I miss the guys. I miss home games. I miss Dad. But more than anything, I miss Kodie.
I’ve watched him from afar for so long that I should be used to it. But he allowed me to get closer; he allowed me a taste, and now he’s been ripped away again. It’s fucking hard.
Reaching for my cell, I pad through to the kitchen to get a fresh drink as I think of what to send him.
Usually, I wait until I know he’s back at the hotel after celebrating with the team. I don’t want to get in the way of the festivities. Tonight, though…
Casey: Number 55 was the hottest player on the ice.
I let out a sigh and second-guess my message as soon as it shows as sent.
Casey: PS the Hurricanes suck
Laughing to myself, I turn to my fridge and grab a can of soda.
The second I get back to the couch, I check to see if he’s read my messages.
He has.
My heart jumps into my throat as I stare at the screen, waiting to see if he’s going to reply.
But the dots never start bouncing.
“Damn it.”
Tapping out of our conversation, I find the one with Dad instead and send him our standard commiseration message after a loss before I turn the TV back on to catch the highlights of the other games tonight.
Every few minutes, I check my cell.
I know it’s ridiculous. He’ll be in the locker room getting reamed by Dad. Either that or showering with the guys.
I quickly shake my head to remove that image.
“Come on, just give me something,” I whine like a needy girlfriend.
I hate myself for it, but I also can’t stop it.
I sit there impatiently as ESPN plays and I scroll through social media. Usually, I’d be taking a million sexy shots in the hope of getting the perfect pose. But not tonight. I’m sticking by my decision.
Annoyed that I’ve still had no response, I tidy up and head for my bedroom to get ready for bed.
The second I’m there, I check my cell again.
Nothing.
I won’t sleep yet, but I want to be ready for him.
When my cell does finally buzz, excitement twists my stomach, but it doesn’t last long.
I feel like the worst daughter in the world for feeling disappointed that Dad is the one who replies first.
It’s over an hour later when my cell finally pings, and the contact I’ve been waiting for illuminates my screen.
In my rush to open it, I catapult it across the bed.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter as I pick it up and swipe the screen.
55: Agreed, they suck.
