Chapter 10 Cassie
Cassie
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching Cole Taylor play hockey.
That’s an inconvenient truth I’m going to have to accept.
I’m sitting in the arena’s ‘friends and family’ section, right by the ice. I’ve seen Cole play with the Nor’easters a thousand times, but his skill on the ice is still utterly electrifying.
So far, the supervisor assignment has been going… suspiciously smoothly.
Granted, this is only the second game I’ve attended as Cole’s ‘babysitter’ in a stretch of home games. But I’m taking every win I can get.
By the third period, the score is 3-1 to New England, and the fans are buzzing.
After sixteen years without a cup, they’re wary of getting burned, but their love for the team is clear.
The season is new and full of promise: their offense is hot and Cole is just as formidable in goal as in any of his best seasons.
I just hope this one can end in a championship run.
There’s a shift change on the ice, and Roman—New England’s towering enforcer—flips a pass to Miller.
Landon skates by, turning to call out to Cole. “Watch out for #12. He’s got a nasty shot.”
“Got it, Cap,” I hear Cole reply, low and certain.
As much as I’m trying to calm down the fangirl inside me that once adored him, it’s exciting seeing Cole play. You can see the coiled gravity in his form. Ready to drop, push out, grab the puck. Ready to be the man who stands between the win and the loss.
That’s why hockey fans say goalies are crazy. Because you have to be built different to mentally withstand being that guy.
Cole seems to thrive on it.
On the ice, at least.
On the ice, he seems to be free of whatever thing has been making him into a liability off the ice.
Toronto’s #4 steals the puck from Miller and zips it back down to New England’s end. The clock ticks down the last minute of the game. #4 slams the puck toward their #12, this small, fast guy with a quick pivot. He rushes toward Cole, then abruptly stops, flicking the puck hard toward the goal.
I can’t help it. My breath catches in my throat.
But Cole just jerks to the right, and the puck collides hard with his chest. He flips it down to the ice, easily sliding it back to Miller, who flies to the other end, eating up the last remaining seconds of the game, and New England has won.
I don’t even realize I’m on my feet and cheering until I’m already high-fiving the screaming fans next to me.
Oops. Guess the fan in me is still alive and well.
As the other fans begin to exit, I head against the tide of the crowd and go to the players’ area. The team is walking in from the ice, chatting and laughing.
I try to ignore the shimmer of heat deep inside me as Cole catches sight of me and walks over. He’s taken his goalie pads off, and he runs his hand through his damp hair. The muscles in his upper body look taut and firm, straining against his shirt.
“Hey, sunshine,” he says, and I try not to blush.
“You were really great out there tonight. Lucky you’re better at hockey than you are at pool.”
This actually gets a smile from Cole. “We need to have a rematch if you’re going to keep talking shit.”
“Name a time and place.”
Are we… getting along?
Bantering, even?
We’ve had sparks since the Iced Coffee Incident, sure. But those sparks were more like the kind that precedes a deadly explosion.
This feels… warmer.
Before Cole can reply, Coach Reed appears out of the tunnel.
“All right, fellas. Good work out there tonight.” Coming from Coach Reed, notorious hard ass, this is a big compliment.
“Before you hit the cool-downs and the showers, we have a visitor. Bridger Sterling is here, as in the man who sponsors your jerseys. Everyone slap on a smile and be on your best behavior, got it?”
Roman and Miller groan in unison. “Just what I want straight after two hours on the ice,” Roman says, his Russian accent lilting. “To chit-chat with an elderly billionaire.”
Landon claps his hands. “Come on, boys. Let’s get this over with.”
I stand back as a staff member fetches Sterling. He runs a gigantic insurance company and looks just how I would’ve imagined. Seventies, gray-haired, the confident grin and shiny shoes of a man who’s been rich for a very long time.
“Fantastic game.” Sterling grins, walking over to slap Landon on the back. “I think you’ve got a playoff run on your hands this year.”
“Thank you, sir,” Landon says in his Southern twang, “but it’s still early days. We’re just focusing on the next game.”
“Don’t be so modest! I’m not sponsoring your jerseys to hear modesty.” Sterling bares his overly white teeth and grabs the arm of the kid next to him. “This is my son, Brad. He’s a big fan of your team.”
“Sup,” his son says, nodding at the players. He looks to be college-aged, kind of scrawny still, dressed in a hoodie and spotless sneakers. He’s swaying slightly, holding a beer in his hands.
I’m sure if he’s under twenty-one, he’s not worried about getting ID’d. I have a sneaking suspicion the sons of billionaire businessmen never get in trouble for anything.
He spots Cole and heads over toward us. “Bro, that was a sick game. You had Toronto cooked. I was like, maybe New England isn’t washed after all.”
Cole stares at him with something between confusion and disdain. I try not to laugh; I think Cole needs a teenage slang translator.
“Thanks,” Cole grunts. “I think.”
Brad points at one of the arena staff members and snaps. He actually snaps. Gross. “Hey, can you get some shots from the bar? Celebration shots for all these guys. On me.”
“On him?” Cole leans over my shoulder, muttering under his breath to me. “Yeah, more like on his dad’s credit card. I’m sure the kid has never seen a bill in his life.”
I suppress my smile and try to sound serious. “Don’t let him hear you.”
Sterling’s son turns back to us, oblivious. “What’s your poison, man?” he asks Cole. “Tequila? Vodka?”
“Thanks, but I’m good,” Cole says.
“What?” Brad gawks at Cole. “C’mon, dude. Do a shot with me.”
“I said I’m fine. I don’t drink.”
But Brad keeps pushing. “Don’t be uptight. It’s just one drink.”
Uh oh. I glance at Cole. His expression is tightening.
“Okay, I get it,” Cole says, “You’re a college kid who just discovered alcohol. Good for you. I’m a professional hockey player, and I’ve chosen to be sober for the past five years.”
Brad snorts. “What, are you like an… alcoholic?”
Cole’s face darkens, he crosses his muscular arms. “Nope. It’s just a lifestyle choice. But so what if I were an alcoholic? Would you have something to say about that?”
“Um, yeah. I’d say that’s kind of pathetic and you should get your shit together. Some people have no willpower.” Brad laughs, punctuating his statement.
Cole’s emerald eyes go cold under his dark brows. “What did you just say?”
Of all the things I thought might get Cole to lose his temper, this kid being a total ignorant ass about people’s struggles with addiction is not what I expected. Part of me wonders why—but the rest of me is quickly jumping into damage control mode.
“Okay, Cole. Let’s take a minute.” I step forward, placing myself between them.
This is what I’m here to do. To keep Cole from damaging his career anymore. But it’s suddenly hitting me just how hard it is to keep a determined 6’4” NHL star from doing exactly what he wants.
Brad narrows his eyes at me—his gaze does a quick scan of my body. Okay, double gross. I definitely don’t need some college freshman checking me out.
“Who the hell are you?” Brad asks.
I ignore his question because Cole looks like he wants to punch the kid. “Cole,” I say more firmly. “Let’s go talk outside.”
I lay a hand on his forearm, my fingers touching against firm muscle. He gently takes my hand, removes it, then goes back to staring down Brad.
“You shouldn’t speak about things you don’t understand, kid,” he warns.
Brad takes a step forward. He has to crane his neck up to meet Cole’s eyes, but it doesn’t deter him.
“You probably shouldn’t speak to me that way. Whose company is on your jersey? My dad basically owns you guys.”
Cole shrugs nonchalantly. “Your dad has bigger things to worry about than me. For instance, he should probably worry about the fact that he raised an over-privileged little prick.”
Oh, no.
For a second, Brad pauses in stunned silence.
Then, his face crumples. “Dad!” he yells across the room to where Sterling is still chatting with Landon.
Cole strides off away from us.
And I’m left with one serious mess to clean up.