Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
Nick
My blood hums through my veins, and it’s not all the game-time adrenaline keeping me buoyant.
I’ve been on cloud nine ever since Bex and I shared dinner last week.
We made it through an entire meal without sniping, even if the banter died down after she left to take Elsy’s call.
She was back in a few minutes, though, and we even ordered dessert before calling it a night.
My game has never been better. I’m scoring goals left and right, my passes are crisp and clean, and my hits are harder than ever.
That next night, I earned first star of the game honors, and the national broadcasters are talking about me—and not just criticizing me.
Actually complimenting me. It’s wild. I never want this to stop.
During games, she’s high up in the booth with the video coaches, an eagle-eye concussion spotter. As glad as I am to have her on the road with us, I hope she never has to make those calls. That none of my teammates get injured.
Life doesn’t work like that. Hockey doesn’t work like that. Still, I can hope.
We’re home tonight, and Dr. Palmer should be the spotter, but Bex is on shift tonight. I overheard her say something to Vanessa about a migraine, and since my redhead joined us for the pregame meal, I’m guessing it wasn’t her needing to be shut in a dark room for a few hours.
In the intermission between periods two and three, Gonzo looks over at me with awe on his ruddy face. “You’re on fire tonight.”
We’re up three to one, and I’ve got a goal and an assist. I’m more than pulling my weight out there. If I had any doubt this signing is paying off, tonight would seal the deal. It shows on the stats board every night.
“Ate my Wheaties.”
He snorts. “Yeah, and it has nothing to do with—”
I clear my throat. Glancing around the room, I confirm everyone is doing their own thing, but there’s no telling if or when Bex will come down from the stands to join us. So far, nobody else has clocked my obsession with her, and I’d like to keep it that way. Keep the team drama-free.
“All right. Fine. But you’re telling me everything later.” His teasing smirk tells me I’m not getting out of this.
Still, I can try. “What is this, middle school? I’m not telling you shit.” I grin at him to take the sting out of my harsh delivery.
He rolls his eyes. “I want to know everything.”
“I’m not gossiping.”
Not about this. Not about her.
“Who’s got the tea?” Sinclair shouts over the music. Heads swivel in our direction, clocking our teammate’s attention on me.
McKittrick, one of the assistant coaches, reaches over to turn down the stereo.
He cocks an eyebrow, watching expectantly.
He might pretend to be above us, but he’s just as hungry for the news as anyone else in this league.
We played against each other for over a decade; he knows me. And he knows I don’t gossip.
“There’s no tea to spill,” I insist, with as much authority as I have. I’m older than most of these guys, some of them by close to fifteen years. They look up to me. Treat me with respect.
Moreover, they treat Bex with respect. I won’t let them make fun of her. She’s a professional, and she does her job well; she deserves to be shown courtesy. Not gossiped about.
“Somehow I don’t believe that,” Henry says. “You’ve always got the deets. Share ’em.”
“There’s really nothing.”
It’s not like my dream girl asked me to marry her. She was joking, of course. She doesn’t actually want to marry me, not when she can hardly stand to look at me. Besides, she has a boyfriend.
We spent about ninety minutes together without hostilities, and it went well—mainly because she was in her own head. I did my best to help distract her, but I could only do so much. Ever since that day in her office, I’ve been keeping a closer eye. I don’t want to crowd her, though.
Elsy isn’t wrong to be concerned. This version of Bex is a lot more fragile than I think either of us expected. The woman I remember was bold and brash. Confident. And now… she’s broken. A shell of herself.
Did I break her? If I did, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.
Coach Turner cuts into the thoughts swirling through my mind with his pump-up speech. It’s effective, riling up the team, but instead of hyping me up, I’m lower than low.
I’m distracted as I head back onto the ice. My legs feel like they’re skating through molasses, each stride more difficult than the one before.
When Gonzo passes the puck, I’m out of position, and Jenkins can’t connect, either.
We lose possession on the turnover, and even though I’m putting my all into getting back to our side of the ice, I’m laboring hard like I’ve never done this before.
Like I haven’t been playing in the NHL for twelve years and the lifetime of minor leagues, college, and junior hockey before that.
Everything is infinitely harder. I do my best to defend our zone, but Winnipeg gets a few shots on goal, and the fourth try goes in.
Coach calls our line off, and I skate to the bench for the TV time-out with a heavy heart. He reams us out while I grab a bottle to guzzle some electrolytes. The cool berry-flavored liquid slides down my throat, but I’m still burning up.
“What’s going on with you?” Gonzo mutters as he wipes the sweat from his visor.
“Just having a bad shift.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I can tell.”
My two points help lessen the sting of the goal against, but not by much. We’re only up by one, and there’s still a lot of hockey left to play.
“Fuck off.”
“Get your head back in the game.” He knocks his shoulder against mine.
Larsson, MacGregor, and Easton clamber over the boards, and Gonzo and I slide down the bench as the fourth line goes out to replace them.
“You good, man?” the captain asks me as he reaches for a water bottle.
“I’m good.”
He eyes me, lips pursed. “You sure?”
I keep my attention on the ice, where it belongs. Not on a pretty woman who drives me crazy. “Yep.”
And when Coach taps me on the shoulder and I vault over the boards, I’m determined to keep it there.
Winnipeg, however, doesn’t have the same plan. Sinclair passes me the puck and it lands perfectly on my tape, but before I can bring it into their zone, a guy in navy and white checks me nearly off my feet.
Number 12 has been throwing hits like they’re nothing all night, and my shoulder is bruised black and blue. His bones feel like they’re filled with cement. I stumble and almost lose the puck, but pull possession back by the skin of my teeth.
Gonzo waits halfway down the blue line, not wanting to be called offsides. When the guy comes for me again, I pass, spinning out of the way.
And then I lose my edges.
Like a baby. Like I’ve never skated before.
The ice rises up to meet me, or maybe I’m just falling quicker than I thought possible, because I fall backward.
I land with a dull thud that hushes the arena.
My lungs seize, and my entire body tightens with tension.
I hear more than feel the crash of my helmet on the ice, the vibrations running through my entire body and making my limbs flail.
Stunned. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything aside from lie there and wish I were anywhere else. My lungs are tight and achy, and no matter how much I try, I can’t draw in a full breath.
A whistle sounds, and play stops as the linesman comes to check on me. “You good, Mitchell?” he calls.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I do a mental inventory. Nothing feels broken. My vision is clear, my heart rate is elevated but within normal parameters, and I think I’m okay. I just can’t fucking breathe.
Gonzo skates over to me, inadvertently showering me with ice shavings. He leans down, offering a hand. I stare at it, unseeing.
And then, with a choked gasp, air rushes back into my lungs. I draw a shaky inhale, then another. Finally, I accept his hand, and he hauls me to my feet.
“You’re supposed to stay on your skates, asshole,” he teases.
“Fuck off.” I’m still laboring hard, but each new breath is coming easier now.
Skating over to the bench, I’m not surprised when Coach jerks his thumb toward the dressing room.
“Get checked out,” he orders.
“Yes, Coach.”
Dutifully, I follow Amelia into the medical room. She’ll have to do a quick exam, but nothing feels broken. I don’t need an X-ray or anything more robust. I’ll be back out there in a few minutes.
At the physical therapist’s prompting, I hop on the table and peel off my jersey and pads, and she pokes and prods at me. Her gloved fingers dig into the bruise over my ribs, and I gasp at the stark burst of pain, but I can finally breathe again. They aren’t broken. It just hurts like a bitch.
It takes a few moments, and she’s muttering under her breath as she examines me, but she doesn’t find anything wrong. Not that I expected her to.
What I also don’t expect? Bex to charge into the small cubicle, thunder on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Her eyes narrow, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“No broken bones,” Amelia reports. “As long as you clear him, he’s good to go back out there.”
“I’ll let you know,” Bex says.
Normally, the PT or athletic trainer stays for the evaluation, but when Amelia leaves us alone, I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
Bex could lie. She could say I’m concussed when I’m clearly not, just to pull me from the game. She could make up anything.
To me, she isn’t Dr. Whitney. She’s the woman I’ve been fantasizing about for the last three years. She’s the woman I had dinner with last week, my rival’s sister, the one I’m supposed to watch over. I can’t treat her as my neurological evaluator.
Even though I need to.
“I’m fine,” I say again.
She rolls her eyes, then picks up her tablet. Running through a list of questions, she tests my orientation, concentration, memory, and balance. I’ve had enough concussions to recognize the symptoms, and I don’t have any of them.