forker from a charge or two by stopping a fight before it happened.

It’s nearing eleven. We should be hitting the road by now. I don’t want to be out too late, and I’d like to beat the rush and get a spot to park my ass down, so I don’t have to be the one who runs back and forth to the bar.

That’s a rookie’s job, and I haven’t been a rookie for a long time.

I pull up Instagram as Forker shouts into his headset. Bringing my beer to my lips, I pause mid-drink when my feed refreshes, and I see a familiar pair of paralyzing eyes staring directly into my soul.

I click her username faster than I’d ever admit aloud.

You saw nothing.

I open her most recent upload. It’s a post with multiple photos to swipe through. The caption is what really grabs my attention, besides those dark blue eyes that she flaunts around like a sadist.

PSweets: A snapshot of home (and Newfoundland).

The first photo is of her and Avery. A classic twin shot. Avery is behind her, her arms wound loosely around Penny’s neck. They’re both holding their expensive coffees, which is probably why they’re smiling like they won the lottery. You can see Avery’s ‘333’ tattoo on the inside of her elbow. Penny’s matching one is hidden out of frame.

I think my first mistake was showing up for The Goodbye Parade without a latte for this girl. It wouldn’t have been an apology. I wasn’t sorry. But maybe she would have kept her claws in.

The next picture is of Penny and her parents. Another of her and her sister, where her niece is in her arms and staring up at her as if she’s the most magical human being in the world.

Ellie is getting so damn tall. Takes after her aunt.

I swipe again, and my lip twitches upward. My heart warms when I see my crew in full formation. I can move to ten different countries for hockey, but my real team would still be at home on that gray couch, waiting for me.

I do a quick scan of the photo.

My stomach plummets to my ass.

You have got to be kidding me.

It’s a picture from the night of our spat, taken before we left for The Swan Dive . Penny had set the camera on a timer and rested it against the television. Everyone crammed onto the couch to pose for a group photo.

Penny is in the center, lying across Avery and Wyatt, her head in Avery’s lap. Her honey-blonde hair is draped over her twin’s knees. She’s smiling so wide that I think I can see all of her teeth.

EJ is half-posed on the back of the couch, one leg bent upward, chugging a beer. His free hand is running through his fresh blond trim. He must have just gotten it done. I refuse to believe this little pose wasn’t to show it off.

Seth is on the ottoman, staring at the camera with an awkward smile. He looks like a fourth grader on school picture day, with his elbows on his knees.

That’s my best friend.

Lauren is on the floor in front of Tiff, her head tilted back as she laughs. Tiffany is holding the sides of her head, clearly saying something outright hilarious down to her.

And I’m on the other end, beside Wyatt.

Except I’m not.

She cropped me out of the photo.

I almost laugh, but I'm too irritated to actually find this funny. I guess I was wrong. Gavin didn’t completely change her. Petty Penny is still reporting for duty. He hasn’t managed to wrangle out that piece of her quite yet.

Is she serious ?

I screenshot the image and send it to Seth without even taking a second to think about it. It takes everything in me not to send it to Penny directly and tell her that she needs to grow up, but I still can’t bring myself to reach out to her. I don’t think either of us is ready for round three, anyway.

Not yet.

Me

*one image attached*

Really????

I toss my phone back onto my lap and down the rest of my beer.

Forker is slamming buttons on his controller, but he glances my way for a beat.

“Everything good, bro?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, running my fingers over my lips as I glare at the TV like it had the power to remove me from a digital image. “Just that chick from home I told you about.”

“The one with the deadbeat boyfriend?”

I told Forker everything when I got home. I was distracted in practice, and I was making stupid mistakes that were starting to garner everyone’s attention. My performance was beginning to ruffle Coach’s feathers more than I’d like. Hell, it was starting to ruffle mine .

Forker’s the only one on the team who can talk to me about life and get an answer remotely close to the truth. He’s my Seth when Seth isn’t around. Something about him had me opening up to him the first day we met.

He keeps me sane.

Crazy, since he's certified insane.

“Penny. Yeah,” I grumble.

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing. She’s still not talking to me, but she posted a picture from the summer and cut me out of it.”

Forker barks out a loud, surprised laugh. Of course he’d find humour in this.

I glare at him, but he can’t see it. He’s too busy aiming his sniper on the screen.

“That’s funny,” he says, letting out a noise of triumph when he lands a kill. “No—not you. I’m talking to my boy here. Lady troubles.”

My phone buzzes. I immediately open the message.

Seth

Oh boy, this is serious.

Well, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Me

Ask the missus what the hell I did to deserve the crop out.

Avery is not going to tell me anything. If Penny told her she was going to do this, she’s not going to let it slip that this was a premeditated offense. Not even if I tried to waterboard the information out of her.

“Almost done, Lowesy,” Forker says, slamming some more buttons on his controller.

Seth

Her words not mine: ‘don’t be a dick and you’ll stay in the pic’.

I roll my eyes, locking my phone.

A victory banner glides across the giant flat-screen television. Forker lets out a scream of triumph, snatching his beer off the table and downing the rest of it. He congratulates the boys on the other end of his headset like it’s the Stanley Cup Final, and then in two clicks, he shuts down the console.

He whirls to me, his baby blue eyes sparkling post-win. “So, hometown girl cropped you out. Does that give us an excuse to get drunk-drunk tonight?”

I can’t help but grin. He’s always looking for an excuse to get ‘ drunk-drunk’ . If it hadn’t been Penny’s photoshop job, it would have been the win he just pulled off. Any reason to have a good time.

“If you ever let us get to the bar, we’d figure that out.”

Not long after, we're at Icebox . I had initially said I wasn’t going to drink much, but Wyatt texted me the crop-out picture and was laughing so hard that I decided I was going to get ‘ drunk-drunk’ with Forker so that I didn’t lose my mind.

The ‘Big Dogs’ chat popped off after that. The guys thought it was hilarious to crop me out of random pictures from Facebook and Instagram over the years. EJ even cropped me out of the Pittsburgh team photo. I haven’t answered a single text, but they’re still coming in steadily, and I keep looking at them.

Sucker for punishment, I guess.

It takes everything in me not to text her. What she did is so immature, but so is freaking out about it. She clearly said she doesn’t want to talk to me, so I won’t give her the satisfaction of breaking the silence first and being impacted by her stupid crop job. She meant for that one to sting. To push her point home.

I shouldn’t care.

I definitely care.

You can’t just wipe me out of your friend group as if I’m not still in it, as if we haven’t been friends for a decade. We’re sewn together, Sweeten. Every time you yank at the seams, I stitch us back up.

“Lowesy,” Boston drawls, slapping his hand on my shoulder as he slides into the booth next to me. I’m on the very edge of it. There’s barely enough room for me to sit, but Boston squishes himself against me like he’s not a six-foot-four giant and like this is an absolutely comfortable arrangement for all of us.

This guy has leg muscles bigger than the width of my body. This is comfortable for nobody.

He’s got a whiskey and coke in his hand, and he smells like bubble gum. On cue, he blows a bright pink bubble. Hubba Bubba . His favourite. Makes him seem a bit less intimidating. Even if I was blindfolded, I would have known it was him who parked his big ass next to me. He’s a walking contradiction and a fucking terrifying human being.

What scary-looking monster smells like bubble gum?

He’s an easy guy to hate, and I want to hate him, but I like him too much to do that. Grew up on a farm in Saskatchewan and is the best defenseman in the league. If anyone argues that point, they’re wrong.

While Forker has some screws loose, Boston is just a daunting, ogre of a man. Has that air about him. Like he’s lived ten more lives than the rest of us. There's the ‘batshit crazy’ kind of scary, like Fork, and the ‘silent and deadly’ type of scary, and that’s Boss.

The dude is ridiculously good looking, though. He’s the handsome, outdoorsy kind of hot. He’s got that rugged shit, you know? He’s burly and bearded, and women fucking love him but hardly ever approach him. He’s that intimidating. I think he prefers it that way, anyway.

The three of us our fan favourites. The people love our two, insane defensemen, who let me get all the damn goals I need to. They’re nicknamed ‘The Dangerous Duo’ and they both pretend to hate it, but I’m certain they eat that shit up.

His quietness is hard to stomach at first, but you get used to it. He seems like an asshole until you realize that he’s really not. He’s just a lowkey dude. Doesn’t have much to say. He’s gone through a lot. I shouldn’t know that, but after a few late nights nursing some whiskey with the guy, I do.

It’s not his fault that he was born looking like a woman’s wet dream. He probably had a six-pack and a beard by his first birthday. Again, not his fault. The least his parents could do for him.

Still a prick for it.

Hardest working guy I know, though.

One of the rookie’s eyes widen when Boston scans the table with that lethal, dark green stare. Some of the newbies have barely heard Black say more than three words since the season started. It tends to freak them out when they see him out in the wild.

Boston eats it up.

Boston’s smile wavers a bit, purposely staring down the two rookies. He presses his lips tightly together as if his realization that they are also at this table just ruined his night. After a long, silent second, all he does is dip his chin in their direction.

It’s an act. He likes scaring them. It’s his type of initiation that lasts a bit longer than it probably should. If it was anyone besides the rookies sitting across the table from him, he’d be flashing his pearly whites and laughing that deep, rumbling laugh that makes him sound like he smokes ten packs a day.

“Hey, Boss,” Reno says awkwardly. He shoots a nervous glance at Cole beside him, nudging him with his elbow.

Cole just nods, but he averts his gaze toward the bar as if staring at Boston too long will make him unable to have children in the future.

Boston turns back to me and Forker. He laughs a bit under his breath, satisfied that he hasn’t lost his ability to intimidate.

“Coach is on his last nerve, boys. Brought me into his office and told me to give you a pep talk. We need to have a good game on Wednesday or he’s coming for all of us. I don’t feel like doing drills until I have to get my feet amputated.”

Translation: I’ve been sucking, and everyone and their dogs are starting to notice.

I sigh, bringing my beer to my lips. Thinking about why I’m crapping the bed makes me think about Penny, and thinking about Penny makes me feel like I’m losing my mind, and I can’t guide our asses to a cup if my head isn’t in the game.

“We all have off days,” Forker says, coming to my defense.

Have I mentioned that I love the guy?

“This has been an off month for you, Lowesy,” Boston says bluntly, wrapping his big mitt over the rim of his glass. “I don’t need to know what the hell is going on, but I’d like to know how to help you fix it.”

I glance at him.

Boston isn’t someone who pries into people’s personal lives. He doesn’t care if you brought a girl home from the bar, and he doesn’t give two shits if you don’t drink on a night out. He values his own privacy, so he respects yours.

But he doesn’t mess with his game. Me sucking? That messes with his game.

Thankfully, this dude is a rare one. Looks and acts like a cranky old grandpa but has a good set of morals under that exterior. If any of us are failing, it’s a team problem. He takes that on personally. He doesn’t care why; he just wants a solution. That’s probably why Coach pulled him in and not me directly .

“Spa day? A straight week of getting wasted? Strip club?” He lists off options with that serious expression staying glued to his face. “Practice, just you and me? Whatever it is, I’m yours—but we’ve got to fix this.”

“I know, man. I think I’m on the tail end of it. I was just in a funk.”

I hope.

Boston’s dark green eyes flicker beside me to Forker. Like he’s seeking confirmation from my handler. Annoying.

Carter blinks, lurching forward to immediately start nodding.

I’m not sure if he believes my excuses. He’s my guy, though. He’ll make everyone else believe it.

I’m unsure why this fight with Penny has thrown me off so much. Maybe it’s because it seemed like the easiest thing in the world for her to cut me out, but either way, it has all but consumed my thoughts since coming back to Pittsburgh.

But, I mean, seriously. I could never dream of cutting anyone out like that.

Not anyone from home.

Not her.

Tiffany is still hanging around, isn’t she?

I’ve had people clawing to be around me since I became a prospect for the pros. My first year of college, the spotlight was on me in a way that I wasn’t used to, and suddenly, I was important. It went to my head a bit, sure, but I learned how to spot a real friend from a mile away.

When I met the girls, I knew they’d be around for the long haul. Even if Avery and Seth never got together, we’d all still be family. We’d attend each other’s weddings, be aunts and uncles to each other’s kids. We’d see each other every chance that we could. It isn’t the type of friendship that you can fathom severing .

But it had been easy for Penny. She made a snap decision, and it was done. We were done. I am apparently that easy to just toss aside and forget after almost ten years of friendship.

It’s that feeling that is messing with my head, which means it is also what is messing with my game. Nothing fucks with my game. Nothing.

“So, you don’t need an intervention or a beat-down?” Boston asks, cocking a dark brow.

I huff a laugh, taking another swig of my beer. “No. Sorry to disappoint.”

He takes a whole three seconds to act upset about not being able to sucker punch me before he smiles, leans back, and slaps me on the back with a big, strong hand.

“Great. Then, let’s enjoy ourselves, shall we? Captain stayed in tonight, which means the girls can let their hair down.”

We’re the girls.

Me, Boston, and fucking Forkerro.