After spending the night with Ana in my bed, I awake in the morning to rumpled sheets and her scent on the pillow. She’s gone.
I keep myself busy most of the day, first with a team skate, and then by dropping off a couple of bags filled with groceries at the local homeless shelter like I do every week. I consider going back to the store for even more groceries, but I can’t stay out of my apartment forever.
I might be avoiding going home. Okay, I am. But I shouldn’t have slept with Ana last night, and that’s become glaringly obvious in the light of day.
But when I saw her huddled in my bed last night, her face tense in sleep, it twisted something inside me. I’ve seen guys unconscious on the ice after a brutal hit, seen players with broken bones and concussions and all types of serious in
