Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
Amelia
Snow blankets the ground in Buffalo. Despite my winter boots, I’m slipping and sliding on the slick pavement as I haul my equipment bag into the arena.
The boys won yesterday’s home game, and now we have a full day of practice and workouts before a night off.
After the game tomorrow night, we’re on the road to Ottawa before finishing the road trip with a stop in Montreal.
I follow Derek and Graham into the arena and to our medical bay. The guys will start rolling in for their yoga class in about an hour, so I have plenty of time to get set up.
There’s a knock on the door, and I look up to find Robby in the threshold, two cups of coffee in his hands.
“How’re you doing?” he asks, offering me one.
“I’m good. Slept like shit.” I take the paper cup and blow on the opening before taking a sip, even though I know it’ll scald my tongue.
It does. It fucking hurts. But the caffeine warms me from the inside out, and sometimes, that’s worth a burned tongue.
“Oh? Any reason why?” He raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Because someone set the alarm clock in the room to go off at four o’clock in the fucking morning, and I wasn’t smart enough to turn it off before I went to sleep.”
“Oh? Not any… extracurricular activities?”
I roll my eyes. Whatever he’s trying to insinuate, I won’t play his game.
“No, I didn’t pack my vibrator.” Only on domestic trips—not international. I don’t want to get stopped by customs agents and have to explain my equipment in front of the guys.
“Shame. You could probably use a good fucking,” Robby drawls.
My eyes narrow.
“You know, since you’re so tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Really? You seem tense.”
“Stop saying tense.” I take another sip of coffee so I don’t give in to the urge to hurl it in his stupid, pretty face.
“Or maybe you recently got a good fucking,” he says slowly, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Because I seem to remember you and Jason leaving the bar together.”
“He was already leaving when I went outside. We shared a car home. We live on the same block.”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s it. Nothing happened.”
Except it was everything. That night… I’ve relived it in my head over and over, making myself come to the memory of him in me, on me, and surrounding me.
It was more than just sex. But to him, that’s all it was.
And it’s not like it will ever happen again. I value my career too much to throw it away for a fling… no matter how hot the sex is.
Robby looks me up and down, clearly not buying it.
“When you’re ready to tell me, you will,” he says confidently. “I trust he won’t get wasted and need help back to the hotel tonight?”
“I’m not the teams’ keeper. I don’t know where he or the rest of the guys are going.”
He hums. “Sure, you don’t.”
“Patrice talked about this dive bar on First Street,” I mention to deflect the conversation. “It sounds good.”
“I’m always down for a dive bar.” He gives me one last scrutinizing look. “It would be okay, you know? If you did have a thing for him.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t have a thing for him.”
“Just… take care of yourself.” He squeezes my arm. “He has a lot of shit going on. I hope he can give you what you need.”
“Right now, what I need is you getting out of my space.” I only have a few minutes before Jenkins shows up.
To my surprise, Robby envelops me in a hug. “Love you, Meels,” he murmurs into my hair.
With a sigh, I sink into him. “Love you, too, Robby.”
He means well, misguided as he is. There’s nothing between me and Jason. It was one night. That’s all it was. That’s all it will ever be.
Buffalo won’t give us an inch. I’m in the tunnel with the rest of the staff, clustered together to watch the action a few feet away.
It’s the middle of the third period, and the boys are rowdy.
They don’t like being down two goals, and they especially don’t like three penalty kills in seven minutes.
And only one of those was actually Jenkins’ fault. The other two were circumstantial at best, the result of sloppy play and lack of discipline. The situation is getting dicey, and that means someone’s about to get hurt. Hopefully, it’ll be someone on the other team, and not one of my players.
Derek is the tape and glue guy; he patches together what he can, and Doctor Hudson will stitch any facial injuries, if it comes to that.
My job is more of the recovery and maintenance variety than acute treatment.
For most of what I do, the patient has to rest and ice first before I can assess the damage and put together a plan of attack.
The game is getting chippy, and the chirps are decidedly less than polite. I don’t know what Jenkins did to draw the ire of the entire Buffalo bench, aside from existing, because they’ve been after him all night long. When he finally snapped and tripped Hastings, it was entirely justified.
Well—mostly.
Hockey is still a team sport, and he’s letting his frustration get the better of him rather than let the team shut Hastings down.
Mainly because the team as a whole is failing to shut anything down. MacGregor loses the face-off, and the Buffalo forward passes the puck to Hastings.
Logan tries to block him and deflect the play, but Hastings saucers the puck across the ice. McKittrick tries to get a stick on it, but his poke check only succeeds in poking Hastings’ skates, and the opposing forward falls to the ice.
The ref blows the whistle and calls the penalty. Tripping.
Fuck.
The staffers in my immediate vicinity sigh and groan as the Buffalo stands erupt with cheers.
McKittrick is pissed. He skates to the penalty box with murderous intent on his face.
Coach Turner calls a time out, but as the players huddle around the clipboard, my eyes are on the captain across the ice.
He’s stewing in his frustration, his face red from anger and exertion. His dark hair is soaked with sweat, and even from across the arena, I can see the way how wild his dark eyes are, darting around the ice like a caged animal.
It’s only two minutes.
The ref blows the whistle, signaling the time out has ended, and I watch as Larsson, MacGregor, Logan, and Sinclair take the ice, ready to kill off the captain’s penalty.
They’re mostly successful. They keep Buffalo on their toes for one minute and forty-seven seconds.
And then when Logan clears the puck, it ends up right on the tape of fucking Hastings, and the asshole snipes a shot on goal.
Luckily, Henry’s on top of it, kicking out with his pad to deflect the shot. But he isn’t fast enough to control the rebound, and another Buffalo player—I can’t see his name from here—cleans it up, firing left side high.
The puck goes straight into the back of the net, the lamp lights up, and the entire bench deflates.
Three to zero, Buffalo.
McKittrick slams his helmet onto his head, striding out onto the ice. He doesn’t get in place for the face-off; no, he goes straight to the bench, where Coach proceeds to harangue him until both of them are red in the face.
The hockey player jerks his head in a nod, his entire posture stiff. Tension sets into his shoulders, and I know deep in the pit of my stomach that this isn’t good.
When the shifts change and McKittrick is back on the ice, he’s immediately cross-checked by Hastings.
McKittrick tumbles to the ground in an awkward heap, his helmet clanging loudly against a stanchion in the boards, and my blood runs cold.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
He’s on the ground for three, four, five seconds, before the refs blow the whistle and call the play dead.
Derek strides forward, Lewis opening the gate for him, and Jenkins and Easton escort he head athletic trainer onto the ice.
The two players glide him down to the opposite end of the ice, where the captain lays in a crumpled heap.
But he’s getting up!
McKittrick forces himself to a sitting position, and then uses his stick to balance. Derek hovers over him, talking to him, and McKittrick must say the right thing, because Derek nods and helps him up.
Hunched over with his stick across his knees, McKittrick is breathing hard, but I can see that he’s in pain. A lot of it.
My heart hammers rapid-fire in my chest, like it’s me who’s under attack. Everything in me freezes solid, fear rooting me to the spot.
McKittrick reaches the gate, limping down the chute to the dressing room. I don’t know what to say. Do I say anything?
“Amelia,” Derek barks. “You’re my eyes out here.”
“You got it,” I say, saluting him.
Right. I have to work. I have to focus.
If anything else happens tonight, I’m on deck. Not that anything will happen. There is only seven minutes left in the period, and—
Oh, fuck.
Jenkins and Hastings are fighting.
Reaching into my med bag, I pull out an ice pack and a clean towel, knowing I’ll need it in approximately three point six seconds.
And when Hastings lands a right hook to Jenkins’ face, it’s over. The two fall to the ice, grappling with each other, until the refs break up the fight. Jenkins gets sent to the bench for repairs, while Larsson takes his spot in the sin bin, serving his teammate’s penalty.
I hold the ice pack to Jenkins’ knuckles, which are busted and bloody.
“What the fuck, kid,” I mutter, inspecting his face. He’s sweaty and flushed, but aside from a bruise blooming on his cheek, he doesn’t appear broken.
“He had it coming,” the rookie mutters.
“Gotta learn you can’t punch above your weight,” Easton says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good tilly, though. Has to happen sometimes.”
“I led the AHL in PIMs,” Jenkins mutters. Penalty Infraction Minutes.
He bounced around the minors for the last two years, but it seems like he’s in the big club for a while. If this didn’t change the team’s perception of him, that is.
“Well, you’re not in the AHL anymore, you’re in the NHL now, and we do things a little differently here,” Easton says. He shakes his head. “Welcome to the show, rookie.”
The remaining few minutes of the game wind down, scoreless on our side, and the somber team makes their way into the dressing room.
I head straight for the medical bay, where I write up a brief about Jenkins’ hand. I’m just finalizing the report on my tablet when footsteps make me look up.
When he’s on the ice, he’s McKittrick, but when he’s alone in here with me, he’s Jason. I can’t go back to last names after he was inside of me. Consumed me.
And right now, I don’t think he even recognizes that I’m here.
He slams the door shut, and then throws his helmet across the room.
It clangs off a cabinet, and he slams his fist against the door, punching twice.
He sweeps an arm across a tray of medical supplies, sending them clattering to the floor.
He looks around the room, eyes wild and unseeing, until he sags against the door, breathing hard.
Out there, he’s a fierce competitor, insanely stubborn. With me, he’ll find he doesn’t need to be so fucking stoic all the time. He can feel his feelings, whether he’s ready to do it with an audience or not.
When he doesn’t move, I clear my throat. “Are you done?”
He jumps, whirling around to face me. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.” Setting my tablet aside, I face him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jason scowls. “No.”
“Okay. Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”