BECKETT
Matthews slams into me like we won the Cup, but my body’s already halfway out the door. Helmet off, stick dropped, heart doing eighty in a thirty zone.
“Top shelf, baby!”
I shove him off, half-grinning, half-feral. “You’re top shelf dumb, you know that?”
He laughs. I don’t. I’m already thinking of her.
Where the f**k is Coach? Jesus. What is he doing, writing a memoir? I need out. I need to see her. I need her in my lap or my arms or up against the f*****g wall, I don’t care which.
I need— Ashley Brooke. In. My. f*****g. Jersey.
Goddamn it.
The door finally bangs open. Coach strides in like he’s Moses parting the sea, clipboard under one arm, already yelling.
“Langley!” Coach found my gaze. “Get your ass ready. Press wants you, Matthews, Russo, and Bixby in five.”
“Jesu
