Chapter 8
EIGHT
TREY
After the tour, we spent the afternoon with Aiden and his teammates hanging around the arena.
We ate lunch with the team, hit some pucks, not on the ice, of course; they had a game later, but the shooting lanes in the team’s locker room were open, so we goofed off there.
Not the first time I’d done this in an NHL arena.
Hell, it wouldn’t even be the first time if I stepped out on the ice and took some shots on the goal.
But it was the first time my teammates stood next to me as I practiced in an NHL shooting lane, and it was also the first time I’d done it as just…
me? I don’t know, but Coach Storm’s words to me before that last game in Manchester lived rent-free in my mind.
They were just up there, swimming around as if they didn’t have a care in the world that they’d created a crisis in my mind.
When Aiden left us, we wandered along Broadway—eating Nashville hot chicken and drinking a few more beers as we bar-crawled. When it was time to head for the game, we were all unsteady, giggling, and very fucking tipsy.
I’d grown up watching professional hockey.
I’d watched from owner’s boxes and private VIP suites.
I’d watched from behind the glass more times than I could count, but all those games, they were a show.
A performance. A Malachek showing up to celebrate a Malachek.
It was an obligation and a responsibility.
Even the games I attended after my dad retired felt that way.
That was nothing like this. Yes, it was showing up. But it wasn’t obligation or responsibility. We’d shown up here to support a friend, a teammate. I—we—showed up for Mercy. This had nothing to do with my dad or the Malachek name.
Aiden texted us our tickets before he left us earlier so he could nap and do all the things a hockey player did before the game.
So, as soon as the doors of the Bridgestone opened and security scanned our phones, we headed inside to look for our seats.
Only we were met at the door by none other than Asher and Bauer Holt.
Without so much as an introduction, not that a Holt needed one, not when one Holt married the hottest musician of a generation, and especially not these two when they were greeting the starting six of an NCAA team who’d won the Frozen Four and they stood in the Bridgestone with the logos of the hockey team owned behind them, Asher Holt said, “You guys are with us tonight.”
The guys looked at me. Smiles broke across the faces of all of them but Isaiah and Isaac. The others jostled me. And the smile I wore all day fell. Had my dad…
Asher and Bauer, who’d been looking at me, glanced at each other.
Asher said, “Follow me,” then turned and strode through the building.
Bauer fell into step beside him, only he walked backward, to face us as he said, “Aiden let Gavin know you guys were coming down for a visit after you texted. Gavin told me, and well…”
“My brother did what my brother does when Gavin mentions something. He fell all over himself to make Gavin smile. So your trip got an upgrade to the luxury edition so Bauer could keep his subbie brother and bestie boo happy,” Asher quipped with a smirk at Bauer before giving him a shove.
His what?
I mean, I had an idea, but did Asher just…I mean, he did, but how did… Maybe that’s what being from one of the country’s most famous families got you. The ability to be who the fuck you wanted to be and be as open and in your face as you wanted.
But like…they were from fucking Texas. Didn’t they like…still lynch people for being queer down there?
Again, maybe that came with the Holt last name?
Either way, wow. Yet someone else to envy for their loving and supportive family dynamic.
We walked into the owner’s suite at the Bridgestone and holy fuck, Slone was here. Had he known we were being upgraded to the VIP treatment? Or had he planned to seek me out?
Jesus fucking Christ. I was losing it. Seriously fucking losing it. The man came to games because he enjoyed the game. He came to Nashville to hang out with his friends. I was being a creepy fucking creep and making shit strange.
“Make yourselves at home. The bar is open—if you’re old enough. And food services will put out a spread soon, but if you’re on a specialized nutrition plan and need something different, just let them know. They’ll cater to whatever you want or need,” Bauer said.
The twins, like me, were used to being in the posh settings of VIP lounges and owner’s suites, but Ryan, Zane, and Ethan, not so much.
Like Aiden, Zane came from a not-so-great background.
He’d played through juniors on scholarships.
Ryan and Ethan had great families but came from middle-class backgrounds.
Ethan was the only boy in a family full of girls, and Ryan…
he came from Boston. He had a huge Irish Catholic family cheering him on, but they had a blue-collar background, although he got some swanky fucking presents from his “rich uncles,” so I didn’t know if the info Coach Muncy shared with me when I made captain was the full story.
Considering Muncy got canned for shady shit, probably not.
“You good, Cap?” Zane asked.
I nodded and made my way to the bar. If I chose my path so I could not only watch Slone interact with his buddies while also getting close enough to overhear their conversation, sue me.
The man oozed sex appeal, and under that beautiful smile and behind those gorgeous eyes hid a dark, dangerous quality that made my dick stand up and take notice.
Luckily, I planned shit better than I had this morning.
Tonight I wore boxer briefs, and while I had on a pair of fitted destroyed black denim jeans, I wore an NHL jersey—also not a first for me.
I had several Wardens jerseys with my name and number on them and more branded merch for my dad and grandfathers than I could possibly ever wear.
Nope.
Tonight, I wore the Nighthawk logo with MERCER stretched across the back. Aiden even tossed us each a ball cap. Not the best look for club hopping, but oh well.
At the bar, I produced my ID for the bartender when asked.
I headed toward the front of the suite, dropping into a seat that overlooked the arena.
Turning the ball cap around helped block my face in case the glass wasn’t one-way, scrolling social media while I sipped at my beer.
I was already feeling the drinks from earlier.
Moments later, Nashville and Vancouver took to the ice for warm-ups.
Hockey players were weirdos, me included.
We all had rituals. Routines that messed with our heads if they got disrupted.
A favorite part of the ice to warm up? Who warmed up with us was the tip of the iceberg.
Music or no music? Talking or silence? Some guys liked being showy.
Some enjoyed hanging back away from the others on his team.
Some guys hovered near center ice. Maybe one day someone would research what it said about the player.
Nashville had looked good leading up to Polis getting injured.
Dustin Polis going out on IR for the rest of the season led to Nashville signing both Aiden and his friend Shane Morrison.
Aiden and Shane had some big shoes to fill.
They were doing all right. Winning more than they lost, but they still had two twenty-one-year-old rookies out on the ice with a team reeling from losing their captain.
To say they were still getting a feel for one another was putting it mildly.
I didn’t like their chances, but Aiden shocked the shit out of us all on the reg.
Vancouver was on their last swing with the Eastern Conference and was tearing up the ice.
They were leading their division and sitting pretty in the number two spot in the Western Conference.
Their goalie, Jonas Lindqvist, a brick wall of a Swede, let nothing through.
You tricked the fucker and sneaked the biscuit into the basket, or went home crying with your tail between your legs at the end of the night.
Their front defensive pair was just as tough: Brett Harlow and Alexei Borodin.
Two fucking huge motherfuckers who had a mind meld with each other and knew where the puck was at all fucking times.
They cracked skulls against the boards and picked their teeth with the bones of the guys they waylaid.
I should know. I played against them both a few years ago: Harlow on Team Canada and Borodin on the Kazakh team.
A body dropped into the leather armchair next to me. Zane tried his best to be sly as he checked out my phone, but I had screen protectors on my devices that kept people from spying on my shit. With a huff, he asked, “Dude, please tell me you’re not doing homework again?”
“Fuck off. I’m not doing homework at a game. That would be fucking disrespectful, especially since we’re sitting in the owner’s suite with the damn owners.”
“Okay. Fair.” Zane held out another beer. I rolled my eyes before I took the condensation-covered glass with a sigh, draining the last of the lukewarm beer I still held. Why I felt like I couldn’t tell him ‘no’ baffled me. The captain should be able to do that. I should be able to do that. But…
No, I knew why. The same why that governed everything in my life. Because my fucking daddy said so.
“You doing okay, Cap? You’re really quiet lately.”
He meant well, but if I wanted to talk, I would.
“Yep,” I said. “I’m all good, Zaney.”
“Okay, well. The staff put out the food, and we all need to put something in our stomachs other than booze,” Zane said laughingly.
The asshole part of me that sounded like my fucking father wanted to say, ‘I know I’ve got a nose,’ but I held my tongue. Instead, I said, “I’ll be there in a minute. I wanna finish watching warm-ups.”