3. Cole
Cole
Kennedy: Can you float me thirty grand? Please?
I’d been fielding texts like this from my ex-wife for the past six months. And like the sucker I was, I sent money every time she asked. But at some point, I had to put my foot down and say no.
If the upkeep on the house is draining your bank account, maybe it’s time you consider selling it. I know a good realtor and can give you her number.
A huge chunk of her settlement in the divorce had been forfeited because she’d decided to keep the house we’d bought together.
Essentially, she’d been forced to “buy me out.” And real estate in Southern California was not cheap, so the decision cost her millions.
It wasn’t any wonder she’d run short on cash only a year and a half after our union had ended, not when the HOA fees, property taxes, utilities, and general maintenance totaled five figures monthly.
Kennedy: This is our home, Cole.
It’s your home now, Kennedy.
Kennedy: I’m not selling. Not when there’s even the slightest chance that you might come back.
I didn’t have the energy to tell her that there was zero chance of that ever happening.
I’ll wire the money today, but this is the last time. If you’re strapped for cash, get a job.
Kennedy: Doing what? I’m not qualified for anything that will pay enough to cover the bills. You know, since I dropped out of college when we got married?
It took all the strength I possessed not to repeat that selling the house would solve her money issues. Because clearly, her mind was made up to keep it.
No one forced you to quit college, least of all me. You could have transferred your credits to a school in San Diego and finished your degree.
I willingly sacrificed my future career to support yours.
Despite what Crew thought of her, Kennedy wasn’t a bad person. She just needed more than I could give her. And I hadn’t realized that until after we rushed into a marriage that never would have happened if I hadn’t met her on the worst day of my life.
Russ was gone. Really gone.
All the dreams we had of playing for the Surf together died with him.
He was so much more than my teammate, my best friend. He was more like my brother.
Born on the same day, only a minute apart in the same hospital, we’d known each other our whole lives. We did everything together, shared all our secrets.
Well, except one. And the guilt of that betrayal gnawed at my insides.
I’d had the chance to come clean as I sat at his bedside only a week ago to say goodbye. But when he relayed his dying wish, I’d clammed up, not wanting to taint our last moments together.
How could I tell him that I’d not only been dating his little sister behind his back, but that I’d ended things because I wasn’t willing to risk our friendship if he ever found out? That I’d broken both of our hearts, when he was dying, asking me to look out for her once he was gone?
He had no clue what he was asking of me.
Keeping my distance was the only thing stopping me from begging Bridget to take me back.
Hell, I’d been ready to say “fuck it” and fall to my knees at her feet when she called me ten months ago, only to have my world blown apart when she sobbed down the line that they’d found a cancerous tumor in Russ’s brain and it was terminal.
After the promise I’d made to Russ on his deathbed, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
How could I honor that request when “platonic” would fly right out the window the minute I laid eyes on her?
He’d asked me to keep watch over her as a friend, not as a lover.
But I’d always been helpless when it came to Bridget.
There was no question that we’d pick up exactly where we left off, and there would forever be a black cloud of betrayal casting a shadow over our relationship.
My fist came down on the bar top, regret washing over me that I hadn’t told Russ the truth before it was too late.
“Another round?” the bartender asked, drawing my attention.
Thank God I played juniors in Western Canada, where the legal drinking age was nineteen. At twenty, I was about five months too young to consume alcohol in my home country, and it was much needed on a day like today.
I blinked up at him through gritty eyes. There was no doubt I looked like a fucking mess from hours of crying. “How much for you to leave the bottle?”
The guy hummed, topping up my glass but keeping a firm grasp on the fifth of whiskey. “Sorry, kid. If you want to drink yourself to death, you’ll have to do it somewhere else. You’re cut off after this.”
Grunting, I downed the liquor in a single gulp. I was so numb that I didn’t even feel the burn of it sliding down my throat.
“Rough day?” a feminine voice asked from nearby.
I turned my head to find a pretty blonde seated three barstools away, her blue eyes filled with concern. She couldn’t have been much older than me, perhaps a student at the nearby university.
“The worst,” I replied.
“If you want to vent, there’s something cathartic about telling your problems to a stranger you’ll never see again.”
Swirling the ice in my empty glass, I confessed, “My best friend died today.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
I ducked my head in acceptance of her condolences. “We knew it was coming. I flew home last week to see him one last time.” Rubbing at my chest, I tried in vain to get the ache beneath my sternum to subside. “But it still hurts like hell.”
A sniffle sounded from the girl. “My sister was killed in a car accident a few years back. I wish I could say it gets easier, but I’d be lying. When you lose someone you love, a piece of you gets buried with them.”
Dropping my head back, I blew out a heavy breath. “I miss him already.”
She lifted a finger, signaling the bartender. “Tim, can I get one of whatever he’s having?”
The guy—Tim—folded both arms over his chest. “I know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?” Her voice took on a sugary-sweet quality as she batted her eyelashes.
“The minute my back is turned, you’re gonna slide that drink across the bar.
I’ve already let him have more than I should, and am gonna have to call a cab to make sure he doesn’t get behind the wheel tonight and get either himself or someone else killed.
” He gave her a pointed look. “You should understand that better than anyone else.”
It struck me what he was implying. “Drunk driver hit your sister?” I asked.
She released a shuddering breath. “Yeah.”
“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, feeling like an asshole. To the bartender, I said, “I’ll take that cab now.”
“Wait!” A warm palm landed on my forearm when I shoved off the barstool. “You don’t have to have another drink, but will you stay until I finish mine?”
All of a sudden, I realized that I hadn’t let a woman touch me since I broke things off with Bridget.
It was strange, but not wholly unpleasant.
Like a bolt of lightning, an idea hit my alcohol-soaked brain.
Resisting Bridget was damn near impossible. Every day, I pulled up her contact in my phone, my finger hovering over the screen, itching to call her. I was so desperate to hear her voice that every night I fell asleep listening to past voicemails she’d left me.
While it might be a creative interpretation of Russ’s request, the best way to honor his wishes in looking out for his little sister was to stay far, far away from her. And I could only do that if I permanently closed the door on the possibility of us ever getting back together.
Even though I would never be ready, it was time to move on.
“Yeah,” I rasped, sitting back down. “I’ll stay.”
The smile she flashed me was bright enough to light up the entire city of Vancouver. “I’m Kennedy, by the way.” Her lashes fluttered to kiss her cheeks, which had turned pink.
“Cole,” I offered my name in return. “It’s nice to meet you, Kennedy.”
“Astor!” Coach’s booming voice snapped me back to the present. “Put your phone away, or else you’ll be skating suicides for the first half of practice.”
There was nothing like that threat to scare the living daylights out of a hockey player. So, of fucking course, I was startled enough that I dropped my phone.
Crew reached down to pick it up before I could, and took a long look at the text thread still open on the screen.
“Are you fucking serious with this shit?” Anger colored every word. “You’re giving her money? After she got millions in the divorce?”
I snatched my phone back, hissing, “It’s none of your business.”
“The fuck it’s not! I had a front-row seat to the hell she put you through for years. That woman is nothing more than a manipulative, cheating bit—”
Temper spiking, I was on my feet, screaming, “You don’t know a damn thing about her!”
My twin was finally rendered silent, while every man in the locker room was staring at me wide-eyed after that outburst. Their shock wasn’t surprising. I was known for my even-keeled personality, so losing my cool was completely out of character, but Crew had pushed me too far.
Crew had only been privy to a fraction of what my marriage was like.
He didn’t know about the guilt I carried, knowing I would never love my wife, would never give her the child she so desperately wanted.
He didn’t know that all the negative behaviors he witnessed in her were purely reactive because of how I treated her, how distant I’d grown over the years.
She might’ve been the one who was unfaithful, but I was the one to blame.
Clearing his throat, my brother held out my phone. “Here.”
I snatched it out of his hand without a word, shoving the device into my bag before dropping onto the padded bench in front of my stall.
“Sorry, Coach,” I grumbled.
Our bench boss grunted. “Is your little family spat over?”
“Yeah, just so long as he keeps my ex-wife’s name out of his mouth.”
Cameron Davenport, ex-pro turned head coach, made eye contact with each player. “Anyone else have dirty laundry they’d like to air before we proceed?”
There was a chorus of “no, sir” from my teammates.
“Good.” He picked up a dry-erase marker and wrote on the large whiteboard affixed to the wall. When he turned around, he pointed to the giant number eleven in black ink. “Who can tell me what this number represents?”
Levi piped up from my left. “The number of mail-order Russian brides who have left Jagger at the altar?”
Our teammates couldn’t help but snicker as he roasted our young defenseman.
Jagger clapped back with “Nah, that’s my dick size.”
Crew’s head dropped back as laughter rolled up his throat. “Dude, we’ve all seen your dick. That thing ain’t eleven inches.”
Affronted, his D-partner chuffed, “I’m a grower, not a shower.”
“That’s one hell of a grow. You’re telling me that it more than doubles when you get hard?” My twin arched a doubtful eyebrow.
“Hell yeah, it does.”
Crew crossed his arms. “Gonna need to see some proof before I believe it.”
Shoving to his feet, Jagger began untying the strings at the waist of his hockey pants. “I’ll show you right now.”
“Sit your ass back down, Barclay,” Coach snapped.
Jagger’s eyes went comically large, like he’d forgotten while in the middle of his pissing contest with my brother that Davenport was present, and he quickly obeyed.
Leaning over to Levi, he spoke out of the side of his mouth.
“Were you seriously going to let me whip my dick out and start cranking it to get hard in front of Coach?”
Levi lifted a shoulder. “I was just as curious as everyone else to see if you could back up your claim.” He let out a low whistle. “Eleven inches could do some serious damage.”
“As I was saying,” Coach interrupted. “This number represents the number of wins the Surf had all of last season. The first five were earned between October and January. The final six came in the two and a half months after I took over as head coach. It’s nothing to write home about, but it shows improvement.
And that’s where we’re going to direct our focus moving forward.
How we measure success in this locker room will be different from other teams in the league.
Our priority needs to be on fundamentals and teamwork.
If we can nail that down, the wins will follow.
We won’t go from last in the league to clinching a playoff spot in a single season, but we can make progress, maybe turn the heads of players entering free agency, and keep building on the foundation we have now.
The road to a championship is long and hard, but it starts with the work you put in today. ”
Determination was etched on the face of every man in the room after that speech. Because there wasn’t one among us who didn’t dream of hoisting that fabled silver trophy above their head before having their name etched into it for all time, to become immortalized as one of the greats.
Coach clapped his hands. “Finish getting dressed and meet me on the ice. It’s time to show the world what the Surf are made of.”
My eyes darted toward the memorial stall, where Russ’s jersey hung, his number thirteen retired without ever having suited up for the Surf.
The weight of his absence sat so heavily on my chest that it was hard to breathe. If life weren’t so fucking unfair, he’d be right there beside me, cracking jokes with the rest of us and fighting like hell to dig this franchise out of the hole it had found itself in.
But since he wasn’t, I would work twice as hard to make him proud.