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Again. And again. And again.

“Are you planning to let West in on practice today?” Coach asks.

I’m not dialed in. I didn’t even realize I wasn’t including my right winger.

I rocket the next one up toward West, and it’s possible I send it a little too hard. He misses the pass.

Line requires trust, and I don’t trust him anymore. I told him to fucking delete that text, and I fully blame him for opening it at my house when she was in the room.

So how the hell am I supposed to trust him? I can’t get my head in the game. I can’t focus. I can’t find the rhythm we instinctively find together. I can’t find our chemistry.

It’s so obvious, in fact, that Coach pulls me off the ice and into his office.

“What the fuck is going on with you today?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, and I clench my jaw.

He studies me a long time, and I keep my eyes focused down on the floor.

Eventually, he says, “Whatever happened between you and Sellers, figure it out. If you can’t pull it together, I’m going to have to take a hard look at the lines tonight.”

I blow out a breath. His words are clear. He doesn’t believe in West and me working together, and it’s my fault because I’m the captain. The leader. The one passing to my wingers.

If he’s honestly thinking about taking a look at the lines, that could mean one of us is pulled. We’re the top line. There’s nowhere to go but down, and if we’re rearranged, that’s making our private beef public.

I can’t let that happen.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter.

I think he’s going to press me to tell him what’s going on, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets me go.

I work on face-off drills next, and it’s a lot of repetition. It’s what I need. I focus on the ice. On the drills. On the puck. On my stick.

Because if I’m focusing on those things, at least I’m not thinking about her.

Except I am. I always am.

When Sunday night hits, I’m as shitty on the ice in our first preseason game as I was in practice.

I’m only passing to Kellan. It’s like a subconscious hit. I want to keep it away from West. I don’t want him to get the glory of scoring. I don’t want to set up a shot for him. I want him to hurt the way I’m hurting.

It’s not his fault. I know this. I should have never made the bet in the first place, but I did, and he’s an easy target to blame.

We lose.

The locker room is quiet.

I hate it all. I hate that I’m letting my internal emotions affect my external moves, but I have no idea how to fix any of it.

And when I get home to a quiet house and find that she moved the rest of her stuff out, a new piece of me breaks, a piece I didn’t even know existed.

When I check my phone and see the flowers I sent were returned as undeliverable, another piece of me breaks.

And on Monday morning, when I get another text from the florist letting me know that nobody by the name of Ivy Bradley or Ivy Maddox works at Ever-Brand, I realize how hurt she must be.

She might be just as broken as me.