Chapter 8: Jase's Door

We beat Boston 4 to 2, and I did not remember one second of it.

I sat on the bench, wrote down shots, and watched Rhett in a team jacket in the stands with ice on his eyebrow.

Jase scored twice.

Each time he skated past and tapped the goalpost twice, like always.

Each time I felt it in my chest.

By eleven o'clock the hotel hallway was quiet.

I stood outside room 414 in my socks, holding my shoes in one hand.

Rhett had said goodnight at 410 with an ice pack and a look that said he knew where I was going.

He hadn't stopped me.

I knocked softly.

The door opened on the first knock.

Jase wore gray sweatpants and nothing else.

His chest was bare, and his hair was damp from the shower, and the scar on his eyebrow caught the lamp.

My mouth went dry.

"You came," he said.

"You said you wanted to talk."

"Yeah." He stepped aside. "Come in."

The room was dim, with the curtains half open on the city lights.

His bed was still made on one side, and a laptop sat closed on the desk.

I stood in the middle of the carpet and didn't know where to put my hands.

Jase shut the door.

He did not turn on the light.

"I'm not good at this," he said.

"At what?"

"Saying the thing out loud."

"What thing?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and looked at his hands.

"Tremblay's good for you," he said. "You know that?"

"I thought you hated him."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Doesn't matter." He rubbed his face.

"Last night, when he was bleeding, he looked at you before he looked at the trainer."

I swallowed.

"Why are we talking about Rhett?"

"Because I'm trying not to talk about me."

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