Chapter 46 Adrian
ADRIAN
With how long I’ve been thinking about kissing Sonya, I knew it would be good. Really, really good. But now I know that using the word good is nowhere close enough to describing what it felt like.
Fuck. It was unreal. It broke me apart, and put me back together again. I can’t stop replaying it in my head, and it messes with my mind that forty-eight hours later I’m no longer with her or in Oslo anymore.
The Vancouver Wings’ stadium is a domed arena decorated with huge blue banners, hanging flags of famous retired jersey numbers, and a mega screen suspended above the center of the rink.
It blasts out colors, flashing lights, and music every time we score a goal, sharing a real-time replay for our fans to watch.
All twenty thousand of them.
That’s about how many fit in the arena. On any game day, this place is packed. A sea of Wings jerseys screaming their love and support for us.
This early in the morning, it couldn’t be more different. Everything is quiet and echoey, and all the seats are empty—except for one.
“Ignore him,” I tell Jung.
Coach Forrester called us after Sonya left the club. He said we needed to come home ASAP because the GM was starting to make moves in the background. I had to arrange the earliest flight back to Vancouver that I could.
We’ve launched negotiation warfare with Wings’ management but it’s not enough. I want to work with Jung on the ice, too, to make him a stronger player.
I unzip an equipment bag and skate around the ice, placing orange cones in the same formation I used to train myself with a long time ago. We’re doing drills. Pointing with my stick, I tell the rookie to start.
The puck slips loose to the side. Jung sweats, then glances up at the man in a suit who’s sitting far back in the stands and watching us. Owen Quaid, the GM of the Vancouver Wings.
“He’s trying to intimidate us, but we’re not leaving until you get it right,” I reassure him.
There’s no guarantees on who makes it in this sport, but I believe in my promise, even if it puts me at odds with the franchise. Even if it jeopardizes my career. Jung is a kid who deserves to have a shot at his dream coming true. I have to figure out how to help him no matter what it takes.
By the end of the drills, Jung slumps down onto the ice, huffing. Stress is making him sweat harder than usual, and the fact that we’ve rushed into training right after a long flight home doesn’t make things easier.
I skate up next to him.
There’s a loose puck between us. Using my stick, I flick it all the way down to the other end of the rink. It thuds into the net.
“Seriously?” Jung exclaims. “How are you so good?”
“I knew someone better than me,” I tell him. “Trust me, if he was here, he’d be the captain of our team.”
“Do I know him? What team is he playing for?”
“He never got the chance to play professionally. He passed away.”
Jung winces. “Sorry.”
“Me too,” I say, randomly picking up a cone and putting it down.
I’m staring off into the distance, stunned that I’ve brought it up.
Normally, it’s a wound pulsating in the dark, but ever since I told Sonya about Jesse on the plane, it’s as if the pain has eased slightly.
Almost as if something is trying to heal inside me.
We sit in silence for a few moments. Then I poke my rookie with my stick. “I know the pressure seems suffocating with him watching us, but let’s go again. Let’s prove to him that you don’t quit.”
Jung nods slowly. He wants to believe me, but he’s also lost in his own head and drowning in uncertainty. Ever since he found out about potentially being traded, it’s been a massive hit to his confidence.
I need him to get out of his head. “How about this? I’ll give you a hundred bucks for every goal you get past me.”
“No way!”
I grin. “Yes way!”
Two hours later and five hundred dollars richer, Jung leaves. I’m still skating as the GM is walking down the steps, slowly approaching the rink. I expect him to call for my attention, but he doesn’t. He sits right by the glass and crosses his arms. More intimidation tactics.
I smirk to myself. He doesn’t know that I could stay on the ice forever. I set up another skill test. It was one of Jesse’s dad’s favorites. He would dump a bucket of pucks out, scattering them everywhere and then make you stand behind each one and try to score into the net with one shot.
Going to the first puck, I lift my stick for a slap shot. It’s going to go in like it always does, but last second—
I miss.
Actually, I miss every single one.
Well, fuck me. What colossally bad timing with Owen Quaid scrutinizing me.
Not that my mind is on him. It’s not.
It’s on her.
Sonya is still in Oslo.
Kavi asked her to stay back, so they could watch the championship awards ceremony together. At first, it surprised me that she’d extend her break, but then I found out from Quinn that there’s a local studio where Sonya’s already started practicing ballet while she’s there.
It’s only for a few more days. After that, they’ll all fly home. I can’t wait. Night and day, all I think about is our kiss. Between meetings with agents, Jung, and Forrester, I keep taking out my phone and staring at it, wondering if I should ask her if she’s suffering the same way.
I don’t, because text messages can be misinterpreted. I won’t be able to hear her tone and she won’t be able to hear mine. For a conversation as important as this one, I want her here. Preferably in my arms, biting back those little whimpering noises she made as I whispered into her ear.
Because I can’t stop thinking of her. She’s inside my head, and I don’t know what to fucking do. I have no idea how she feels about me.
She might not want me. How do I survive that?
My focus dims as I skate aimlessly around, blood pumping through my veins hard enough to make my ears howl. I keep trying to play like normal, but my hands aren’t working. This isn’t helping. I need to hit something. I need to pound a punching bag.
Throwing my stick to the side, I get out of the rink.
I’m about to find myself a punching bag when my name is called. I keep my expression neutral as Owen intercepts my exit. His mustache bristles as he considers me. “Coach Forrester mentioned you’d be working with Jung.”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t take what I’m doing personally, Adrian.”
I tuck my hands into my pockets, so he doesn’t see them turn into fists.
“Respectfully, I disagree. Everything about hockey is personal. From the players who grew up loving this great game to the fans cheering us on from their living rooms, believing in us, saving up and buying tickets to come support us in the arena.” My eyebrow slides up.
“Just so you’re aware, Eric Jung is the first person in his family to earn the kind of money he has.
His parents worked rotating overtime shifts to afford him the gear he needed and to pay for all the junior club fees.
Now, they come to every game they can. I have a feeling he’s going to be one of the greats. By the end of the season—”
“End of season?” Owen interrupts. “I’m sorry, Adrian, but this team needs to come out of the gate winning. Otherwise, I’ve got approval from the owners to do whatever it takes to make the Wings great again.”
“Wait, that isn’t enough time—”
“It’s pretty generous, I’d say. Preseason starts soon. That’s three weeks of games to get your players ready for the real season. Use it wisely, or better yet, don’t. Stand down and let me shuffle our roster. We’ll start over with fresh talent.”
Dread turns me rigid. Doesn’t he get it? “The reason we won the Stanley Cup before is because the Wings are a family. We know each other, trust each other, and already have what it takes to win again,” I grind out.
Owen whistles. “Love your optimism. Now, you just have to prove it.”
With that last word, he stalks out.