Breakaway for Love (Hockey & Love #1)

3. Teammates!

3

TEAMMATES!

Daniel

Frustrated, I throw my hockey stick against my locker and the clang of carbon against steel is surprisingly liberating. But my display of anger and disappointment rattles my teammates, and they give me a wide berth.

The sledge hockey game was great. My guys had fun and laughed so much despite being completely outplayed by Guillaume and his team. Even with my years of experience of the game, I was no match for professional players. Anyway, most of my teammates were sitting in a sledge hockey sled for the first time and some of them had to be helped back upright after tipping the whole thing over — repeatedly.

Yet all that fun was marred by the fact that our team wasn’t complete. Nico had disappeared. Gabriel whispered to me that he’d run off even before the game started.

It’s so annoying! The team is falling apart and it’s all my fault! I’m the captain and my job is to make this bunch of players into a cohesive team. A team that trusts each other. A team that sticks together. A team that plays together.

Unusually, I’m first to hit the showers and to leave the locker room. Then I’m hurrying as fast as I can towards the forest. I need to be alone. I want to sort out my thoughts and think of a new strategy. I had hoped to get everyone to bond over some sledge hockey antics, and I succeeded — with one glaring exception.

As I trudge through the forest, I’m overcome by despair. Why is everything going wrong? This was supposed to be my year! First, there was the breakup with Claudia and now our national team is falling apart!

Somehow, who knows how long later, I end up back at the frozen pond. Today, however, I'm not alone. Three teenagers, about fourteen years old by the look of them, are dashing across the ice with sticks and pucks. I stop to watch them. They’re good. Astonishingly good. But what catches my eye even more is their joy. Every move they make shows how comfortable they are in this little world of theirs.

One of the girls looks up, catches my eye, and screams. The other two players turn to me and gasp. It’s obvious, they’ve not only seen me, they’ve recognized me. I wave at them a little awkwardly. Normally, I'm totally fine meeting fans, but today I’ve been so caught up in my own problems that, strange as it may sound, I hadn't thought these kids would spot me — let alone recognize me.

"Mr. Miller, do you want to play with us?” the girl with black braids calls. She seems to be the leader of the little clique. The other two, a boy with mousy brown hair and a girl who looks almost identical to the other one, although a bit younger, nod excitedly.

And I immediately think, Why not?

The three of them burst into loud cheers as I negotiate the last few steps to the pond. Just as I'm about to step onto the ice surface, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Between the cluster of firs edging the pond, in exactly the same place as before, I see the familiar head of white-blond hair. Anger threatens to overwhelm me, but the three youngsters have followed my gaze.

"Nico Hovenberg!" they cry simultaneously.

"My two greatest heroes!" the boy shouts in awe, before turning red as a beet.

"Do you want to play, too?" the black-haired girl calls out to him hopefully.

Hovenberg's gaze wanders uncertainly over the young people, then lands on me. My eyes harden, but I nod almost imperceptibly. I'll be damned if I'm going to disappoint these hockey-loving teenagers now!

I bend down and pick up two old, rather battered hockey sticks from the floor.

"May I?" I ask.

The young people nod eagerly.

I knock the snow off the sticks and hold out the red one to Hovenberg who has moved onto the ice, still looking doubtfully between the worn stick and the pond. Then I remember how unsteady he was yesterday here on the natural ice.

So much for being heroes! I think.

"The three of you against the two of us?" I ask anyway.

"We don't stand a chance!" The younger girl is indignant.

If you only knew! I think, looking at Hovenberg’s wary eyes again.

"But you have skates and we don't," I point out.

The three of them look at each other while I stubbornly avoid looking in Hovenberg's direction.

"Okay," they agree at last.

The girl with the black braid beats me in rock, paper, scissors, and they take the makeshift goal towards the stand of trees where Hovenberg seems to like hiding. That leaves my blond teammates and me the goal marked by two winter boots towards the clearing.

The boy throws the puck up in the air and off they go. The older girl wins the face-off and with their skates, the three of them completely outplay us. They literally skate circles around us, and not only because we’re slow. As usual, we can’t seem to play as a team, even when it’s just us two! Within a few minutes, it's 5-0 against us.

After their last goal, I'm about to throw the puck back onto the ice when I notice the three kids having a muffled conversation. They turn round to face us looking mad.

"We're not babies anymore! You don't have to let us win!" they rant.

Damn! If only that were the truth. But what should we do? We can hardly admit we really are that bad, can we?

Hovenberg's eyes find mine. I can't read everything reflected in them, but there’s a lot: Anger, fear, frustration, but also determination. Then he gives me a curt nod — an almost imperceptible lowering of his head, but which says so much more. Such a small gesture for what I take to be a temporary truce between two superpowers.

Not that we are superpowers. Or at war. At least not us directly. Our families might have a different view, though. At school we clashed from time to time, but for me, it was the normal kind of competition you get sometimes between two young people.

Did Hovenberg see it differently? I wonder.

Before I can get too bogged down in the whole sorry mess, the puck drops onto the ice. This time Hovenberg wins the faceoff and shoots the puck right onto the blade of my stick. My heart leaps. Why does getting a perfect pass from him fill me with such joy?

Two of the teenagers are immediately on me, though, and not having skates is turning out to be a bigger handicap than expected. My speed and agility, which are normally my greatest strengths, are non-existent here. Instead, I focus on my stickhandling and use my size to my advantage. I'm a good head taller than the boy, who is the tallest of the three, although he’s clearly just had a growth spurt as he’s a bit gangly. I turn on the ice and use my much bigger body to protect the puck.

That's when I hear a call.

Blindly, I shoot the puck backwards towards the opponent's goal. I hear the familiar clack of hard rubber against wood, then the scraping of wood against the irregular ice of the pond, before a loud clack, a soft pop, and a three-person groan.

When I turn around, Hovenberg is grinning broadly at me while the younger girl fishes the puck out of a soft mound of snow behind the goal. We scored! Grinning like an idiot, I raise my hand for a high five. Hovenberg’s eyes go wide, then he hesitates.

Come on, man! I think, frustrated. Don’t leave me hanging.

It’s as if time stands still — frozen like this cold winter landscape — but then Hovenberg takes a slithering step towards me and slaps my hand. His gaze never leaves mine for a moment. His light blue eyes are still hard as flint, but it seems that the wrinkles between his eyebrows are a little less deep.

Before I turn away to take the next faceoff, Hovenberg's intense eyes wander to my lips, and I almost flinch. What was that? My first instinct is to read desire in those eyes, but that can’t be right, could it? I've never heard a single rumor that Hovenberg could be into men. And it's insanely hard to keep anything secret in the small circles we move in — both the ice hockey and Terengian ones.

For a moment, I'm so distracted that I miss the faceoff and the boy with the mousey brown hair snatches the puck from under my nose. But Hovenberg has moved to intercept and tries to win back the puck despite looking a bit edgy on his feet. Maybe my impression yesterday wasn't so wrong. Maybe he really hasn’t played on natural ice before, although he seems to be improving today.

I just have time to admire his perfect form as he wins back the puck with some skillful stick work, before it’s flying towards me. It’s a timely reminder that I need to concentrate on the ice. There'll be time for everything else later.

The puck lands safely on my stick and I don't hesitate before slotting it home. Hovenberg grins at me and I’ve never seen his face so open, so unselfconscious. I can't resist winking at him. His jaw drops, and his eyes go wide. I think I just gave the poor guy a heart attack. I bite my lower lip to suppress a laugh and then turn to the teenagers. Their faces are grimly determined.

That's it! I think. Fight with every tooth and nail. Never give up! That’s every coach’s motto.

Our next goals don’t come as easy as the last two, but Hovenberg and I play like a dream together. He's always where I need him and vice versa. The three youngsters aren’t beginners, though. They know what they’re doing and they learn quickly. Before long they’re mercilessly exploiting our handicap — our lack of skates, and after a few minutes I'm completely drenched in sweat and, because it’s barely been a few hours since we finished training, exhausted.

One thing keeps me going: I’m not alone. Hovenberg is here. He’s tuned into me. He's always watching me. He's always by my side. Our three young opponents manage to wrestle a goal or two away from us, but all in all, we dominate, thanks to Nico — it's almost as if he’s everywhere.

The puck flies into the goal. It was an ugly goal, bouncing off the older girl's skate, but when she goes to put the puck back in, Hovenberg raises a hand.

What is he up to?

"Draw?" he says, clearly wanting to end the game at the current 7-7 score.

Then his gaze wanders uncertainly to me and I need to take a moment. I've never seen my archrival like this before. Overconfidence and arrogance are his go-to, but right now, he seems open, almost approachable. It suits him.

I nod.

The three teenagers exchange a glance before satisfied grins spread over their faces.

"Tie!" confirms the older girl.

Breathing heavily, we shake hands. That was so much fun. The three of them have talent, and I tell them. They thank me with shining eyes and rosy cheeks.

"Could we have your autograph, too?" the gangly boy asks cautiously.

"Sure!"

I pull my trusty Sharpie out of my jacket pocket and sign everything the three of them hold under my nose. Hovenberg stands next to me and looks a bit lost. He almost looks as if he’d like to run away.

Oh no! Now you're not getting away from me again! I think, before wordlessly holding the pen out to him.

The kids cluster round him excitedly. For a moment he looks surprised. He probably doesn't normally have to deal with that many excited fans in the AHL. Watching him like this is truly satisfying. I've known Hovenberg since we were in kindergarten together, but I've never seen him as human as he is today.

Nico

I have no idea how many pieces of hockey equipment I’ve signed, but the enthusiasm of these three young people is infectious. Their joy is almost palpable, and I wonder if I’ve ever felt so unselfconscious, so free.

I push the thought aside, but my mind fills with images of Miller and me playing together just now. It was a unique experience. I’ve never had such an intuitive understanding with any of my previous teammates. It was like I knew where Miller would need me before he even took the puck. Maybe we have something special.

Stop telling yourself that! It was just a coincidence! The shrill voice in the back of my head won't let me make more of it than it was.

A classwork folder is pushed under my nose to sign, presumably rummaged from the bottom of some backpack, so I force my feelings down deep. It was a coincidence, nothing more!

By the time Miller and I make our way back to the hotel, I'm my old self again. All the feelings are safely triple-locked away — just as they should be.

"Don't you ever wear a hat?" Miller's question breaks the charged silence between us, but it was a weird thing to ask.

"I'm not cold," I reply gruffly.

"I noticed it in school," Miller says. His tone is thoughtful.

Surprised, I turn my neck to peer at him as we walk. The path we’re on winds between the large fir trees of the forest and is too narrow for two grown men to walk side by side. Have we ever been totally alone like this before? I don't think so. My heart beats a little faster.

Miller looks at me. His expression is as thoughtful as his tone, but he’s curious too. "You never wore a hat or gloves even when we had snowball fights."

He’s not wrong. I've always been the hot-blooded type. My mother sometimes jokes that I was her personal hand warmer. She usually had colder hands in winter, even while wearing gloves, than I did without.

That he remembered something like that from all those years ago, though …

"I'm not cold," I repeat, and before I’ve even finished the sentence, I realize that I don’t sound remotely gruff, some might even call my tone gentle. I almost choke.

When we step out from our winding path between the trees, the hotel is in view. I’m already dreading what I’ll have to face in there. The frustrated looks of our teammates, the coaches shouting, the bitter disappointment on everyone's faces.

Before I can stop it, a sigh escapes my lips. Then I feel Miller's hand on mine. He must have taken off his glove because there’s naked skin on naked skin. A tingling sensation spreads all the way up my arm and sets off little fireworks inside me. It’s as if my skin has suddenly come alive.

Oh, stop it! They're just hands! Don't pretend you haven't shaken hands with thousands of people in your life! I try to bring myself back to my senses.

It doesn't help. I have to clench my teeth tightly to stop any perceptible tremor from being picked up. Why does Miller have such an effect on me? And why now of all times? If I'm completely honest, I always knew he was attractive, even back in school. But that's not a good enough reason for the way he’s making me feel right now.

Maybe because you're more honest with yourself now , my traitorous subconscious suggests. Maybe because the last time you jerked off, you thought about him.

Oh my god! Now is not the time to dredge up that particular memory!

Miller is studying me like I’m some cryptic puzzle.

Forget it, man, you'll never figure me out, I think.

I haven’t even figured myself out yet. There are too many chapters in my life that I don’t even want to think about, let alone for someone else to find out. I lower my head to avoid his penetrating gaze.

A thread of panic flickers in my chest and concern clouds my mind. What did he see when he looked at me?

"No, don't do that!"

It takes a moment for Miller's voice to pierce through the veil of my consciousness. His voice sounds determined, but friendly. What does he mean?

I look up and what I see takes my breath away. Sparkling green-gray eyes look at me without accusation and without reproach. If anything, they look concerned.

Does he care about me?

"What ...?" I ask, a little lost. I have no idea what Miller means. I’m barely sure who I am at the moment, because I'm drowning in those wonderful eyes.

"Don't lock yourself away again." The words are said so softly that I barely hear them over the rustling of the wind in the branches of the firs behind us.

Startled, I take half a step back, and the connection between us breaks — my hand slips from his — which is a good thing! I don’t even know why he was holding my hand. If someone had seen us standing at the edge of the forest, our hands clasped …

The expression on Miller's face turns sad, and I’m instantly guilty. How do I make things right? How can I make his face shine again? I have an overwhelming urge to take him in my arms. Would that help?

Nico! I scream desperately to myself. How can you think such a thing? Why would you want something like that? He's a Miller, your archenemy .

My legs tense and I’m forced to consciously make myself heavy, plant myself solidly on the ground, so that I’m not tempted to put my crazy thoughts into action.

"We could be such a great team," Miller continues.

His words take a huge load off my mind because he's clearly only worried about the team. Although it wrings me out like a wet rag precisely because he only cares about the team. My feelings are all over the place.

When I say nothing, he sighs loudly. "I know we were raised to hate each other, and that there’s so much … history between our families," he pauses and I hold my breath.

He's not going to say it, is he? Give voice to the “incident” that nobody dares talk about?

"I don't know if there's any truth to the rumors that your family was responsible for the accident that killed my parents, but I know one thing for sure — you weren't involved. We were both just babies."

He actually said it! He brought up the elephant in the room that’s always been between us. I feel like the ground is being pulled out from under my feet. I have no idea what happened over twenty-five years ago, although I know there was a police investigation after the accident, but nothing came of it.

Still, I’ve always wondered if my family really had something to do with the car accident that took Daniel's parents’ lives when he was only one year old. I’ve always tried to convince myself it’s all just rumors, that my parents and grandparents would never do anything like that, and as a child, I was completely convinced that was true. But the older I got, the harder it was to ignore certain things.

There is definitely a side to the family business that’s shady, and my father has certainly crossed the line from shady into the downright criminal repeatedly, but murder? That’s in another ballpark. But I can’t ignore that I’m a bit of a coward, too. I've avoided asking too many questions, and kept my head immersed in the ice hockey world. It was my way out of the family business — my salvation!

And here I am destroying the best thing in my life. When I was drafted into the NHL, but then placed in the AHL instead, my father wasn’t happy. He only let me stay in the States because there was a chance I’d get promoted.

"It's only for a few years," my mother had told him soothingly.

My eyes fall on Miller's attractive face again, and I realize I was lost in thought for god knows how long. Much longer than normal, though, for sure. Despite this, the expression in Miller's eyes surprises me. I had expected to see a reproach in them, for him to blame me. Instead, there’s only patience and understanding. What is wrong with this man? How can he be so sympathetic and approachable? Doesn't he know those qualities make him vulnerable? Why is he willing to forgive so easily?

I swallow. I don’t know what to say.

But before a single word passes my lips, before even a single rational thought forms in my brain, he says one word: "Friends?"

Why on earth would this guy want to be my friend? He’s just said that we’re natural enemies.

Something is starting to cloud the bright eyes of my teammate. "Is that too much to ask?" he asks quietly.

It sounds like he's asking himself the question just as much as me. Then he pauses. My heart slips into my pants. He’s going to think better of his peace offering, isn’t he? He’s going to realize that I didn't deserve it. Honestly, I can't blame him. In his shoes, I’d never have made such a grand gesture in the first place. And yet, it hurts to think he might regret acting hastily. It's like having my heart ripped out. But I can also see that he might want to slide out of this as gracefully as possible.

Do you even want to be Daniel’s friend? the little voice inside me asks.

Yes! cries a little angel on my shoulder.

No! a little devil on the other shoulder replies, grinning wickedly.

This is unbearable . I can't think of him in that way!

"Teammates?"

The word makes me jump. The turmoil inside me is so overwhelming that for a moment I’d forgotten where I am and who I’m with. I've got to get out of here! I’ve no idea if Miller could have picked up my train of thought over the last few minutes, but I don’t want to risk it.

"Teammates," I confirm, hoping to end the conversation there. We’re teammates either way.

Miller's eyes narrow, clearly suspicious of my tone. "Teammates who trust each other, like they just did on the ice back there," he states, making his expectations clearer.

I freeze.

Honestly, I don't know if I can agree. We had a moment, like that at our first training session. We played perfectly together, and I’m pretty sure both of us forgot the animosity between us, but then the whole weight of history came tumbling back. Even back at the pond, we had to be down by five goals before we managed to work together. And I have no idea what made the difference or how to tap into it again.

"Just don't close yourself off." Miller's eyes radiate kindness as he speaks.

It penetrates deep inside me, making me panicky and relaxed at the same time. My thoughts are racing. It was such a simple thing to say and yet so profound. He wants me to trust him! How is that supposed to work?

The game on the pond comes back to mind. Miller and I read each so well. He got on my plays, kept contact, we always knew where the other was. He let me play to my strengths and I let him play to his. It was like there was a magical connection between us.

I swallow. Could we find that again? Can I let him in? Can I be that open with him, so vulnerable?

Then I remember that Miller replaced the word “friend” with “teammate,” and it cuts me deep. But doesn’t that just make my answer infinitely easier? Miller just wants to be my teammate. And if we proved one thing today, it’ that we can trust each other.

At least on the ice.