For Pucking Keeps: A Hockey Romance (The Seattle Vipers Series Book 1)

10. Tor

TEN

“Mountain!”

“Mountain!”

“Mountain!”

The energy pouring from the crowd of roaring fans spurs me on, my adrenaline is through the roof tonight. The nickname started a few seasons ago. My teammates call me Tor instead of Torrance, but the fans took it a little further, calling me mountain instead. I love it. I love their excitement, it feeds my own thrill for this sport, for the feel of the ice underneath my feet, the fight, the drive—winning.

Tonight’s game against the Chicago Ravens has been bloody and brutal, with neither team wanting to lose. Let’s just say the refs are looking a little wild eyed themselves from all the glove dropping going on during the first two periods. Chicago has been fighting to catch up since I assisted Ridley with the first goal of the night. We’ve already won the first two games of this series, and I plan on flying home tonight with another. I can sense it with a calm surety. This game is ours.

The chanting continues, but I have my eyes on the prize. The ice is wide open in front of me, I zero in on the net, keeping my eyes on the puck. With a quick glance, I check Chicago’s goalie, Zeke Stetson. He hasn’t been on his usual A-game tonight, and I am all about taking advantage. As the clock runs down on the last minute of the third period the chanting goes quiet in my ears, the only sounds I hear are the swoosh and scrape of my skates against the ice, the calm beating of my heart along with my easy breathing. I am aware of Devan to my left, and Jones to my right as they fight it out to keep Chicago away from me as I break away. The sound of colliding and crushing of bodies against the boards behind me is all the background noise I register as I give all my attention to the shifting goalie. Powering down the ice at full speed, deking the puck in rapid succession, left and right, keeping Stanley’s eyes working as I distract him with my footwork, dragging my skate behind me as I approach, then with a shift of my hips, I shoot, just before the clock counts down to zero.

“Goal! Vipers win! Vipers win! Five to one!” The announcer shouts and the crowd loses their shit as horns go off around the arena. I do a victory turn around the back of the goal, pointing towards the camera, I bow for the people watching at home. But really, at that point, the bow is for her. I hope Jaz gets a kick out of my dramatic flourish. I know she’s watching. I’ve been checking in with Lia like a creeper, though I haven’t reached out to Jaz since our text exchange days ago. You know, keeping things professional, keeping my brain focused on hockey, and not the beautiful goddess of a woman I can’t wait to see.

Devan and Ridley come out of nowhere with their arms outstretched, sticks raised high, crushing me between them and pulling me from my thoughts. Soon, Jaz. Very soon.

“Fuck yeah, Tor! That’s how you close out a series, baby!” Ridley yells in my ear as more and more of my teammates crowd me.

“I need a special song for tonight’s victory dance. I might rock out with my cock out tonight!” Devan shouts as he jumps around the mass of bodies.

I laugh. “Please don’t. No one wants to see your dick more than we already have to,” I say as more of our teammates join us in celebration.

I look at my team, all their sweat soaked faces, and I feel immense pride. I am pushed and pulled left and right, my helmet bumped, my jersey tugged as they all descend on me, triumphant and celebratory. I try to capture it all, remember every moment, because these are the images that feed my determination to keep winning. This is the way to start the season, and as promised, we are going to ride this high to the finish. I know it’s too soon to say, but hell, I am going to manifest that shit. Stanley Cup, we are coming for you, baby.

“I’m in my Beyonce era for the rest of the season!” Devan shouts, standing on top of a bench in the locker room—fully dressed this time—navy blue suit jacket slung over his shoulders as he pumps his hands into the air. The opening drumbeats begin, followed by Devan’s hips rolling from side to side as he begins to belt out the lyrics. The man doesn’t have a shy bone in his body. He is a beast on the ice, but this side of him is for our eyes only. He jumps from bench to bench, hyping up the team as they celebrate with him. Grown ass men singing along, badly, but enjoying it all the same. I will never get tired of seeing my team like this.

“Here we go!” Jones groans, feigning disinterest, hiding his smile as he taps his brown brogues to the beat of Beyonce’s End of Time. As much as some of my teammates complain about Devan’s celebratory song and dance, they all look forward to the crazy defenseman’s musical offerings. It’s become a tradition, and it wouldn’t feel like a win if Devan didn’t climb on a bench and shake his ass to whatever came out of his phone.

The thumping beats ring out around the room as everyone rushes around to get dressed to fly home tonight. After three nights away from home, we are all anxious to board the plane. Jones keeps checking his watch, no doubt he wants to video chat with his wife and their three-year-old son before we take off. Those of us who have families to return to are always the first ones in the shower, suited and booted ready to walk through the flashing cameras of waiting fans and press. It never bothered me before, but I found I was just as anxious to leave as the majority of my teammates.

“Scott! Turn it off. Lennox is coming!” Coach George, the teams conditioning coach shouts, hands cupping his mouth so he can be heard over the music.

The entire room goes quiet as Devan quickly mutes the music as Coach Lennox enters the room. He walks into the center of the mayhem, crossing his arms over his chest, his face neutral as we all give him our full attention. Then he graces us all with one of his proud, satisfied smiles. Coach Lennox hardly ever smiles, honestly, it’s a little disarming, but after a night like tonight, I guess he is letting his stoic mask slip.

Ridley elbows me in the side as I fumble with the bar of my cufflink. “Someone’s pleased,” he mutters under his breath.

“Let’s keep it that way,” I reply, straightening my tie. As team captain, I know I will be thrown in front of the press, and I have no doubt they are going to attempt to grill me about the photo and Jaz from days ago. Of course our communications manager has warned them against asking these types of questions, but giving the press warnings is akin to tossing blood into a tank full of sharks and telling them not to go into a frenzy. One of them will be brave enough to ask me, regardless. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to answer. I have nothing to hide, but I jumped into action when the picture was plastered all over the net, and I know I will be just as protective when asked about her on national television.

Coach clears his throat, bringing my focus back to him. “Did you feel it? Tonight gave me goosebumps, gentlemen, and that never happens. All the seasons we’ve played before this, all the near misses, it has led us here. All the hard work, blood, sweat, and tears, has led us here. Chicago was desperate out there tonight, yet y’all had them scrambling to catch up, and it is exactly the type of game we need to continue to play. Desperation leads to recklessness, so, going forward, we protect ourselves. Jones, Devan, Adams, and Keegan,” —he points to each defenseman—“I don’t condone fighting but make damn sure to keep the way clear for your teammates. If tonight is any indication on how the other teams will react to the pressure, I know there will be more attempts to bench the best of you. The other teams in the league have their eyes on us now, they are going to come for you all hard and fast. Are we going to let them?” he shouts with his hands on his hips as he takes a turn around the room eyeing us all.

“No!” We all shout in unison.

“Good.” Coach Lennox smiles. “Good job out there tonight. You’ll take a break tomorrow, rest, and then we’ll do this damn thing all over again with the home team advantage.” He nods, seeming pleased with his post-game speech, then walks out of the room without another word.

“Coach Lennox in a good mood is scary,” Bast says as he stands to grab his duffle bag from the floor at his feet. The rest of the team all begin to exit the locker room, murmurs of excited conversation, laughs, and playful banter on their lips.

“I’ll take his good mood scary over his disappointment scary any day,” Ridley replies, grabbing his own bag and pulling it over his shoulder to leave.

“Bailey, Masters, and Bergeron. You three are in the hot seats tonight.” The communication manager taps the doorframe then peeks through the door at us, smiling encouragingly, clipboard in hand with one of his nervous PR interns hot on his heels.

“I’m the goalie, I don’t do press,” Bast huffs indignantly, crossing his massive arms over his chest. Sebastian ‘Bast’ Bergeron played in Winnipeg where he was born and raised for the first three years of his professional hockey career. He was traded to the Seattle Vipers two years ago and he’s been exactly what our team needed. The man is a brick wall, his save percentage is the best in the league, and everyone has their eyes on him. I am not sure why Winnipeg let him go, but Bast doesn’t talk about his time with his old team and, well, I can respect his privacy. He stays out of the press and keeps to himself, so even I am shocked when his name is called.

“Oh, big boy, it looks like you do now.” Ridley pats him on the back and gives Bast a wink before hurrying behind the wide eyed, anxious looking PR intern. I guess the poor kid is expecting Bast to throw a tantrum.

Bast’s shoulders slump in defeat as he follows behind Ridley, but he doesn’t say anything else as we all walk into a room full waiting press.

I give him a pat of encouragement as we take our seats at the table in front of the room. “It will be over before you know it. Keep it generic and try to smile,” I say, but Bast just grunts in response, then he turns to face me and forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, Bast, just like that.” I chuckle and lean into the mic as a female reporter leaps to her feet. Eager much.

“Torrance! Can you tell us about your relationship with Jazminne Starr? New girlfriend?” she asks, going straight for the jugular with this one. I can see our communications manager stepping forward to comment, but I hold my hand up to stop him.

“I don’t think my relationship status has anything to do with our win tonight. So, no comment. Next question.” Several hands go flying into the air and I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach that no one in this room is interested in how well we performed tonight.

Yeah, apparently, my gut was right, none of them wanted to talk much about the game, the questions about Jaz kept coming, and they barely addressed Bast or Ridley at all. By the time we were done, Bast was the one patting me on the back sympathetically. I was furious, and it showed near the end, their questions were getting to me. I never waiver, I never let them get to me, but tonight, fuck, they did.

Flying between time zones is both a blessing and a curse. But tonight, it’s a godsend. I love it when we play early games because it means I am not crawling into bed literally in the early hours. It gives the entire team time to get home to their families or go out and actually celebrate our win in the comfort of our own city.

The cold autumn breeze greets me as I exit the plane and make my way down the steps toward the waiting coach that will take us back to the arena and our waiting cars. Climbing the steps two at a time I take my usual spot in the middle of the bus, sliding into the window seat as Ridley sits opposite me across the aisle. Everyone is either on their phones or making plans to go out, but my mood hasn’t improved since we left Chicago.

“I’m not going to ask you if you’re coming out with us tonight. I already know the answer,” Ridley states, his brows raised in both question and concern. I glance at Ridley, not in the mood for conversation, even though I know it’s coming.

“You’re correct,” I reply, as Devan climbs into the seat in front of me, talking animatedly on his phone. By the sound of things, he is about to go out and get into trouble, possibly dragging Ridley right along with him. Usually, on nights where we have the next day off, I’d join them, but not tonight. I turn my attention to the window, feeling Ridley’s eyes on me as the bus pulls away. I settle in and watch the Seattle skyline come into view. My thoughts turn to Jaz. She is the one person I want to reach out to, but now I’m unsure. I shouldn’t let what happened during the press conference deter me but of course I do. Nothing has happened between Jaz and me, yet the way the press was questioning me, I was practically engaged to the woman. The reporters were relentless, going so far as to ask me about Jaz’s ex-fiancé. I gave them nothing, but I allowed myself to get angry enough for them to speculate. I don’t know her, yet they questioned me about her being an author, her books, her life. It infuriated me, because I want to get to know her, hell, at this point Devan knows more about Jaz than I do. He’s been singing her praises for the past few days. He’s been posting about her books on his social media platforms while we’ve been on the road. I’m almost jealous. Almost.

“Tor,” Ridley calls my name, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“What’s up?” I ask, gesturing with a lift of my chin for him to speak.

“So, are we going to talk about why you were bombarded by the press about your author?” he asks, his voice teasing, lips lifting up in a smirk.

My author. Saying it felt right, a surge of possessive protectiveness hit me square in the chest. The feeling felt foreign, but I don’t dismiss it. I rub my chest as I cough to clear my throat. Maybe Lia was right, my inner caveman has come out to play. I won’t admit it to Ridley, not yet at least. I don’t know if I am ready for that admission.

I sigh. “The damn picture,” I say, throwing my hands up in frustration. “I assume having my PR team take it down so fast has only added fuel to the gossip, hence the questions.” I rub a hand down my face, angling my body to face him, keeping our conversation as private as I can with a bus full of hockey players.

“I don’t know her, Rid. She lives next door to Lia, so it will be hard to ignore her now that I’ve met her. I want to help her, and by helping her, get to know her better. Not going to lie and say I’m not interested, because fuck, I am. But I don’t want this to pull focus from the team and our goals for this season. If my reactions to their questions about her now are to go by, I will be absolutely feral if this goes any further. She is sort of a public figure in her own right. Which means they will always want to know more. We come from two different worlds, she is a writer, and I am a hockey player. I don’t see how— Am I being ridiculous and over thinking all of this?”

Ridley chuckles. “Well, Torrance Bailey, I never thought I would see the day.”

My eyes widen as I give him the ‘I know, right’ look. “The way things are going; I will be my own worst enemy. It will be no one’s fault but my own if I don’t get out of my head.” I’ve been solely focused on one goal for so long, I don’t know how to give my time to anything else. Offering Jaz my help, I realize now, was my futile attempt at trying. I’m already failing.

Ridley frowns and nods his head in understanding, getting a faraway look on his face. “Listen, if you have a chance at something, if you feel it in your gut, then try. You won’t know the outcome until you give of yourself a little. So what if she’s her own person with her own career goals. You should want that in a partner. Fuck the press and whoever else has anything else to say about what you do with your life. As far as hockey goes, you are the most dedicated player I know. You won’t lose your steam on the ice because you are spending time with someone in your spare time. If that was the case, this entire team, the entire bus, would be single. Don’t brush her off out of fear if there is something there to explore.”

“But—

“Real talk here, Tor. I should have never given Brea an ultimatum. I knew her goals and aspirations to be a musician. We had two distinctively different career paths and look where she is now. She’s soaring, Tor. She’s more talked about around town than I am. I let her go because I thought it was either me or music, I made her choose when I should have held us both up. I would have dealt with whatever the press and crazy ass paparazzi threw at me to have her back. I let her walk away. I didn’t fight for us. Fuck, I barely recognize myself in the mirror. I lost the love of my life because I put hockey first. Don’t lose your chance if there is one. If I could go back. . .” He blows out a harsh breath, and I know this conversation is over by the anguished look on his face.

I know his speech was full of his own pain and regret. There’s so much conviction in his voice, the sadness, but there was hope there for me. He hides his heartbreak, losing himself in meaningless sexcapades and random hookups. For the first time in months I can see how very broken Ridley still is, and I wish things were different for him. I don’t want this opportunity with Jaz to pass me by. Who knows, she may be completely opposed to anything other than a professional relationship. If that’s the case, then we can both walk away while being all the better for getting to know one another. I’m the one making this more than what it is. Taking Ridley’s advice, I will take this one step at a time and let my instincts guide me.

“Thank you, old wise one,” I say, trying to make light of the situation, but Ridley just nods, lost in thought, mirroring me from moments ago, turning his attention to the window. I immediately pull my phone out of my jacket pocket and do what I’ve been aching to do for days.

ME: I dedicated my last goal to you tonight. Like my bow?

I watch the dots dance along the screen, my knee bounces nervously as I desperately wait for her reply.

SUPERNOVA: I saw the press conference.

ME: So are you saying you missed my goal?

The dots move up and down inside the little bubble and stop, then start again, and I can only imagine what’s going on in her head. Maybe we’re both having the same doubts. Is this worth it? I may have been thinking along those lines as the plane took off in Chicago but now, I am letting it all go.

SUPERNOVA: I didn’t miss your goal. Lia and I screamed the house down. But. . .Tor, is this too much? I am grateful for your help, but at what cost to you? That was just one picture.

ME: Fuck em’ Supernova. Put all those thoughts out of your head. You have a book to write, and I want to help.

SUPERNOVA: After all this? Are you sure? I can always google.

ME: Google? Don’t insult me, Miss Starr.

SUPERNOVA: Okay, snatching my insult back. #seriously

ME: I’m all yours, use me.

SUPERNOVA: All mine?

ME: Yes

SUPERNOVA: Okay.

And just like that. I step away from my safety net, let the doubt slide away and I let myself fall.

ME: Then you are all mine tomorrow. Free?

SUPERNOVA: Hockey?

ME: Nope. All yours. I have a break tomorrow.

SUPERNOVA: Then, yes.

ME: Good. I will pick you up in the morning.

SUPERNOVA: See you tomorrow, Tor.

ME: Sweet dreams, Supernova.