Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
cole
I lay my hand on the horn, and a few moments later, Jake storms through his building’s front door.
He loads his luggage into the trunk clumsily, then slides into the passenger seat with downturned brows over bleary eyes.
We probably didn’t have to leave quite so early this morning, but I’m not taking any necessary risks after my missed flight, and if he didn’t want to leave at five thirty, then he could have driven himself.
There’s nothing wrong with flying commercial, but packaged pretzels, cramped middle seats, and sitting near crying babies can’t compete with extra legroom and first-class finishings. And missing a flight while wearing the captain’s C is, to use Lily and Violet’s vocabulary, a big no-no.
“Don’t be cranky.” I chuckle at his pout. “I got you a coffee. Extra cream, one sugar.”
I hold out the Boston Bean coffee—Maya swears they make the best espresso in town—and the lightly caramelized and nutty aroma defrosts some of the ice in his glare.
He leans back into the leather seat with a mumbled thank you and a yawn. “Sorry. I’m exhausted. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
I peer over at him, one brow cocked. “Something, or someone, you want to share?”
He rolls his eyes over his to-go cup. “I’m sore, jackass.”
“Ah,” I commiserate.
He took a few rough hits during yesterday’s game. It’s no wonder he spent the night twisting and turning.
“Rest up on the plane,” I suggest. “Plenty of time to sleep before we get to San Diego.”
His responding grunt is the last sound he makes on the ride to the airport.
Our team’s chartered jet departs from a private terminal at Boston Logan International Airport, so I park my car at the nearby enclosed lot, then huddle into my jacket, pushing through the winter winds as I make my way to our plane.
A bundled-up flight attendant waits at the bottom of the steps, a familiar branded parka zipped up to his chin.
“Morning, Samuel,” I say.
“Nicholas,” he replies with a slight nod. “Good to have you with us again.”
I’ve told the crew to call me Cole, but it hasn’t stuck. At least he’s no longer calling me Mr. Berrett.
With a dip of my chin, I take the warm, scented towel from him, then wipe off my hands as I climb the steps.
The assistant coaches are deep in conversation near the front of the cabin, likely working out plays and strategies for the upcoming game. With a brief greeting, I pass them and shuffle to my usual spot. Our seats aren’t assigned, but we follow an unspoken seating chart, nonetheless.
I slide into the Italian leather seat next to Cameron and buckle myself in. My seat buddy is already half asleep by the window, head lolling onto his neck pillow.
“Morning,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. Despite years of early practices, flights, and workouts, he’s mostly useless before six a.m.
“I wish this flight wasn’t so long,” Logan complains from a row over. “San Diego’s so far.”
“If you slept, it wouldn’t feel so long,” Cameron snarks. He pulls his eye mask on, indicating his participation in the conversation is over.
Logan flips him off with a lazy hand gesture. “Anyone want to play Grand Theft Auto?”
“I’m good,” Jake says beside him, already reclining his seat. “I need to catch up on sleep, too.”
“Lame,” Logan says with an exaggerated eye roll. “Berrett?”
“Nope.” I shake my head and stretch my legs out. “Got some reading to do.”
The flight from Boston to San Diego is about six hours, which means I have plenty of time to dive into the world of Dexxar.
As much as I hate to admit it, the book’s decent.
It won’t be studied in college lit classes anytime soon, but it’s held my attention so far.
Sure, it’s a bit difficult to completely suspend my grasp of reality, but that’s the fun of fiction, I suppose.
Cameron lifts his eye mask up and squints at me. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I know you’ve taken a few hits to the head recently,” I retort, “but surely you know what reading is.”
He elbows my side. “Yeah, asshole, I’ve just never seen you read anything longer than a text message.”
Jake leans forward in his seat and grins like he knows a secret. “It’s because of Maya, isn’t it?”
I ignore them both and unzip my duffel. I’m not particularly excited about how my teammates will react to the washboard abs of the purple alien on the cover, but you know what they say. Never judge an alien book by its cover.
Sweat trickles down my back as adrenaline surges through me.
Fans decked out in the Devils team colors roar from the stands, stomping their feet and waving at the camera in hopes of being on the Jumbotron.
It may not be a home game, but I practically grew up in this arena, and the energy rolling across the rink is electric.
As the Devils take the ice, I skate to the center for face-off. Rolling back my shoulders, I tune out the noise of the stands and the pep talk Logan’s trying to give, focusing completely on the puck. The moment it’s dropped and the whistle blows, my world shifts. Nothing matters but the win.
After a deadlocked opening period, we spend the second period making up for it.
The Devils are great, but we’ve been working our asses off in practice, and with a combined eleven shots across the period, Jake and I both end up on the score sheet.
And despite the Devils refusing to roll over, we establish a towering lead through the remaining forty minutes of play.
The win is ours; I can almost taste it.
During the next line change, I swing my body over the wall and chug my water. I’ve played most of the game, and my lungs burn with the exertion. As a center, I’ve got more freedom to move across the ice than my linemates, but that also means I’m covering more ground.
“Solid defense out there,” I tell Jefferson as he joins me off the ice.
He mumbles his response through sips of water and gasps of air. Pairing him up with Erickson whipped him into shape better than Coach Henderson expected and, consequently, cemented his belief that he made the right call when he named me captain.
In the third period, we have a comfortable lead, but I won’t be confident in our win until the buzzer times out and the announcer declares it.
Cameron is ruthless in his defense of the net, preventing goals with applause-worthy accuracy.
Jake strips the puck from the opposition’s center and flies down the ice like a missile.
I fall in beside him, running interference and blocking an overly aggressive left-winger.
Their goalie is so focused on Jake that he doesn’t notice Logan setting up, and by the time he’s figured out our play, it’s already in motion.
Logan smacks the puck with swift surety, and it whizzes into the net, hitting the back with a satisfying snap.
We may be in Devils territory, but our fans showed up, and they make themselves heard. I’m almost positive it’s my mom that starts the “Bobcats” chant when I score the winning goal in the last few seconds of the game.
After a quick round of post-game interviews, I head for a long, scalding shower in the visitors’ locker room.
From there, the majority of us pile into cars and head to my childhood home for a late dinner.
Every season, my parents insist on hosting the guys for a home-cooked meal.
It’s a feat, considering eighteen well-muscled hockey players don’t just take up a lot of space but require a lot of food, but my mom has never been one to back down from a challenge, and she’s been feeding hockey players for decades, from peewee league to the pros.
I’m bombarded with congratulations and hugs the moment I walk through the front door. Despite my parents both being born and raised in San Diego, the house is decked out in Bobcats colors. It’s only accentuated by the gear my friends, family, and teammates wear.
As I make my way across the crowded family room, greeting my parents’ friends and someone’s cousin’s uncle’s ex-wife, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Maya Silver
Don’t let it get to your head, but I watched the game (it was either that or Jeopardy reruns). Congrats on the win!
Hope your butt’s not too bruised after that hit.
I snort. My tailbone’s definitely feeling the aftermath of getting steamrolled by a player nearly double my size after Logan mouthed off about his haircut.
Cole Berrett
Thank you!
Glad to know you’re keeping an eye on my ass.
How’d it look in my shorts?
Maya Silver
Remember how I told you to not let it get to your head?
Cole Berrett
You miss me. Admit it.
Maya Silver
I miss the days when I could get a good coffee for less than $5.
A small blonde barrels into me, stealing my attention from my phone. My niece grins up at me, a half-smeared Bobcat face painted on her cheek. “Hi, Uncle Coley. I’m hungry.”
“Hi, princess.” I hoist her up into my arms, relishing the way she snuggles into my neck. “Let’s go get you a snack.”
Violet nods, making her tight curls bounce. “Yay!”
I find my mom in the kitchen with an exasperated frown hardening her features.
It only takes an instant to locate the reason for the look.
Across the room, Logan’s hovering over the dip bowl, dunking pita chips in like it’s an Olympic event.
I swear he doesn’t even chew before he swallows and goes for another.
Jake and Cameron watch with horrified fascination while Lily—who’s wrapped around Cam’s back like a tiny monkey—giggles uncontrollably.
We cross the room to run interference. “Save some for the rest of the room, man.”
Logan pouts, his bottom lip stuck out. “I may be your future brother-in-law. Cut me some slack.”