Chapter 13
BEN
"Stop grinning for the cameras and score, Jackass,” Foster chirps as he skates past me on his way back to the crease.
I respond by giving him a megawatt smile before I skate to the offensive zone to take my position at the blue line.
I can’t help it. I’m having the time of my life out here.
Coach just finished drawing out the play for us during the time out.
The game is tied late in the third and we’re looking to avoid overtime.
The ref leans in for the faceoff, and I’m ready, my body tight with anticipation. Austin wins it clean, snapping it back to me. The clock’s under ten seconds now—plenty of time to make something happen.
I drag the puck along the blue line, scanning for an opening. Their winger rushes at me, stick outstretched, but I fake a pass, skating around him. My heart pounds as I see a lane, just enough space to wind up. I don’t think about it. I don’t hesitate. I just shoot.
The puck slices through the air, a blur past bodies and sticks. It ricochets off the crossbar and into the net. The goal light ignites just before the end of period buzzer sounds.
The arena explodes. My teammates mob me, helmets and gloves pounding my back as I grin like an idiot. I look up at the scoreboard—two seconds left on the clock when it crossed the line.
“Let’s fuuuccckkking gooooo!” Will hollers beside me.
My first goal of the year and it’s on home ice.
Fuck, I love my job.
“Christ, Michaels,” Noah Watts claps me on the back on his way to the showers. “What have you been doing for cardio in the off season?”
Noah is not only my oldest teammate but the only one with three Stanley Cup wins. When he speaks, you listen and when he sets you up, you don’t waste it.
“Crawford’s mom, mostly.” As expected, everyone laughs except for Austin, who rolls his eyes before tugging his jersey over his head and tossing it into the bin in the corner.
“At least my mom’s helping your game,” he says as he strips his shoulder pads off. “After my last night with your mom, I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”
I snort, good-naturedly. “As long as you treat her right and can still shoot straight after, that’s all that matters to me, buddy. Another beauty of a goal tonight. You’re killing it.”
He stands in front of me, stripped to the waist, his chest still heaving from exertion, frustration rolling off him in waves. His brows are drawn tight, jaw set like he’s been stewing over this for a while.
"Seriously, man, what’s your deal?" Austin demands.
I blink. "What do you mean?"
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
Wait—what?
Before I can respond, Foster, ever the voice of reason (or sarcasm), chimes in. "He did just imply he’s been having sex with your mother."
Austin scowls. "Yeah, but then he laughed it off when I gave it back to him. Why are you acting like we’re friends?"
"We are friends, Austin."
Austin lets out an exasperated scoff. "Last year, you guys constantly gave me shit. Acted like I was annoying. All of you." He turns to Foster and Will for confirmation.
"You were the rookie last year," Will says matter-of-factly.
Austin folds his arms. "So?"
"So, you had to pay your dues. Establish your place on the team," I explain, clapping him on the back. "And you have."
His expression shifts as the realization sinks in, like someone just turned the lights on in his brain. "So it was just an initiation? You guys didn’t actually find me annoying?"
I hold his gaze, letting the moment stretch before deadpanning, "No, we definitely did."
"I still find you annoying," Foster adds, completely unimpressed.
Will grins. "But you annoy us less than you used to."
"Speak for yourself," Foster mutters.
Austin narrows his eyes, but I can see the tension draining from his shoulders.
"And now," I continue, smirking, "we’ve got new rookies to break in. And you get to help."
His expression morphs from understanding to something dangerously close to excitement. "Oh, hell yeah. Those assholes aren’t going to know what hit them.” He starts for the showers but pulls up short. “Hey! Does this mean I can come to your birthday party this year?”
Not this shit again. I am so tired of having to address his perceived slight at not being included in the small birthday dinner my sister cooked for me last year.
“For the fiftieth fucking time, Austin,” I groan. “There was no birthday party last year and there won’t be this year.”
I say it firmly, leaving no room for argument. But when I glance at Foster for backup, he pointedly avoids my gaze, suddenly very interested in something on his knee.
“Foster?”
Nothing. He remains hunched over, inspecting a fading bruise.
I step into his line of sight, arms crossed. “Foster.”
He sighs, finally looking up. “Yeah?”
I narrow my eyes. “Is Beth planning a birthday party for me?”
A beat of silence. Then, resigned but unapologetic, he nods. “Yes, she is.”
Fuck.
Will shakes with good-natured laughter. “You’re so dead.”
I turn on him, my sense of betrayal growing. “You knew about this, too?”
“Of course I did.” Will grins. “But I know how to keep a secret. Unlike some people.”
“Beth knows I can’t flat out lie.” Foster sighs, clearly disappointed with himself. “She wanted it to be a surprise. For your thirtieth.”
I know Beth’s trying to do something nice, but I don’t need or want a big celebration. “Turning thirty isn’t a big…wait. You turned thirty months ago and you didn’t have to have a party.”
Foster gives me a blank stare. “I don’t like people.”
This is true. Throwing a surprise party for Foster would be like presenting him his own personal hell, but gift-wrapped.
“Come on, Ben,” Will chimes in. “You’ve always loved celebrating your birthday.”
My birthday was always a good excuse to go out with the guys, have some drinks, some laughs, then take the prettiest girl in the bar home. But I feel so removed from that scene now and I don’t miss it.
Maybe it’s because I thought I’d have more by thirty. I have my dream job and a great condo, but I don’t have anyone to share it with.
Or is it that the person you want to share it with doesn’t feel the same way?
I thought I’d be over Maddy by now. Thought I’d meet someone new, or at least convince myself that I will eventually. But every time I see her, it’s like the universe is taunting me, showing me how great we are together and what could have been.
It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I remember how we were. Her laughing at my terrible jokes. Singing off-key to the radio. Curled up in my hoodie, looking at me like I was her whole world.
And now someone else is.
The idea of being surrounded by friends and pretending to be happy about being another year older seems exhausting.
As though reading my mind, Foster says, “If you really don’t want a big fuss, I’m sure I can convince her to just do a small dinner like last year.”
“Except I get to come this year,” Austin pipes up. His fear of missing out is second to none.
I would feel bad saying “no” when Beth went to the trouble of planning this for me. Hanging with my teammates for a couple of hours, letting them bring out a cake and sing to me is a small price to pay if it makes my sister happy. “No, it’s fine. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
Foster sighs. “Good. Because she’s really excited about it. She’s already talked to team management about it and they’re on board.”
Jesus, that’s going to be a lot of people. “Can’t wait.”
I hit the showers letting the water pound some of the irritation out of my body. I stay there for a long time until the echo of my teammates' voices and laughter fades as they all leave. Until it’s just me and the steady hiss of the water drowning out the noise in my head.
I tilt my face up, letting the stream hit me full force. My body’s sore from the game, but I’ll take that ache any day over the ache in my chest that won’t let up.
When I can’t stand still any longer, I make my way back to the blissfully empty locker room.
I take my time getting dressed, pulling on my clothes like they weigh a hundred pounds each.
Before heading out, I check my phone, not expecting much. But to my surprise, there’s a new text.
Valentina: Nice game.
For a moment, I just stare at the screen.
I dated Valentina for a few months last year—back when I was trying to prove to myself that I could move on, just like Maddy had.
She was gorgeous, confident, the kind of woman any guy would be lucky to have on his arm.
And for a while, I convinced myself it could work.
That if I tried hard enough, I’d feel something real.
But no matter how much I wanted to, we had nothing in common. The conversations never went deeper than surface level, and the effort of pretending exhausted me. We both knew it was over and called it before Christmas. I haven’t heard from her since.
By all accounts, I should be thrilled. A text from a stunning model after a great game? That’s supposed to be a win.
But all it does is leave me feeling hollow.
Because it’s not from the right person.