BLAKE
The away game in Boston is brutal.
We lose 2-1. I play like garbage. My shoulder— the one I injured when I was being reckless is still not right, and it's affecting my game, and I can't focus because I'm thinking about Elle in the stands, watching me play badly, and it's making everything worse.
By the time we get back to the hotel, I'm vibrating with frustration and desire and something I don't have a name for.
I'm walking back to my room around midnight when I see her in the hallway.
She's alone. She's in sleep clothes—soft-looking pants and a tank top. And she's wearing a shirt that stops me cold.
It's my old team shirt. From five years ago. Faded blue with white lettering. A shirt I haven't seen since... since before she left.
"You're wearing my shirt," I say, and I don't
