Chapter 4
Chapter Four
McCabe
I walk into the rink exhausted because I couldn’t sleep last night.
Lucy called me after Abby was down for the night to tell me that even with the acetaminophen, she was still running a fever. She didn’t have any other obvious symptoms of being sick, but since she’s still an infant, it’s not like we can ask her how she’s feeling. It could be a sore throat or stomach pains or anything, really. Lucy said she’d call the pediatrician when they open in the morning and try to get an appointment.
I tossed and turned all night after that, worried about Abby, hating that I’m not the one there with her, and praying that Lucy will take good care of her.
Though I love Abby unconditionally and am trying so hard to be the dad she needs, I can’t help but think that maybe I’m not enough. Maybe what she really needs is a parent who can be there with her all the time, not a different nanny. Maybe what I need is a partner.
Unfortunately, most of the women I meet are interested in me primarily because I’m a professional hockey player—none of them seem like they’re ready to settle down with a kid who isn’t theirs.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Drew Jenkins asks after I push open the door to the locker room and stalk inside. He’s new to our team this year and having himself one hell of a season. He only had one year left on his contract when we acquired him in a trade from Colorado last summer, and AJ has already re-signed him in a six-year deal. Unlike with me, she had no problem increasing his salary, even though my stat line is more impressive.
I like Drew, and I’m glad we’ve locked him down. But it’s yet another reason this whole contract negotiation has left a sour taste in my mouth regarding AJ—this isn’t about the money. She doesn’t want to keep me on the team and is hiding behind the salary cap as an excuse.
She’s gone and made this personal.
Which she might not have done if I hadn’t fucked up eight years ago. Beating the shit out of her then husband wasn’t my smartest move, but I have zero patience for men who verbally abuse and physically intimidate women.
It doesn’t matter that she, as assistant GM, was technically his boss, or that he, as my assistant coach, was technically my boss. That shit’s not cool, and when I called him on it, he told me to mind my fucking business and that he’d speak to his wife however he damn well pleased.
I probably shouldn’t have hit him the first time...or thrown any of the ten punches I delivered after that. But he was an asshole, and I was standing up for her. And she fucking traded me because of it.
Once I was playing for Boston, my contract was renewed with a no-trade option before she signed on as GM. So this is the first time we’ve had to negotiate since the incident .
“Slept bad.”
“Is that code for ‘I stayed up too late fucking some random chick?’” Colt asks.
“Unlike you before Jules, I don’t sleep with someone new in every city we’re in.” It’s a bit of a shit thing to say to someone who’s a long-time friend, but I’m tired and my give-a-fucks for people’s feelings aren’t showing up today.
Besides, there’s nothing inaccurate in that statement. Colt was the most notorious fuckboy in professional hockey until he started secretly dating his best friend and agent’s younger sister, Jules. Now they’re happily engaged, and Drew is engaged to Jules’s sister, Audrey, so they’re going to eventually be brothers-in-law.
Colt snorts. “Yeah, because you’re a fucking saint, McCabe.” His voice drips with sarcasm. I never had a reputation like his, so I know his statement is just because he gets testy when he’s away from Jules for too long. Which is funny because, until a few weeks ago, none of us even had any idea they were dating, much less secretly engaged.
“Alright,” Walshy says, clapping his hands together. Our alternate captain, Patrick Walsh, has a big mouth on the ice, but off it, he’s a total peacemaker. It’s probably part of why he’s so happily married. “Let’s get ourselves ready for our practice skate, and save this energy for our opponents tonight.”
“ M cCabe, a word?” AJ says after I’ve navigated the long hallway where we walk into the arena. I tried to put on a happy face because I know everyone wants to see the players dressed up before the game—but today it was more of a struggle than normal. Even our peppy social media manager, Tatum, couldn’t get me to smile for the camera.
After practice, I went to lunch with my sister, Sloane, who’d surprised me with a text a few hours ago, telling me she unexpectedly had to come to Raleigh for work. I’d teased her and asked if she was sure she didn’t miss me so much she hopped in the car to come visit, before she smacked me upside the head and told me it was too bad I didn’t know some geography in that “big history nerd brain” of mine. Because, apparently, Nashville to Raleigh isn’t a “hop in your car on a whim” kind of drive.
It was great to see Sloane for the first time in months and only confirmed that trying for the trade to Nashville is the right decision. But I was late getting back to the hotel for my pre-game nap, and I desperately needed the sleep after the way I’d tossed and turned last night. Then my nap was cut short by another call from Lucy after she and Abby returned from the pediatrician.
Turns out, Abby has hand, foot, and mouth disease, which was easy to diagnose because right before they headed to the doctor’s office, the fever broke and she developed a rash on her feet.
Lucy was eerily chill about the whole thing, and the fact that she wasn’t freaking out is the only reason I didn’t immediately look for a flight home after tonight’s game.
But I’m tired as fuck, and AJ is the last person on this planet I want to talk to.
“What?” I bark out. I don’t know why I let the mere sight of her rile me up like this; it only fuels the fire.
She raises her eyebrows. “Seriously? That’s how you address your GM?”
“Our history—our professional relationship —is too fucking long for these games, AJ. What do you need?”
“I need you to keep your team under control tonight. I don’t know what got into Colt in the last two games, but it can’t continue.”
“Lester’s still out for this game,” I say, referencing the player whose nose Colt broke in Game 1 of the series, “so Colt will be just fine.”
“Like in the last game?”
“Hey, that was Carolina’s players coming after him in Game 2.”
“Yeah, and tensions will still be high, especially now that we’re in their arena. After two losses and an epic fight, their players will be out for blood. We need to be smart, not reactive.”
“I’ll pass your message along.” My voice is flat, because even though she’s right—even though I actually do agree with her—the thought of admitting that turns my stomach sour.
“ You need to be the one to convince them to settle down out there, McCabe.” She leans against the wall, crossing her arms under her chest. The thin white turtleneck she’s wearing creases right between her breasts, a fact I wish I didn’t notice—but she’s got curves for days and is unfortunately attractive, no matter how much I hate her. “You’re not a fucking parrot passing along my message. If I wanted it to come from me, I’d say it to the team myself. I want you to be the leader they need, and tell them to get their shit together and stop being so reactive.”
Grinding my teeth together, I try not to let her get under my skin. Maybe I need to talk to someone about all this anger? Zach Reid has a sports psychologist he raves about, and Drew started working with her earlier this season, too. Maybe I should get her name from one of them?
Then again, if I’m only with the Rebels until the end of the season, I can put up with AJ for that long.
“Understood.” The word comes out through clenched teeth, sounding more like a growl than any tone that would be appropriate to use with your boss.
Her cheeks grow pink, something I haven’t seen happen in the six years she’s been in Boston. Back in St. Louis, though, I saw that look—embarrassment mixed with anger—quite often.
Somehow, I can’t make myself care that I’m seeing it again. Or rather, I can’t let myself care. Because the last time I did, she kicked my legs right out from under me.
Turning away from her, I push through the door to the locker room, and almost run smack into Coach. “Hey. Thanks for getting us out of that lunch today.”
Wilcott rolls his eyes and says, “You’re so damn lucky you didn’t have to be there. It was painfully awkward. But you don’t need to thank me. AJ was the one who got you guys out of going. She’s always looking out for you.”
Well, fuck.
I skate back toward the crease as the ref takes the puck to one of the face-off circles in our defensive zone. “I told you before the game,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Colt, “not to fucking antagonize Carolina.”
I broke down and had the talk with the team that AJ asked me to. But Colt keeps chirping the Carolina players every time they say something to him, and if that shit doesn’t stop, another fight’s going to break out like it did in the first game of the series.
“Not my fault they keep running their mouths. It’s not like I’m going after them. They keep coming at me.”
“You’re the one who broke Lester’s nose. Of course they’re pissed. He’s their best player.”
Colt shrugs before turning his body toward the circle where players are getting into position. “Too bad for them.”
“Just fucking knock it off,” I say, my tone stern. “You don’t have to respond to every stupid thing they say. You’re smarter than that.”
I skate forward to line up for the puck drop, and when Drew manages to get possession of it and passes it over to Walsh, I skate around one of Carolina’s players to surge forward. But before the puck even heads my way, I’m checked from the side, right into the glass.
As the ref blows his whistle, I calmly turn toward the guy who hit me. I don’t think he even did it on purpose; I think he thought Walsh had passed the puck back to me.
“Thanks for the power play, asshole.”
As I skate backward, away from him, Zach comes up on my other side. “Nice job there.”
I know exactly what he means. If I’d reacted, I would have been sent to the sin bin too, thus negating the benefits of the power play. “Thanks, I took a page out of your playbook.”
Zach is known as one of the smartest players in the league. The mind games he plays on the ice are brilliant—the way he eggs an opponent on until they lose their fucking mind, but then skates away before a fight can start—and make him a formidable opponent.
We learned earlier in the season, the one and only time I’ve ever seen him fight in his professional career, that he avoids fights because he’s actually a black belt in Aikido. The man is absolutely deadly with his hands. I’m just thankful that we’re on the same team now, because playing against him is torture and, like most players in the league, I’ve fallen victim to his head games before.
“Fine work, grasshopper,” Zach says, dropping his voice low so he sounds like a wise, old martial arts master.
Given that I’ve got almost a decade on him, that has me chuckling as I turn to skate back to the same face-off circle we just left. And as I get in position, my eyes flick over to the bench to see if Coach is setting up a line shift, but the woman standing directly behind him, on the other side of the glass, steals my attention. Her dark blue power suit is cut to her curvy figure, and the off-white turtleneck she wears beneath it frames her face between the jacket and her dark hair.
Even from across the ice, I can see the smug smile on her face. Her lips turn up at the corners with the self-satisfied look of someone who just got their way.
Because I just did exactly what she asked me to tell my teammates to do: I didn’t react, I didn’t let my temper get the best of me or let myself be goaded into a fight.
I want to tell her I did that because it was the smart choice in the moment, not because of what she said earlier.
I didn’t do this for her , I did it for my team .