Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
I blink my eyes open to find Summer kneeling beside me on the bed, grinning like it’s Christmas morning.
Her hair and makeup are already done, but she’s still in her sleep set—matching button-up and shorts, striped white and pink.
“It’s the first day of spring,” she singsongs, fully awake.
She straddles my hips. I’m already hard, and the added pressure makes me groan.
“What time is it?” My voice comes out rough.
“Six-thirty.”
“Why are you so awake?”
“Because it’s the first day of spring,” she repeats, slower, like that alone explains her good mood.
Only her—turning another dreary, cold day into something to celebrate. I grab her wrist and tug. She squeals as she tumbles onto me, laughing into my neck.
“You need to get up if we want to have coffee together before I leave,” she mumbles, but doesn’t pull away.
“Five more minutes.” I lock my arms around her waist.
“I have to be at Boone’s by eight.”
“Then we have plenty of time.” I roll us so she’s pinned beneath me. Her hair fans out across the pillow, and she smiles up at me.
Christ, I love her smile.
I kiss her before she can consider moving. She melts into it, but too quickly she’s pushing at my chest. “Tonight,” she promises, then wriggles out from under me and stands. “C’mon.”
She disappears out of the room, and her footsteps pad down the stairs, along with a jingle from Grace’s collar.
I drag myself out of bed and follow her, barefoot and half-asleep. Mornings with Summer set the tone for the rest of my day, and I want every second with her before practice and meetings take over.
It’s another thing I’ve grown more dependent on over the last month, and I’ve given up trying to stop it. I’ve accepted that I’ll go through withdrawal when she leaves, but for now, I’m not even attempting to stop falling.
She’s at the back door, staring out at a yard that’s still winter-bare.
I wrap my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder. “You might be waiting a while if you’re hoping to see the flowers bloom.”
She leans back against me. “I love spring. It’s not as dramatic in Nashville. I bet it’s even better up here, watching everything change. How seemingly dead things come back to life with a little warmth and sunlight.”
“Sounds a bit like people, too, if you ask me.”
She beams up at me, and yeah, it tracks.
“I have to go soon,” she whispers.
“I know.” But I tighten my arms around her waist.
“Next week is the week.”
“Are you nervous?”
She’s been talking about it since she got the details from her manager.
Cash Walker is flying in, and they’ll have two weeks with Boone to write and lay down tracks.
She wants it stripped down and acoustic, the kind of sound Cash is known for.
I don’t know much about music, but I know Summer. It’ll be brilliant.
“Terrified,” she mutters.
The last time I heard doubt in her voice was two months ago when she cried in my arms, questioning everything. All I want to do is chase it away again. “It’s going to be great. You’ll be great.”
She turns in my arms and nods once.
I brush hair back from her face. “Cash is lucky to be working with you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “You might be the only one who thinks that.”
I shrug. “I’m always right.”
She pats my chest. “Sure you are.” She kisses me, but we’re cut off by Grace winding around our ankles, meowing for breakfast.
“The princess needs your attention.” Summer ducks out of my arms.
Grace confirms, yowling her displeasure at the delay.
Summer starts the coffee, like she does most mornings, and as usual, I can’t look away. She sways a little, quietly humming, and my chest tightens with how badly I want to keep this.
Keep her.
“King!” Coach’s voice breaks my focus.
I’m locked in today. Every pass finds tape, and every transition flows. When we run a power-play drill, I’m seeing plays develop before they happen.
Fox connects with my pass and buries the puck in the net. He skates past me. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Feeling good,” is what I say, but it’s an understatement.
I’ve never felt better. Last year, around this point in the season, I was cooped up in my house, recovering from surgery and feeling sorry for myself.
Back when my house felt like a prison, I couldn’t imagine it ever feeling like home.
But that’s exactly what it is now. Plus, I’m playing the best hockey of my career, and I’ve got my person to share it all with.
“Feeling fan-fucking-tastic,” I correct.
He huffs a laugh. “I can tell.”
Coach’s whistle blows, and he waves us over to the bench. We circle up.
“All right.” He taps his iPad, probably pulling up stats. “We’re sitting third in the division. Dallas is second, Minnesota first. We’ve got thirteen games left in the regular season to hold our position and not end up in a wildcard slot.”
Third in the division.
A month ago, we were tied with Colorado. But our winning streak, combined with a couple of unfortunate injuries and losses on their side, has us in a position to clinch.
“If we win eight of the next thirteen, we have ourselves a playoff spot,” Coach continues. “Eight wins. That’s all we need.”
I’ve pushed the thought of making the playoffs out of my mind, not wanting to jinx us. But eight wins… we can do that. I still don’t want to get ahead of myself, but—
Playoffs start mid-April. Round 1 runs for two weeks. Round 2, another two. Conference Finals in late May. Stanley Cup Finals in… June.
“We won’t get home ice advantage unless we can gain the lead on Dallas.
Let’s not count on that,” Coach cuts back in.
“We’re good on the road. So, let’s focus on holding our spot.
We don’t want to drop to a wildcard and go up against Minnesota in the first round.
Edmonton holds the top spot in the Pacific division. ”
Of course my old team is number one in their division.
It would make victory all the more sweet if we took it from them in the Conference Final.
But one step at a time. Coach is right. If we want our best shot at advancing, facing the top team in the Central Division in Round 1 isn’t a good strategy.
“Stay sharp, play smart hockey, keep to the basics. This is what we’ve worked for all season. Now, we finish it,” Coach wraps up.
The team erupts. Sticks banging on ice. Guys shouting.
Helm grabs my shoulder. “You hear that, Cap? We’re going to the fucking playoffs.”
I shake my head. “We’re not there yet.”
“But we will be.” He grins too wide and stretches a hand out in front of him. “The Cup is right there.”
He’s ridiculous, but he’s right. For the first time in five years, the Cup is within reach.
It’s everything I’ve wanted since I came to Chicago.
Since I was a kid, watching my dad fight year after year for it, and then finally lift it over his head.
The Stanley Cup is what every hockey player aspires to, but only a fraction achieve.
“I need every single one of you locked in,” Coach yells over our celebration. “No distractions. No excuses. This is our shot.”
I nod. I can do that. It’s how I play every time I step onto the ice.
In the locker room, the guys are already talking about matchups, about who we’d face in Round 2, about what it would take to make it to the Finals.
I’m pulling off my gear when Kettler drops onto the bench beside me. He’s our veteran defenseman and my D-man partner this season. Been to the Finals twice with other teams, won once. “You ready for this?” he asks.
“Are you ever really ready?”
“Nah, probably not.” He chuckles. “The schedule’s brutal. Back-to-backs. Travel. No days off. It consumes you.”
“Sounds it.”
He tugs off his jersey and ducks out of his shoulder pads. “My wife’s going to be pissed if we have to cancel our anniversary trip to Tahiti.” He shakes his head, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead.
I try to focus on what he’s saying, not the fact that Summer leaves in June. The 16th, to be exact. If we make the Finals, I’ll be in the middle of the most important series of my career right when she’s leaving—
“You good?”
I blink. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”
He unlaces his skates. “Oh, and send me Summer’s number so I can pass it to Lexi. She’s already starting on the WAG jackets.”
Everyone knows about Summer now. She met most of them when she surprised me by coming to that game. Plus, Helm can’t keep his mouth shut. This is the only thing I’m happy for him to blab about. I like that everyone knows we’re together.
Kettler’s skates crash into his cubby. He throws his practice jersey into the bin and slings a towel over his shoulder. “Word of advice? Talk to her before the playoffs start. Make sure she knows what she’s signing up for. The first time with Lexi was… not easy, man.”
I nod, but what am I supposed to say? We don’t even know if we’ll make it to Finals. And even if we knew, what could we do with the information?
She’s focused on her music. And the Cup is what I’ve worked my whole life for.
We’ll figure it out when—if—we get there.
I head for the showers, pushing the thought of June out of my mind. As far as it’ll go, anyway. The countdown is always there.
87 days.