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“I’m sure he’s fine.” Brant slaps the back of my head, and I snap out of it.

Sky sent the message hours ago and would follow up if he actually needed me. So I send a message that will get his attention.

Me: Kiwi sounds better than ball sack

Me: Calling to get my kiss and I love you

There’s nothing I can do from this far away, so I finish dressing and focus on hockey.

We each have our roles on the team and work well together. Drake has been the team’s bully for years, and if anyone touches his boyfriend, Lucky, he’s feral. This year, O’Keefe fought his way to being our backup enforcer. Most teams have one guy willing to put his body on the line, but we have two.

I’ve never been a fighter. It doesn’t appeal to me. But today is the exception. I channel all my frustration into making the other team suffer with unnecessary slams into the boards, hard hits, and dropping my gloves.

I end up in the sin bin twice and receive worried glances from my teammates. Coach pulls my line and Griff and King sandwich me between them.

“Everything okay?” King asks, keeping a gloved hand on me so I don’t respond to the taunts from the other team.

“You’re not yourself,” Griff chimes in.

Telling them I’m happy to bash on the other team would only add to their worry, so I shrug them off. Our trainer hands me a drink. “It’s the magic juice.” He waits for my reaction, but the game demands my focus.

During the intermission between the second and third periods, there’s an uneasy tension in the dressing room, and I’m getting covert stares.

Before Coach gives his lecture, Ace, our captain, sits next to me. “You’re on fire tonight. Great goal.”

I nod, barely remembering I scored.

My cell haunts me from my locker, torturing me with indecision. Checking it could bring relief or terror. I’m not prepared for the existence of the second option. Sky’s fine, and to prove my point, I stalk away from my locker so I can’t check it.

Ace follows me. “If you need anything, I’m here for you. Text or call whenever for special rookie treatment,” he says, looking straight into my eyes.

“ ’Preciate it.”

In the third period, O’Keefe shadows me, keeping the LA players away from me. He defends me so closely, it leads me to score again with another assist. It’s one of my highest-scoring games, but I’m not here.

I’m in New York City, tearing around our place to find Sky asleep after being so worried. He’s snuggled up next to me, fitting his body flush with mine because we’re meant to fit together.

After the game and once the media has left, I lunge for my phone to see Sky has responded and my heart leaps.

Sky: Kiwis and balls sacks have a lot in common *winky face emoji*

Sky: *kiss emoji* Back at ya, my muffin man

“Did you hear from Sky?” Brant asks, causing me to yelp.

I show him. “This isn’t good. Ball sack is my safe word, and Sky never responds with ‘back at ya’ and has never once called me food. Something’s wrong. This isn’t Sky.”

Brant locks in and remains steady, calming my rising fear.

“Don’t panic. We can call the restaurant and see what time they left. Is he still home?”

Liska overhears us, and Brant fills him in.

“I’ll make some calls. By the time ve get to the hotel, ve’ll have video of the restaurant, surrounding area, and your place,” Liska assures me in his Czech accent.

“Thank you.” I stare at him, nervous but ultimately unbothered by how he’ll accomplish it.

Benz chirps so Liska can’t hear. “Mafia ties.”