TY SLAMMED HIS STICK INTO THE PENALTY BOX.
Possible concussion his fucking ass. The defender had gotten in his way and he’d fought for the puck, slammed him up against the glass. They’d fought, just like a normal fight in a game. Punches had been thrown and his opponent had gone down like a falling bowling pin, even though Ty swore he hadn’t hit him hard. The guy laid out on the ice had been milking it. This five-minute penalty was bullshit. Anger fueled him and he vowed he’d play tougher the next two periods.
He went into the locker room at the end of the first period, and after the typical pep talk, the coach called him aside.
“You got some issues we need to talk about, Anderson?”
“No. Just trying to win the game.”
“You don’t win the game by knocking out one of the opposing players and taking a five minute. Two penalties and it’s only the first period?”
“Giving my all for the team, coach.”
“All for the team? You’re playing one-man vendetta out there. You have some bug up your ass. Pull it out and play like I know you can play, or I’ll bench you. And if I have to do that in the biggest game of the season you aren’t going to like the consequences.”
The coach walked away. Ty dropped his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.
Shit. His head hadn’t been in the game. He was pissed off and it was affecting his game play. He had to get it under control.
Eddie came in and sat next to him. “Look, man, I know you’re under a lot of pressure. We all are. But whatever’s going on in your head right now, whether it’s the game or something else, it’s affecting your game play at a time that’s kinda critical for the team.”
Ty didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Eddie was right. He was letting the team down.
Victor laid his hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “We are your friends. You have a problem, we’re here to listen.”
“That’s true,” Eddie said. “But if it’s personal, leave it in the locker room and play hockey on the ice. You can’t take it out on the other team because we need you to help us win the division. One more game and we’re in.”
Ty nodded. “I got this.”
“Then let’s go kick their asses,” Victor said. “Only, don’t kick their asses so much next time, yes?”
Tyler laughed. “Yeah. Understood.”
Eddie stood. “All right then. Let’s go win this game, and then we’ll go out and get shitfaced after we win the division.”
Ty stood and nodded to his friends. “Sounds like a plan.”
JENNA TENDED BAR AND WATCHED THE ICE WIN THE division championship, wincing when Tyler got that five-minute penalty, knowing he was taking his anger and frustration at her out on another player.
But after that first period he’d come back and played clean and they kicked ass, scoring three goals and clinching the division. The bar had been packed solid and they’d served a ton of drinks and food. The celebration after the game win had been wild and crazy. Jenna had even brought out champagne for everyone in the bar, much to her customers’ delight. Being busy kept her mind occupied so she didn’t have to think about what an utter bitch she’d been yesterday.
After Ty had left she’d gone home and cried until her nose was stuffy and her eyes were swollen, then she’d washed her face and climbed into bed, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d ended up staying up all night, fighting the urge to go into the office and write some music—heart-tearing music about losing someone you loved.
In the end, she’d gone in and scribbled down the words because they were in her head—in her soul—dying to pour out of her. She knew she wouldn’t rest until she wrote them down, until she picked up her guitar and sang some of the songs she’d written about heartbreak. Songs she’d written before she’d ever really been in love, before she’d ever lost someone she truly cared about. As the tears streamed down her face, she realized what a liar she’d been in her music, how her soul had never been in her work before, because now she could feel the words tear through her, could feel the agony of loss like never before. At that moment she honestly felt what it was like to hurt—and to have hurt someone.
Now all she wanted to do was sing and write, to hole up in her room and do nothing but put words to paper, melody to those words. But she was stuck at this goddamn bar, a prisoner of her own making.
A prisoner of her fear.
And lonely as hell.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket, grimacing as she looked at how late it was, yet knowing if the shoe was on the other foot, she’d drop everything to be there for her, no matter what time it was.
She dialed Tara’s cell. Tara answered on the second ring.
“Jenna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah. But it’s okay. Is it Dad?”
“No, he’s fine. I’m at work, but I need to talk to you. Can I come over? I know it’s really late, so feel free to tell me no.”