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However, Aidan’s call wasn’t about that. Nor was it to tell me my biggest fear had come true: that the team of my dreams, the team I’ve worked so hard to be a part of since I was a kid, was dropping me. To my surprise, the normally cutthroat, grumpy Irish bastard was…nice. He even tried to give me a bullshit pep talk that included something along the lines of You’re not the first nor will you be the last player to miss a goal.

I fucking hated it.

The sympathy in his voice was worse than anything I’d imagined. Partway through the phone call, I’d gotten the urge to puke.

I told him I’d call him back, but that was a week ago. I know he’s tried me again, several times. While I’ve ignored all the calls and texts, I have looked at my phone. His missed notifications are mixed in with calls from my dad and mom. Those, I’ve been avoiding like the plague.

I don’t need to hear my dad lay into me about what I should work on during the offseason or how I can improve my diet to add more lean bulk to my muscle. I really don’t want to hear my mom’s sympathy. And I especially do not want to look at my team’s group chat to see what they’re saying. They’re the best guys around, and even if they are upset with me, they’d never act like it.

In the locker room after the game, they were disappointed, but never once did anyone point-blank tell me the loss was my fault. Johnny, one of our defensemen, tried his own version of a pep talk. He’s a good man but a complete horndog. During said talk, he explained that since our break started a bit earlier than we’d hoped, we now have more time to spend with our chosen partners and work out horizontally rather than with our smelly teammates on the ice.

The pep talk promptly ended when our right wing, Markus, smacked him upside the head and Coach Kellen came to speak to us. I don’t remember much of what he said—I was already in my head, anxious to get home and shut out the world, to relive my fuckup so I will never make the same mistake again. Next year, I’m going to get my team to the Stanley Cup, even if it kills me.

My phone buzzes again, and I grab it to shut it off completely. The last text catches my eye when I do; it’s from Lucas. He was in the stands watching the game. While we were once teammates—and his wife, Stevie, who is also our team’s social media head, is friends with Quinn—it’s not normal for him to text or call me. Especially now that he’s retired.

I tell myself to turn my phone off, to rewind the game tape and continue my endless torture like I deserve, but curiosity gets the best of me. I click the notification and find that he’s sent me several messages in the last few days. My stomach, which lacks any real sustenance, flips over when I see what he’s sent.

Tuesday, June 3 3:31pm

MCKNIGHT:

Hey man. I know we don’t see much of each other these days, but I think it would be good to meet up, have a beer. You game?

Wednesday, June 4 6:35pm

MCKNIGHT:

Stevie said you probably haven’t answered me because I phrased that stupidly. Either way, I’ll be at the Breakers Bar downtown at eight tonight if you want to stop by. No pressure.

Today, June 5 4:01pm

MCKNIGHT (voice note):

I’m normally not one to do this, and really, it’s not my business, but my wife is my business, and she’s very concerned about Quinn, who’s very concerned about you. I know losing an important game is hard, but shutting everyone out isn’t the way to deal with it. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there. If you want to talk, I’m here for you. But you’ve got a very worried wife, and I think you should talk to her. Again, I know it’s not my business, and we’ve never been super close, so consider this the one and only time I’ll interfere. Take care of yourself, Ashcroft.

I hold the phone screen down on my thigh when his voice note ends, the constant nausea I’ve been feeling for the past week rearing its ugly head. This time, it’s not because I’m reliving the moment I fucked up or because I can hear the announcer’s voice on repeat in my mind—it’s because McKnight is right. I should talk to Quinn; lord knows she’s tried to talk to me. My wife is an absolute saint. I don’t deserve her.

She’s stuck by me through all the ups and downs of my career, through every injury and loss, the good moments and the bad. It’s who she is and always has been since I met her in college.

Moments from that day rush back—the exact instant her pale-blue eyes met my hazel ones. The way her wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair, dyed in the softest shade of pink, caught my attention. The pull of her broad smile, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I’d stared at her, dumbfounded and mind blank, until she laughed, the sound altering my DNA the way only one other person had before…

“Noah, are you still down there?”

Quinn’s voice, warm yet shadowed with worry, echoes from the top of the steps. The question stops me from falling into the rabbit hole I was about to drop into, one I promised myself I would never plummet down again.

I clear my throat and power down my phone, sitting up on the couch. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Quinn’s feet are heavy descending the steps, and she stops next to the coffee table so she can look at me. She crosses her arms over her ample chest, her outfit that of someone dressed to go out. A long-sleeved pale-blue dress with flowers on it hugs her generous body, showing off her shapely hips and long legs. Makeup paints her face, highlighting her round features and heart-shaped lips.

Quinn always looks good, and her wearing makeup isn’t out of the norm, but this isn’t just casual makeup she wears to work as our team photographer along with her black pants and black shirts. No, my wife is dressed to impress.

“Noah,” she laments.

I drag my gaze up her body, and when I meet her stare, I don’t find the affection I’m used to or even the pity I was expecting to see. Instead, she looks defeated.

McKnight’s voice note loops in my mind as I zero in on the tightness of Quinn’s jaw and how her nostrils flare like she’s holding back what she wants to say. My wife isn’t one to yell or argue. She’s the definition of sweet and soft; she always has been. In our wedding vows, I called her the sun to my storm, the light in the darkness, and all those things are true. But right now, there’s a cloud hanging over my Sunshine, and I know I’m the one who put it there.

When I don’t answer, her gaze flicks to the TV—to the game frozen on the screen—then to the empty beer bottles littering the table. Nausea churns in my stomach again. I know I should feel ashamed. I know I should say something.