Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Nick
After a grueling training camp, we start preseason and immediately launch into the eighty-two-game campaign.
Save for my linemate announcing he has a surprise baby—and a wife—it’s remarkably drama-free.
The guys aren’t fighting over the same puck bunny, nobody is cheating on their wife, and we all seem to get along.
Even when the team loses, nobody tosses out pointed barbs at each other; we all shoulder the blame.
It’s night and day from my previous experiences. Everything is so chill. Except…
I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or appreciative of Bex traveling with the team, and it’s ratcheting up my tension with every flight and every road trip.
It makes sense; she’s there to evaluate us if we have head trauma, and she can’t do that if she’s back in Boston while we’re on the road. Not that any of us wants a head injury.
On one hand, it means I get to stay close to her.
Watch from afar as she sits with Vanessa, Amelia, and Andrews on the plane, keep an eye out when she’s in the hotel bar by herself after a long day.
I don’t approach her—I like my dick attached to my body, thank you—but my attention never strays far from her.
Which means I can’t get away from her. She’s constantly on my mind. Like a thorn embedded deep in my flesh. It would take a scalpel to extract her from my brain, and I’m not ready for that level of pain yet.
There have been a handful of women in the last three years, but none who have dug their claws into me like her. None who drive me absolutely insane with the memories constantly looping through my brain.
“Hey, man,” Gonzo says as he walks up to me in the bar. “A few of us are grabbing dinner. Want to join?”
My eyes flick to Bex, drinking a few seats down with her tablet. She has a glass of wine and an appetizer in front of her, picking at the cheese plate while she reads.
He tracks my movement, and his lips curl into a teasing smirk. He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something snarky, but I cut him off.
“I can do dinner.” There’s no other option.
I need to stop torturing myself and start bonding with my teammates.
They could be my last hope of finally finding where I belong.
After New Orleans pulled the rug out from under me, I’ve been too gun shy to try again.
What if they decide at the trade deadline that I’m not worth keeping around?
What if they drop all contact and pretend I don’t exist once I leave this team?
No. I can’t think that way. If I don’t put myself out there, try to forge those off-ice relationships, I really will die alone. I don’t even have a cat to eat my face when I’m gone. I’ll just be… gone.
“Awesome.” He grins, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s right around the corner.”
Hopping off my barstool, I shrug on my jacket and follow him out of the hotel. Sure enough, it’s half a block to the steakhouse, and I tense when I see Seb Henry, our goaltender, waiting with MacGregor and Logan.
I’ve mostly been able to avoid him. I don’t know if he realizes I’ve been chilly with him or if he assumes I’m like that with everyone.
Nope. Just the brother of my dream girl’s boyfriend.
Henry gives me a warm smile as I take my seat across from him. “I have a bone to pick with you,” he says, his tone contradicting his easygoing expression.
“Oh?” I force myself to appear confident, like I’m not about to get pummeled in the face. I can’t be a dick to my teammate, no matter who his sibling is sleeping with.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a reader?” Henry demands.
I blink a few times. “What?”
“I’ve seen you haul out a book on the last three flights,” he continues. “What do you read, and why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m confused.” What business is it of his if I like to read? Is he going to punch me out and call me a nerd? We’re not in middle school anymore. I shouldn’t have to hide bits and pieces of myself to fit in.
“We have a book club,” Gonzo explains. “Henry’s the leader. His wife’s a librarian, so he always has a new suggestion for us.”
Okay, that makes more sense than what I assumed. “I like psychological thrillers, but I’ve been known to pick up some murder mysteries from time to time.”
“Awesome. I’m more of an epic fantasy guy myself. We need some variety on the shelf,” Henry beams.
“It’s totally optional if you want to join,” MacGregor stresses. “I know you tend to keep to yourself. Although you don’t constantly have to be on guard around us.”
Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders, and I unclench my jaw. I’ve been holding the guys at arm’s length all this time, but I hadn’t realized they’d noticed.
“A book club sounds fun.” And hey, if it helps me bond with my teammates off the ice, it will make our on-ice connection that much stronger. “Count me in.”
Henry grins, looking so much like his asshole brother it takes me aback.
I don’t want to like him. But he’s my goalie; he has my back every night out on the ice, and I have his.
Our teammate bond goes deeper than any stupid rivalry over a woman who isn’t interested in me.
He can’t choose who he’s related to any more than I can.
Conversation flows over dinner. MacGregor is fairly quiet, and for a guy who says I keep to myself, he sure does the same.
Being captain must be exhausting. He’s always the first one at practice and the last to leave.
I’ve seen him at the rink practicing his slapshot hours after everyone has gone; he’s meticulous about the tiny details, and it shows in his game.
Logan is engaged to MacGregor’s sister. Apparently the three of them grew up together.
I’m trying to imagine how I’d feel if my best friend were dating my sister, and all I can think of is the utter outrage I experienced when Elsy started dating Whitney.
Seeing her happy is always my first priority, but it’s not always easy.
Then there’s Henry, married to the coach’s daughter.
I can’t imagine how that went down. They got engaged on that same island trip where I saw Bex, and now they have a newborn daughter.
My irrational dislike of him aside, he bails our team out night after night, and never complains about what we put him through.
Gonzo has a baby and is married, two things that weren’t the case at the start of the season.
He’s probably my best friend on the team, since we’re on the same line and spend the most time together.
I don’t have the same relationship with Jenkins, the other winger.
It’s hard to relate to him when he’s a full decade younger than me.
Half the slang he uses sounds like gibberish, and the other half is expletive-laden.
I’m no stranger to a well-timed fuck, but I don’t curse out loud nearly as often as other guys in the league.
I’ve got a reputation as a decent guy, hardworking, dependable, and I try to live up to it.
Plus, the ticking time bomb of my impending retirement is growing louder with every day that passes, making it harder to connect to my younger teammates who are all in their prime.
A second career in broadcasting doesn’t sound too bad, but there are only a handful of spots and dozens of guys retiring each season.
There’s too much up in the air. I don’t know where I’ll be living, only that it won’t be Boston. I’ll ride out my contract here, hopefully get another—whether in this city or another—and then retire somewhere quiet. Where nobody knows me, and I can be myself.
“What’s the deal with you and Dr. Whitney?” Gonzo asks out of nowhere.
My face heats, but I try to play it cool. “What are you talking about?”
“You were looking at her at the bar. Do you have a thing for her?”
I glance at Henry, but he doesn’t seem upset at the insinuation of something between me and his brother’s girl.
“Her brother and I have… history,” I finally say. “He’s married to my best friend and we played World Juniors together.”
“So you’re looking out for her?” Logan asks. “That’s sweet.”
I screw up my face. “No. Not at all.”
“Then why were you practically salivating over her?” Gonzo demands.
“I wasn’t. We were just sitting at the bar, by ourselves. I didn’t even know she was there,” I lie. I was so fucking aware of her, my heart wouldn’t stop racing. “It’s not illegal to be in the same bar as team staff.”
MacGregor stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “I don’t think that’s all it was.”
“You weren’t even there.” It comes out like an accusation, and I immediately want to walk it back, but it’s too late; the words are out there. Drawing more attention to me.
“It’s cool if you have a thing for her, man,” Henry says. “Just don’t act on it.”
“I would never.” Even though I want to so desperately I can barely breathe over the lump in my throat.
“Doc Whitney’s good people,” Logan says. “She really cares about preventing head trauma as much as she does the clinical analysis.”
“Hopefully we don’t need it,” MacGregor mutters, and I tap my water glass against his.
“I’ll drink to that.”
After dinner, we head back to the hotel. MacGregor and I are the only single guys, and the last thing I want to do is go out trawling for pussy. Hookups are more trouble than they’re worth sometimes, and I don’t like how I feel after. My right hand is a better option.
Bex is still on the same barstool in the hotel bar when we get back, tablet in hand. Though her wineglass is empty now.
“You heading up?” Gonzo asks with a knowing grin.
“Might grab another drink,” I say, forcing my voice to remain casual.
MacGregor snorts and shakes his head. “Don’t have too many. We have a game tomorrow night.”
“You got it, Cap.”
I amble over to the bar and take a seat three stools down from her. Bex doesn’t look up from her book. The bartender approaches and I order a glass of bourbon, my body angled to the left so I can watch her a little more easily.
It’s not stalking. It’s not, I tell myself. I’m just looking out for her. Protecting her.
From what, I don’t know. Maybe myself. Maybe herself.
The bartender sets a glass in front of me, and I murmur my thanks.
Bex swivels her head toward me and levels me with a glare. I lift my drink in acknowledgment, but make no move to approach her. After a few moments, she returns her attention to her book, and I heave a soft sigh and stare into the depths of my glass.
Why does it have to be this way? I’d give anything not to have these cyclical thoughts, to treat her as any other puck bunny and erase her from my memory. Chalk her up to a quick release and nothing more.
Instead, I have so many unanswered questions. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to nail her down and have the conversation we desperately need. Especially not with her glaring at me every ten seconds. I can hope, though.
Until then, I’ll keep my distance, but I won’t go far. I’ll keep an eye out for her. And I’ll quietly drown in my self-torture.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out and glance at the display.
Sperm Donor: I here your back in boston.
Bitterness turns to acid in the back of my throat, and I swallow the bile threatening to overtake me. I want to mute him, block him, delete him from my life. But I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I should have known my reprieve wouldn’t last long, though.
I shouldn’t respond. I can’t respond.
But somehow, my fingers type and type and type. I write out an entire essay, all the pain and loathing that’s consumed me since he robbed me of my mother.
And then I delete it. No good will come from confronting him. No matter how much better it will make me feel, fanning the flames will only make the fire between us burn more intensely.
Raising my bourbon, I take a sip, then lick the stickiness from my lips. The heavy weight of eyes on me makes me turn my head, and I catch Bex’s gaze fixed on me—on my mouth.
I arch an eyebrow, and her cheeks pinken at being caught, but her gaze turns flinty.
Heat runs through me, coalescing into a ball deep in my gut. Fuck, her hatred of me shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. Maybe there’s more wrong with me than I thought.
Bex snaps her tablet case closed, then steps down from her barstool. She strides past me, her shoulder knocking into mine as she passes.
“Have a good night,” I call after her.
She raises her hand, the middle finger extended, but she doesn’t look back.
I take one last gulp of my drink, then slide the half-full glass away. I’m done. I’m so done.