Tyler shoved everything into the small bag, not caring if the shit got wrinkled or smelly.

Not caring, period.

His hand tightened around the strap as he stared into the bag, not really seeing the contents: a leather shower kit, damp from when he dropped the thing on the floor. A spare t-shirt, rolled into a ball and shoved to the side. Spare underwear and socks, tangled up with a silk tie.

Fuck it. Let the shit get ruined. He didn't care. Playing by the rules didn't matter anymore. Playing by the rules didn't get you anywhere.

At least, not for him.

And fuck, since when did he become one of those guys who felt so fucking sorry for himself? That wasn't him. Not usually. He needed to shake the shit off and move on.

He thought he had—until tonight's shit show of a game. He couldn't fucking focus. He couldn't fucking concentrate. And when it came down to the wire, he'd let his team down.

Big time let them down.

And he'd been pulled. The first fucking time in almost a year.

And he'd seen it coming. One glance at the bench had been more than enough to let him know it was coming. Fuck. He could still see the hard glimmer in Coach Torresi's cold green eyes after he'd let the third goal in—all in under five minutes.

What the fuck?

It was like he hadn't even been on the ice. Like his body was in front of the pipes but his mind wasn't.

And everyone knew it.

Even now, he could sense the eyes on him. Watching. Studying. Wondering what the hell had happened to the normally steady and reliable player he had been.

Fuck. He was wondering the same thing himself. And he didn't have an answer. At least, not one he was ready to admit.

Yeah, okay. Maybe he was still upset that Corbin was staying down in Baltimore. Whatever. Not a big deal. He'd get his chance. Eventually.

Maybe.

Only now, he wasn't so sure. And whatever chance there was would quickly fade if he kept playing like he had tonight.

Like last night.

No, he wasn't perfect. No, he didn't expect a shut-out every night. Maybe that's what he wanted, but every player out there knew that wasn't a realistic explanation.

Instead of making him feel better, that only made him feel worse. It wasn't about expectations, not really. It was about being the best he could be. About moving forward. About proving to everyone else that he had what it took to move up and go all the way.

Only he was proving just the opposite. And if he didn't get the fuck over it, he might as well just resign himself to being second-best.

And that wasn't good enough.

Maybe because he wasn't good enough.

No. Fuck that. He wouldn't think like that. Couldn't think like that.

"Fuck no." He muttered the words to himself then grabbed the zipper on the bag, yanking it harder than he meant to. The head snapped off in his hand, bent and broken. Useless.

Just like him.

"Mother fucker!" Rage swept through him and he grabbed the bag, swinging it in a wide circle before throwing it. It sailed through the air, its arc long and graceful before slowly descending. It hit Zach's leg and fell to the ground, a crumpled lump of nylon.

Tyler turned away from the stares, his hands curling into fists as he stared at the empty equipment cubicle in front of him. His chest heaved with each harsh breath, his body shaking with the force of his anger.

Anger at himself.

Anger at allowing himself to get so distracted.

Anger at screwing up his play.

Anger at the quiet words and confused rumblings echoing around the locker room.

Fuck. He needed to control himself. Needed to focus, dammit. Needed to move the fuck on and get over this…whatever the fuck this was.

Self-pity? Yeah, probably.

No. Definitely.

"Bowie." The sound of his name pierced the rumblings echoing around him. An eerie silence settled over the room as all eyes turned toward him. He didn't need to see them, not when he could feel them.

And he didn't need to turn his head to know that Coach Torresi was standing in the doorway, watching him with eyes cold enough to send the devil running. Fuck.

Tyler sucked in a deep breath and held it for several long seconds, searching for some elusive calmness. But it wasn't there, wasn't anywhere he could find it. And he couldn't waste more time looking for it, not when Coach was waiting for him.

Watching him.

He took one last deep breath then moved through the locker room. He paused in front of Zach, an apology hovering on his lips as he reached for the bag at his feet.

Zach reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, nothing more than a quick tap. "I got it, man. You better get going."

Tyler nodded then resumed his walk, forcing his feet to move. Coach didn't say anything, just studied him with those cold green eyes for several long seconds. Then he nodded, nothing more than a quick jerk of his head, a silent command to follow him.

Their footsteps echoed in the hallway, bouncing off the concrete wall like the beat of an executioner's drum. Melodramatic? Maybe. But Tyler had seen the expression in Coach's eyes. How could he not think he was being led to the executioner's?

Tyler followed Coach into an empty, musty smelling office, tried not to wince when the door closed behind him. Coach moved past him but instead of taking a seat behind the battered metal desk, he perched on the edge of it.

Too close.

But Tyler couldn't move away, no matter how much he wanted to. Not when Coach was studying him, not when it looked like that was exactly what he expected him to do.

"I'm putting Gardel in the net tomorrow night." The words hit Tyler with the force of a bullet, shattering him deep in the chest. Ryan was nothing more than a kid, brand new this season. And Coach was going to start him over Tyler? But he didn't say a word, didn't move except to nod. He shouldn't be surprised, not after the last two nights.

Coach Torresi studied him. Intent, focused. Looking for…what? Weakness? Anger? Argument? He'd get none of them. Tyler refused to look at Coach, refused to let him see any reaction. Better to keep staring at that spot on the wall, just behind Coach. Better to pretend he wasn't reeling inside.

"Nothing to say?"

Tyler shook his head and swallowed past the lump of anger in his throat. "No, Coach."

"Maybe you should."

That made Tyler pause. His body sagged, but only for a brief second as he tried to figure out the meaning of the words. What was Coach trying to tell him? That he wanted Tyler to argue? That he expected him to put up a fight?

He stiffened his spine, his jaw working as he tried to figure out how to answer Coach's cryptic words. But he waited too long because Coach sighed, the sound weary and tense and…almost human.

"You're pissed."

"I—" Tyler snapped his mouth shut, not sure what to say. Admit it? Or deny it? He again missed his chance to say anything because Coach kept talking.

"You're right to be pissed. I get it, Bowie. I've been there. Hell, we all have. But you can't let it get in your head. You want to be pissed? Then be pissed. But don't let it fuck up your game. And right now, that's what you're letting happen."

What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? Not a damn thing, because it was true. So he just nodded. "Yes, Coach."

Silence stretched around them, a silence filled with expectation. Tyler didn't move, just kept waiting for whatever else Coach was going to say.

The older man heaved another sigh then pushed away from his perch on the desk. "Gardel will be in net tomorrow night. When we get back home, I want you to get your head on straight. Go out. Get laid. Have fun. Do whatever the fuck it is you do to relax. Don't think about the fucking game or the fact that you're pissed because Gauthier's the one down in Baltimore instead of you. Then get your ass to practice with a clear head on Wednesday and be ready to work with Kolchak."

Tyler ground his teeth together, ready to tell him he didn't need the new conditioning coach to babysit him. Torresi stepped closer, pointing his finger at Tyler and wagging it in front of him.

"And don't say a fucking word. You want to get to the next level? You'll fucking listen to Kolchak. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now get the fuck out of here and out to the bus."

Tyler nodded once more then spun on his heel and hurried from the dank office, his own head spinning.

Yeah, Kolchak was a good goalie. No, correction. He had been a good goalie, until last season when a freak accident caused a knee injury he never quite recovered from. That didn't mean he knew anything about coaching. Fuck, it was a brand new position, one created just for him because the organization wanted to keep him on.

Which meant Tyler was going to be the fucking guinea pig.

Great. Just fucking great.

And then there had been the rest of Coach's advice: Go out. Get laid. Have fun.

Get laid? What the fuck? Had Torresi actually told him that? Yeah, he had. Maybe he should have asked Coach if he had anyone in mind, because Tyler sure as hell didn't.

He stumbled and nearly fell, caught himself by placing a hand against the rough concrete wall. His breath lodged in his lungs as a mix of blazing heat and icy cold washed over him.

No. Absolutely not. He needed to get the fucking thought out of his mind. Right now. No, sooner than right now. He needed to not have that thought, period.

But he couldn't get the image of deep blue eyes from his mind. Couldn't stop the memory of soft curves and warm flesh pressed against his. It had been more than two weeks since that afternoon with Jenny. More than two weeks since he'd come so close to crossing that invisible line.

And the memory was still just as powerful now as it had been that day.

Bad idea? No, this was worse. Much worse.

And he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. Jason would kill him, and rightfully so. No way would Tyler break that rule. He just wouldn't.

Except look where following the rules had gotten him so far: the same place he had started at. So maybe it was time to…maybe not break the rules. Just bend them. A little.

Get laid.

No, he wouldn't go that far. He liked Jenny. He was attracted to her and wanted to get to know her a little better. And he was pretty sure she felt the same way, especially after what happened.

So maybe just a…date. Not even a date. Maybe they could just go have dinner somewhere. Nothing wrong with having dinner, right? No rule against that.

He leaned against the wall and took a deep breath as he pulled the phone from his pocket. Dinner. Just dinner.

So why did he feel so guilty?

He glanced around, making sure there was nobody nearby. The hallway was empty. Of course it was—everyone was already on the bus, waiting for him and Coach. He took another deep breath then tapped the phone's screen. He didn't have Jenny's cell number, but he did have Jason's home number.

His finger hovered over the contact list as uncertainty flowed through him. Should he or shouldn't he?

One more deep breath and he hit the number, bringing the phone to his ear as the call went through. One ring. Two. One more. Maybe she was asleep, or maybe she was out somewhere—

"Hello?" Her voice, a little sleepy and sexy as hell, came across the line. Tyler's hand squeezed around the phone as he took another deep breath.

"Hey. It's me. Tyler." He paused, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the rough wall, praying he wasn't making a huge mistake. "Did you want to grab dinner Monday night?"