Wasted Time (The Steel City #1)

27. Declan

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

declan

“You finally cool down, man?”

I glance toward the door of the locker room.

Saltzy waltzes in with the air of a king, like always, because that’s what he thinks he is. To be fair, he pretty much is hockey royalty. His dad, Gene Saltzman, is a legend. Saltzy, Callum Saltzman, he’s gearing up to be even better.

His auburn hair has a fresh fade, flowing into the most gnarly mullet that he somehow pulls off. He manages to look sharp dressed in that hairdo, joggers, and a long-sleeved athletic shirt. He reeks of money, even on a team full of guys that bathe in it. The worst part about him is that he’s the most expressionless guy on the fucking planet. He’s not rude, not nice, not anything. You just can’t tell what he’s feeling or thinking. Ever.

“I’m good,” I murmur, returning to taping the end of my stick.

He drops down on the bench, ripping open his bag. Those big, green eyes are burning holes into the side of my head. I’ve had just about enough of the passing comments from the guys. I guess it’s time for the captain to step in.

“That wasn’t like you, Lowesy.”

I clench my jaw, but tear at the tape, not giving him my attention.

I’m not a talker at work. I never have been. Even with my boys from college, I don’t give more than I have to, not about myself. That obviously changed with EJ, Wyatt, and Seth. They’re family now—but the rest of them? No chance. Nobody needs to know my business.

My teammates are my new “boys”, but they’re also my coworkers. They are synonymous with work to me, and I don’t like to shit where I eat. They don’t need to know the inner workings of my life, of that life.

I don’t need them knowing her name or the power she holds over me.

Here, I talk about hockey and hockey alone. That’s it. That’s what they pay me for.

I know the common consensus is that girls are dramatic and talk behind each other’s backs, even when they like each other—but male athletes are ten times worse, and I stand by that statement.

I tell Forker all the grimy and pathetic details of my life, but he’s the exception to every one of my rules. I kind of love the guy. Besides him, nobody needs to know what I have going on, even if it’s impacting the team.

“I was just off my game. It pissed me off. Then naturally, I got even worse.”

Saltzy nods, his hand buried in his bag. His stare is heavy now, and I don’t want to risk looking over to see if he’s buying it. I really don’t care if he isn’t. It’s not like telling him the truth would make any sense to him, anyway. It doesn’t even make sense to me .

I fucked one of my best friends a few hours after she broke up with her long-term boyfriend and now, I can’t stop thinking about her. Also, she suddenly decided she hates me and is actively trying to erase me from her life. Actually, the cutting me out part kind of happened before the sex. Then, there was the phone call.

It’s a fucking mess.

“You want to elaborate?”

I sigh, tearing the tape before dropping my hands. I turn to glare at him, and I’m already mad that I did. The fucking idiot is looking at me with such sincerity on that typically blank face, that I almost want to tell him everything to appease him.

“Not really, Saltzy. No.”

His lips press together in a tight line, but he doesn’t push. He just nods, his stare lingering for a moment, and then reaches down to retrieve the rest of his gear from his bag like it’s absolutely fine that I’m single handedly sabotaging our team.

“All good. Let me know if that changes. Lord knows I’ve had a chick or two messing with my game before.”

Captain. Hockey royalty. Apparently moonlights as Raven Baxter on the weekends. Add psychic to his list of titles. He should meet Seth, they have quite a bit in common.

“It’s not a chick,” I say, but I’m sure the snap of my tone gives me away. For some reason, that felt like something I had to say.

I am trying to convince myself that I’m not letting a woman have this much power over my career. By the look on his face, I don’t think Saltzy bought a second of it. Hell, I know I didn’t.

Saltzy’s eyes flicker back to mine. He thinks about it for a second, but then he just places his skate beside him on the bench and dips his chin again .

“Okay.”

A man of many words.

Even if I wanted to share what was going on with Cap, I doubt he’d have anything to say. Despite him asking about it, I think he asks more out of responsibility because of his title, and not because he wants to know.

I have Forker. Forker is my guy, and he’s the only guy I need for that.

“There’s the handsome face that I know and love to jerk off to in the shower!”

Right on cue.

Forker’s voice explodes through the change room at the same time he does. He holds his arms out wide, his dress coat looking ridiculous over top of his sweats that rep his college team. His giant, obnoxious blue headphones are hanging around his neck.

He says they go with his eyes, so they match every outfit.

Saltzy and I catch each other’s eye and share a knowing look.

Our token goon has arrived.

On and off the ice, Forker is a damn goon. It seems ironic that the biggest moron I’ve ever met is also the scariest man on the ice each and every night. Forker’s got a switch in his brain. There’s Fork and there’s The Beast, and even I don’t want to tussle with the Beast.

“I’m surprised Coach didn’t get you in here early and force you into three hours of drills.”

Forker plops down onto the bench across from me. He flashes his one-hundred-watt smile at Saltzy and even I swoon a little.

The guy is one handsome fucker. He’s like a frat boy who moonlights as an underwear model. Even with that sadistic smile that charms the panties off every single woman he comes into contact with, no man stands a chance if they’re in the room with Fork. He’s got it all.

He is also Saltzy’s dad’s biggest fan, so even after playing on the same team as Cap for three years now, he constantly treats him as if he’s a god to stay in his good books. I’m not kidding. His lips should be permanently brown from how hard his face is metaphorically buried in Saltzy’s ass every day.

As a result, I think Saltzy has made it his mission for Forker to never meet his dad, just to fuck with the poor guy. They seem to always just miss each other at events. Saltzy pretends he knows nothing about it, but when I pressed him once, I saw the teeniest little smile from Mr. Emotionless.

“Me too,” I grumble, working on my laces.

That verbal beatdown after the game that felt just as bad as any drill Coach has ever forced on us, if not worse. It made me want to die, so it did the trick. Drills would have paled in comparison.

I sat there and took it, not speaking a word until he was done.

I saw the moment he wished he reigned it in a bit all over his face. When he whirled around, red faced and furious, all he saw was somebody who was more disappointed in themselves than he could ever be in me.

I never want to feel that way again.

I am the guy who never causes problems. I am the guy who never lets life impact his game. There are guys on the team who fight with their wives, or with their teammates, and they bring it onto the ice with intent: both good and bad. Sometimes it works in our favour, sometimes it doesn't—but in my opinion, it is never worth the risk.

We stared at each other for a long moment, Coach catching his breath and me wanting to fucking die. Then, he let out a long sigh and perched himself on the edge of his desk. With a tight smile, he smacked his hand on my shoulder and quietly asked me to bring my best to the next game.

He also told me to get out my anger in practice instead.

The problem is, I’m not even angry anymore. So, I don’t know which way to go from here.

“We all have off days,” Saltzy says, leaning backward on the bench.

Fitting, since that has practically become Forker’s catchphrase when he talks about me lately.

“All but me. Right, Cap?” Forker asks, his toothy smile growing wider. He’s hunched over his bag, pausing as he waits for Saltzy’s approval. His blue eyes are positively twinkling , and I know how dumb that sounds.

Really though, Forker’s eyes twinkle sometimes.

I snort a laugh. Forker is the king of off days.

Saltzy only rolls his eyes.

Forker is in trouble ninety percent of the time. He spends more time in the box than anyone on the team. There’s an iconic video of him, helmet torn off, being dragged to the penalty box after a fight with someone bigger than him. There’s blood pouring from his nose and mouth, and he’s smiling his token smile over the ref’s shoulder, his teeth smeared red—those eyes fucking twinkling.

The man is something else.

His off days can’t be considered off days since they happen more frequently than people do their laundry. What works on Forker’s side is that his off days usually help fuel the rest of the team and push us toward a win. Obviously, Coach lets Forker’s ‘off days’ slide, because they’re technically on days. They give us an edge.

Mine? Not so much.

“It’s you and Boston’s job to watch him tomorrow,” Saltzy tells him plainly .

My head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “I don’t need a babysitter .”

“ Babysitters,” Forker corrects, removing his skates from his bag. His eyes flash to me and he winks. “Plural.”

I flip him off.

“Not babysitters,” Saltzy says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Motivators. We need goals, Lowesy. You get goals… when you’re on your game.”

“He’ll be on his game.”

I ignore Forker. He’s just defending me in his own way, but I’m more concerned about my Captain’s inability to have any faith left in me after one bad game. I could give you a list of five guys who had one bad game and let the pressure get to them. Some of them go on sucking for an entire season.

I’m good. I’m in check. It was one night, and it was because the chick that threw a wrench in my life also threw one into my pre-game ritual.

That’s settled now. I know she’s okay. I won’t be hyperfixated on it.

At least not during the game.

I can’t be thinking about anything during the game. Nothing but the puck, the net, and my team.

Never again.

I have to figure out a way around her.

Seth and Avery are coming down next week. They’ll be staying with me, sharing my space for five days. It’s inevitable that Penny’s name will come up. I need it not to. I can’t risk being thrown off my game again, and if Avery wants to talk about our fight, or if they want to try to mediate this… whatever the hell this is—I’m not sure how that will impact me.

I am not absolutely certain that I can deal with discussing her before a game. I’m superstitious, sure, but this is more than that. The fact that I can’t say with one hundred percent confidence that I can deal with it is enough to scare the shit out of me. I can’t take that risk.

I have to find a way to let Seth know that any discussion about Penny is off the table while they’re here. I need Avery to be fully prepared to keep the talk of her twin at home.

I don’t like putting everyone in a weird spot. It sucks. But this is my job and I need my head in the right space to do what I have to do.

Clearly, my head doesn’t work right when Penny is involved.