I walk into the dark apartment and drop my keys on the coffee table as I toe off my shoes. I don’t bother turning on the lights as I make my way to the kitchen. I swing open the door of the fridge and blindly reach for a bottle of water. My hand hits a can of beer instead. Even better. I usually prefer mixed drinks, but tonight I don’t care. I grab the Coors Light and crack it open, taking a sip as I make my way to the back of the apartment.

It’s only nine at night. The whole team has gone out to drown their sorrows—at least that’s the excuse, but the fact is they go out, win or lose, after every game. I rarely do because I rarely have something to celebrate, and when the team loses I don’t want to commiserate, I want to stew. Especially when I was in goal, like tonight.

I make it to my bedroom and decide that turning on a light, as much as I don’t want to, is the best option because my room is a mess, and I’m likely to trip on something if I don’t. I turn on the small lamp on my desk and put my beer beside it while I shrug out of my suit jacket and start unbuttoning my shirt. My laptop is open on the desk with the screensaver looping silently. It’s made up of images from my cloud. I set it to one specific folder filled with images from my hockey career. The good times—championship wins, MVP trophies, medals, press photos of amazing saves. I thought reliving those moments would help. Positive reinforcement. But it hasn’t. I’m still playing like shit.

I let in three goals tonight, and only one of them was forgivable. The other two should have been easy saves. But I tensed and froze for the slightest second at just the wrong time on both. My heart was pounding the entire game. I could feel my knees wobble. I couldn’t get a decent grip on my stick. It sucked.

I let my shirt fall to the ground and kick it out of the way so I can pull out the desk chair. I drop into it and run my hand over the mouse pad so the screensaver goes away, then take a long, slow sip of beer. If positive reinforcement doesn’t work, maybe negative will.

I pull up a browser and search for the video. It’s not hard to find. I’ve only watched it once. Right after I got out of the hospital and went back to the dorms, my roommate pulled it up to show me. I didn’t ask to see it, and I didn’t realize how much I didn’t want to see it until I was watching it.

I don’t want to see it now, but maybe I have to. Avoiding the memory hasn’t helped me, so maybe I need to watch it repeatedly and desensitize myself. I’m surprised by how much of it I do remember.

It was a good game. We were winning, and I was five minutes away from a shutout. I was in control. I was relaxed. I was confident. I was me.

I stopped a shot, but the puck bounced free. There was a scramble for it by players on both teams inches from my face. The video shows a big blur of body parts and jerseys. I used to love those dustups and fed off the frantic energy. I almost always dove into the mix and ended up with the puck. I’d done it a million times. I watch myself drop closer to the ice and lunge forward, reaching for the puck everyone is battling for.

I think that’s where my neck guard tears free. We tie them on with skate laces—which is ridiculous but works. It’s pretty rare that the guards break or get torn away. Then the puck pops free and skitters half a foot to the left of the group of players. I see it at the exact same time two other players do. We all lunge for it. It’s impossible to see whose skate gets me in the video. I found out afterward it was one of the defensemen on my own team. He got pushed down in the pile of people, and his skate came up as he fell and connected with my neck, slicing right through it.

The video doesn’t show the impact clearly, but the result is plain as day. The player goes down and I pop up to my feet, bright red blood suddenly spraying the ice in front of me. I drop my gloves and grab my neck and skate. I skate as fast as I’ve ever skated in my life, both hands wrapped around my throat, blood still gushing from between my fingers and staining the ice as I rush to the bench.

The announcers’ voices have changed. They’re talking over each other now in frantic, horrified tones. “He’s cut.” “It’s his neck.” “Oh my God.” “Never seen anything like this.”

The trainer and medical team rush the ice and meet me just before I make it to the bench. I won’t move my hands, so one of them just covers them in a towel, pressing his own hand on top of it, and the other is pulling me toward the tunnel. The video ends, but my memories right now don’t.

I remember making it off the ice and into the tunnel, and that was the point when I started to have to fight for consciousness. I remember stumbling against the wall and someone yelling, “Get a stretcher!” and then the team doctor was in front of me and wrenching my hands away. I remember he had brown eyes—wider than I’ve ever seen anyone’s eyes. He knew it got my artery. He knew I was bleeding out. His fingers went right into my neck. Into it. I remember the feel of that. He pushed past the torn skin and pinched the artery closed.

“Get the ambulance now!” he screamed. I’ve never heard a doctor scream like that. “Catch him!”

That’s the last thing I remember.

I blink. The video is over and the next one in the queue is halfway through. It’s another one of the accident, filmed from the stands, and you can hear the fans screaming and freaking out. Even with the grainy quality of the cell phone footage and the distance, you can still see the spray of red with every pump of my heart.

My phone rings, and it’s like an alarm waking me from a nightmare. I jump and realize my right hand was rubbing the scar on my neck. I pull it away, slam the laptop shut and dig my phone out of my suit jacket pocket on the floor. I should have read the display. “Hello?”

“Elijah?” My mother’s voice fills my ear, and I bite back a groan. “Is that you? You sound funny.”

I clear my throat and try not to let my sigh be audible. “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.”

“Oh. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m just tired. I had a long day,” I explain tersely. I don’t know why she’s calling me, but I know it’s probably going to end in a fight.

“Your father and I wanted to officially confirm your dad is running for Senate again,” my mother announces.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know,” I reply and try not to sound as disinterested as I am. My dad is a California senator and I assumed he would run for a second term, just like the media assumed he would. “Tell him good luck and everything.”

“We thought you should know because the press might ask you questions,” she goes on in her typical clipped, brisk tone. “He’s making the official announcement tomorrow, and we didn’t want it to seem like we hadn’t told you boys first. So can you let your brother know, please?”

“Levi or Todd?” I ask just to be a brat, because I know the answer. It’s Levi.

“Todd knows. He talks to us almost weekly, and he comes home for visits,” my mother responds pointedly.

“Yeah, well, you’re not giving Todd the cold shoulder for following his dreams and doing what he’s good at,” I counter, even though I know it’s just going to make this conversation a nightmare. But I’m in the mood for a fight, and she’s volunteering as tribute.

“Because Todd is a realist,” she shoots back. “Not all dreams are meant to be pursued. You boys had the world at your feet and could have done anything, but you both chose something reckless and pointless.”

“Great talk, Mom. I have to go now.”

“I know you’re not doing well, Elijah,” she blurts before I can hang up. “Your father is keeping track. He said you should have been playing with Levi by now.”

My jaw is locked shut, and I grind my teeth. I’m so furious and humiliated that I can’t speak. She pauses and I hear her exhale, and then her tone is soft, which is rare. “Elijah, sweetheart, it’s okay to walk away from something that isn’t working out. There is no shame in it. I know you don’t believe it, but we just want what’s best for you, and it feels like you’re doing this now to spite us, not because you’re good at it. If that’s the case, please just stop and move on from this and go back to school.”

“No,” I manage to reply through my clenched jaw.

“But you only have a semester left to finish your degree,” she reminds me. “We can get you back into Harvard. And you can always join a recreational league if you insist on still playing hockey.”

“I’ll let Levi know about Dad. Good night, Mom.” I hang up before she can say another word.

I haven’t heard from her in four months, and now I hope it’s another four before she calls again. I down the rest of my beer. I used to have a little sympathy for my mother’s stance about professional sports because her brother was permanently injured playing football. But at some point she needs to let that go and let my brother and me follow our dreams. Even her brother supported us.

I crush the beer can as my phone rings again. Goddamn it, if she’s calling back, I swear I will block her number. But it’s not my mom. Just a number with a San Francisco area code. I hesitate before answering because I really don’t want to talk to anyone, but I’m worried it might be someone from the Thunder.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Eli?” I don’t recognize the female voice. “This is Dixie Wynn.”

Holy shit. My memories of the tiny blond bombshell fill my brain. And so does that kiss from a year ago.

“I work for the San Francisco Thunder in their PR department, and I—”

“Are you really introducing yourself like I have no idea who you are?” I interrupt.

“Yes.”

“Dixie, we’ve played tonsil hockey, the only kind of hockey I like better than ice hockey,” I remind her not so gently. “You think I’d forget you?”

“This needs to be a professional conversation,” she responds flatly. “I’m calling about work.”

I have a brief but powerful surge of hope that she’s calling to tell me that the Thunder are bringing me up to play with them. I’ve been on their farm team here in Sacramento for two years now, which is one and a half years longer than I hoped to be here. But my mother wasn’t wrong in her assessment. I haven’t been playing great, definitely not great enough that they’d put me on the Thunder unless they had no other option. And besides, they don’t have their PR department call with that news.

“The Thunder is hosting their annual silent auction and cocktail party, and management would like for a couple of Storm players to be there as well,” she explains, her tone all detached and businesslike, which I take as a challenge. “It’ll give our fans a chance to see our up-and-coming—”

“I’m sorry, can you Skype me instead?” I ask interrupting her again.

“What?”

“Skype,” I repeat. “Can you Skype me with this invitation?”

“Why would I do that?” she demands, annoyed.

“Because I’d prefer it,” I reply and then I start to lie to help my case. “My phone network is horrendous in Sacramento. I drop calls all the time, and the connections are bad, like right now. I’m not sure I’m hearing everything you’re saying. Thunder charity? Fans? You should Skype me.”

“Are you serious?” she asks, still annoyed.

“I absorb information much better when I can look into the pretty blue eyes of the person delivering it,” I add. I know she can hear the cocky smile through the tone in my voice, but I want her to see it too. “I’ll be ready and waiting.”

I hang up and open my laptop again. It takes less than a minute before the Skype icon starts flashing. I click it and her face fills my screen. She’s gorgeous, just like I remember.

Her hair is longer than the last time I saw her, dusting her shoulders now instead of just grazing her chin, but it’s still glossy, straight and that perfect yellow-blond. She’s dressed, from what I can tell, in one of those hot power suits she wears daily to work, even though it’s after nine on a Friday night. She’s wearing a teal blouse with simple gold hoops, and her makeup is subtle. I wish I could ask her to stand up so I could see the full hot look, but she’d hang up on me.

Her eyes grow wide. “Are you naked?”

I look down. Right. I took my shirt off. “No. Do you want me to be?”

Again, she ignores me. This girl is way too good at that.

“As I was saying,” she starts again. “The Thunder wants you and one of your teammates to represent the Storm at an upcoming charity event we’re doing here.”

“Will you be at the charity event?”

She ignores that, her eyes leaving mine and glancing down at something in front of her. “I’ve already informed your teammate Jasper, and since he returned my voicemail I know he’s coming and can make his travel arrangements. I assume you’re in too?”

“Yeah. If you’re going to be there, I will be too,” I reply and wink when she finally looks back up at me through the screen. I glance back down at my phone on the desk beside me and realize I do have a voicemail. Oops.

Again she ignores that. “We’ve already cleared the time away with your coach, and the event is scheduled in between your games.”

They picked Jasper. That’s cool. He’s become my closest friend on the team, and he’s also my roommate here at the apartment. “You’ll arrive next Friday. The event is that night, and then we’ll send you back to Sacramento Saturday afternoon.”

I check my calendar. “I don’t have another game until Tuesday. Can you book me on a flight home Sunday instead? I’ll stay with someone in the city Saturday night, so no need for a hotel.”

“You mean Levi and Tessa?” she asks.

“Yeah. Or I could stay with you.”

She looks absolutely appalled by the idea, and I have to work hard not to be too insulted by that. “Are you propositioning me?”

“I’m just warning you.” I shrug. “I’ve gotten better-looking, and when you see me again you’re going to want a sequel to that kiss—and a whole lot more. And I’m willing to let that happen.”

“Why are you so ridiculous?”

“Because it’s fun,” I reply. “And I like acting a little crazy. It’s charming.”

“Or it’s just crazy,” she counters and lets out a breath so deep and long it borders on a sigh. “Eli, I never would have let that kiss happen if I realized you’d been drafted by the team I work for.”

“Yeah, but you did let it happen, and we had a connection. Admit it.”

She presses those gorgeous lips together. She’s physically trying to stop herself from answering, which is totally an answer unto itself. I grin. She blushes. I can even see it through the screen, and it makes me grin bigger.

Her defenses seem to be crumbling. “You’re growing a beard?”

I reach up and scrub my jaw. “I was going to try it out. What do you think?”

She smiles but then forces her lips into a straight line. “It’s…it doesn’t matter what I think.”

I lean closer to the screen and decide to really push her limits by hitting her with one of those pickup lines she loves to hate. “My beard wants to know if you would like a comfortable place to sit down?”

She laughs—a loud, high burst of a sound that causes her to clamp her hand over her mouth to try to contain it. I laugh with her.

“It’s good to talk to you.” I say it with a softness and sincerity that shocks even me, and it quells both our laughter.

She’s smiling now though, not looking horrified, which is a victory. “How have you been?”

“Okay,” I reply vaguely. “I’d ask you how you are, but you can tell me in person when we spend the night together after the charity event.”

“Elijah, you can’t stay with me,” she replies sternly. “You have to forget that kiss ever happened. Truly. And you can’t ever tell anyone about it. Please say you haven’t told anyone.”

“I haven’t and I won’t,” I promise. “But it was fun. I don’t have enough fun in my life, and you definitely don’t seem like you do.”

She looks confused, like she can’t decide if that was an insult or not. It wasn’t. I was just stating a fact. The last time I saw her she was way too stressed for a single, sexy woman under thirty. She bites her bottom lip, and for some reason watching her do that turns me on and solidifies my decision. “I’m spending an extra night in San Fran, so book it that way or I’ll just stay anyway.”

“You can’t stay with me or see me. Not outside of the event.”

“We can talk about it more later,” I say and I give her another cocky smile. “After all, I have your phone number now and a week to convince you otherwise.” I stand up, knowing the camera is now directly focused on my bare waist. I reach for my belt and start to undo it. “Would you like to see what you’ll miss if you don’t change your mind?”

“Eli. Don’t you dare.” Her eyes grow wide and her mouth starts to fall open.

I get the belt undone and reach for the button.

“Good night, Eli!”

The screen goes black as she ends the call.

I laugh, close my laptop and continue to take off the rest of my suit, smiling the entire time. Somehow, talking to Dixie completely one-eightied my mood.

I’ve thought about Dixie more than a few times since that night we kissed. I hadn’t had a chance to see her since that preseason game last year because the Thunder didn’t call me up again. They tested me out, and I failed miserably. There was a party after the game at the team owner’s house, and I was feeling like shit and sulked by the bar. Dixie found me and we spent a big chunk of that night bantering—hell, flirting—and even though it didn’t go further than that, it saved me from the darkness of my own thoughts. And this call a year later, out of the blue, just did the same thing.

I walk back out to the kitchen naked and grab another beer, bring it back to the bedroom and crawl into bed. All the bullshit of the night seems less important now. The frustration of losing the game, the anguish of watching that video, the annoyance of talking to my mother—it’s all forgotten by the unexpected pleasure of seeing and talking to Dixie again.

I don’t know how, but Dixie keeps popping back up in my life right when I need something good. And since the bad is far outweighing the good these days, I’m not about to let her disappear again, whether she likes it or not.