Chapter 23
twenty-three
. . .
Jason
Seattle is kicking our asses. Who would expect the last place team in the league to find the mettle to absolutely obliterate the second place team? It’s our first game back after the All Star break, and we are rusty as fuck.
Boston is at the top of the standings in the Eastern conference, second only to Colorado in the Western conference. We’re absolutely killing it. The team is gelling like never before, half the team is on a points streak, and MacGregor scored two hat tricks in the last five games.
We’re on fire. Just not tonight.
I’m playing like I’m twenty-seven again, and not thirty-seven. Getting regular athletic massages is definitely helping, even if I can’t get them from Amelia. I respect her too much to put her job in jeopardy, and in the bedroom, we’re careful to keep work and my knee issues separate from us.
As much as I love hockey and playing the game I love, the travel is starting to get to me.
I’ve done this for more than a third of my life, and had a good little wife waiting at home for me, but I never itched to get back to her the way I do with Amelia.
When we’re on the road, I can’t talk to her, can’t touch her, and can’t fall asleep holding her.
I have to keep my distance. I can’t be the reason anyone finds out about us. Not before she’s ready.
If it was solely up to me, I’d scream it out from the rooftops. I’d tell management, my teammates, her brothers… everyone.
But I would never push her to announce it before she’s ready. However long it takes, I’ll bide my time. The ball is in her court.
Unlike the puck, which is decidedly in the Boston defensive zone. I shake my head and try to focus on the game in front of me. One of the opposing players shoots, but Henry deflects it, dumping it out of his glove.
Another player tries for a rebound, but Sinclair gets a stick on it and finally manages to clear the puck to Seattle’s end. Coach slaps my shoulder, and I vault over the boards and onto the ice.
We’re down 4-1 with seven minutes to go. It’s an impossible task they’re asking of us. There’s no way we can do it.
Larsson and I flank MacGregor as we zoom into the Seattle zone. He passes to me, and I kick it back to Larsson. He pauses for a second, faking like he’s about to shoot, and then saucers the puck over to MacGregor.
The center’s one-timer is brutal, and as he slaps the puck on goal, my knee buckles.
I’m not doing anything strenuous. My stick is on the ice, ready for action, but Joseph, the Seattle defenseman guarding me, isn’t touching me. Nothing happens.
But my knee can’t support me, and I go down. The wind is knocked out of me, and I sprawl on the ice, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
“What the fuck,” Joseph shouts. “I didn’t even touch you.”
The goal horn sounds. MacGregor’s snipe was successful.
It takes considerable effort to get back up onto my feet. I’m still laboring as I join my teammates for the post-goal celly.
“What happened?” Larsson mutters in our huddle at center ice.
“Just tripped.”
“Mmhmm. Your knee?”
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
We skate past the bench to bump knuckles with the rest of the team, and Derek pulls me in.
“Let’s talk,” he says. It’s not a request; it’s an order.
“I’m fine,” I say again.
“He didn’t trip you.” He says it like an accusation.
Grabbing a water bottle, I take a drink, and then spray my face and the back of my neck. “My knee is acting up. I’m fine.”
“I heard you the first time,” Derek snaps. “Does it hurt?”
“Not any more than usual.”
That’s the honest truth; it always hurts. No matter how warm and stretched I am before a game, after three hours of activity, it always aches. The osteoarthritis is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.
There are invasive procedures, but they have side effects, and it would mean the end of my playing career. At thirty-seven, it’s doubtful I’d come back from it. And being in the last year of my contract, it’s unlikely any other team would want me after surgery.
There’s still a chance the Grizzlies will want me for another two years. That’s my Plan A, at least. But it means keeping healthy, doing all of my PT, and not letting the bumps and bruises get to me.
Easton, Jenkins, and Gonzo are on the ice, and I try to focus, but the throbbing in my knee makes it hard to concentrate on the instructions Coach yells in my ear.
They rotate off, the third line taking the ice, and I start to shake, anticipating.
I love hockey. I love it with every fiber of my being.
What will I do when it’s not part of my life anymore? I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.
Coach claps my shoulder, and then I’m heaving myself over the boards again, right when Logan gets control of the puck. There’s nobody in the Seattle defensive end.
I put on a burst of speed, hurtling myself forward to be in the right place, and the puck lands on my tape with precision accuracy.
There’s no time to set up a play. I fire at the goaltender, the puck clanging off the post on its way to the back of the net. Quick and dirty, just the way I like it.
My knee fucking throbs from the exertion. I do my best not to limp off the ice, but the tightness on Derek’s face tells me I’m in for a world of trouble.
An hour later, after cooling down and showering, I’m in the PT bay, where Derek digs his fingers into my knee.
“I’m fine,” I say, for the tenth time.
“Shut up,” he snaps.
“It works. I can play.”
“I didn’t say you can’t. I said, you’ll to hurt yourself worse than you already have.” He sighs. “It’s nothing structural. Ice. Elevate. Rest. The usual.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, with a sarcastic salute.
The athletic trainer glares at me. “Go on, get out of here. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He wraps my knee with ice, and I return to the dressing room. When I finally have a chance to check my phone, there’s a text from Amelia.
How are you feeling?
I don’t lie to her.
I’ve been better.
I’m sorry. This sucks.
And I know she’s talking about more than simply not being able to interact.
Miss you.
I text back, before shoving the phone into my pocket.
I can’t look at her, because if anyone takes one glance at my face while I do, this whole charade is over. I can’t talk to her without it turning flirty; I can’t touch her without pulling her into my arms.
I miss her so fucking much, and she’s only in the next room.
The team bus delivers us to the airfield, and as we board the plane, I take my usual spot in the middle, aisle seat. She’s a few rows ahead of me on the right side, sitting with Patrice, so it’s the perfect location to covertly watch her.
Gonzo drops into the seat beside me. “How’s the knee?”
“It’s fine.”
I barely want to get into it with Derek, much less anyone else.
He sighs. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Everything okay with you?”
He opens his mouth, and then closes it. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. You know, you can talk to me.”
“Yep.” There’s a note of finality in his tone. “I just want to sit here and sleep, so you just go back to staring at Amelia, and I’ll—”
My jaw drops. “I’m not—”
He snorts. “Please. You totally have a thing for her.”
“I—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” he says. “I think she likes you, too. I always see her smiling at you.”
Shit, neither of us are as discreet as we think we are. Guess her idea of keeping our relationship under wraps is a good one.
“She smiles at a lot of people,” I say, with no conviction.
“Yeah, but not the way she smiles at you.” Gonzo shrugs. “Ask her out. See what happens.”
I let out a soft hum. “Maybe.”
“The team wouldn’t have an issue with it. We all like her.”
I like her, too. That’s kind of the problem.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally say, shutting it down.
Gonzo passes out as soon as we’re in the air, but I can’t sleep. All I can think about is what would happen if anyone found out about us. What do I say? I can’t deny it. I can’t lie.
We land in Dallas at six o’clock in the morning with the time change, and the bus gets us to the team hotel in short order. My entire body aches when Vanessa hands me a key, and I make my way to the room.
But once I get to there and change into comfortable clothes, I’m wide awake. Pulling out my phone, I text Amelia.
I need to see you.
She doesn’t fight me. She doesn’t say we can’t. All she texts back is a number—a room number.
I’m outside her door less than five minutes later. It’s like I was struck by a live wire, every nerve ending flayed by the electrical current running through me. I knock lightly on the door, my knuckles still on the wood when it opens.
Amelia fists her hand in my T-shirt, and pulls me bodily into the room.
“Hi,” I whisper. I’m not sure why I’m whispering. There’s nobody in the room except for us.
“This is a bad idea,” she says, before she kisses me.
It’s the first time we’ve kissed in four days. I’m aching for her, my entire body reacting, but I tamp down my baser urges. I haven’t held or touched her in four long days. I’m going to savor this.
I break the kiss to yawn.
“Come on, let’s sleep,” she says.
Grumbling under my breath, I pretend to be put out, but as soon as she draws back the covers and slides in, I scoot in beside her and fold my arms around her.
Amelia presses lightly on my shoulder, and I roll over until my back is to her. She contorts her body around mine, wrapping me in her embrace. Everything in me says I shouldn’t like being the little spoon as much as I do, but I don’t need to listen to toxic hypermasculinity bullshit.
When she holds me, everything is okay with the world. Sure, my body is still battered and bruised from the game. Everything hurts. But I can get through—because I have her. She makes everything better.
And as I drift off to sleep, I wish that I could do this every night: fall asleep beside the woman I love.