Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
cole
The second I step outside, my balls shrivel to the size of grapes.
Fuck. The frigid temperatures of Boston in late January are enough to make me consider prematurely retiring to Florida.
The wind slices through my jacket like it’s nothing, and snowflakes slap against my face with zero remorse.
Thankfully, I parked near the exit, so in a matter of seconds, I’m sliding into the relative paradise of my heated car.
My shoulder throbs, a reminder of a second-period scrap on the ice, and my jaw’s still tender from the elbow I took during a play.
All I want to do is go home and take a bath with one of the eucalyptus bath bomb thingies Logan got me for Christmas, but I promised my teammates I’d head to O’Leary’s for a bit.
It’s only nine, making it far too early to pull the “I’m going to bed” card.
Even though I’d really like to. We have an away game tomorrow, and I always get less than stellar sleep in any bed that’s not mine. Unless it’s Maya’s couch.
I’m just about to shift into reverse when a call from my agent comes through the speaker system.
“Great game tonight,” he says when I answer, his deep voice rumbling through the interior of my call. “Very impressive, and I’m not the only one who thought so. Just got a call from Jerry Bronson.”
I smile at the display on my dashboard. Mark Rodriguez is the best in the business, and every conversation we have is efficient and to the point. It’s why our calls never begin with any of the typical niceties like hello, how are you? or how’s your shoulder after the blow you took earlier?
“Thanks,” I say as I crank the heat, “but I have no idea who that is.”
He clucks his tongue, chastising me. “The Devils’ new assistant coach. He wanted to know if your no-trade clause excludes them.”
My hands drop from the steering wheel as my heart stutters in my chest. “Oh.”
“They want you. Badly,” he continues as if he hasn’t just knocked me off kilter.
“Rumors about Rogers are true, then, I’m assuming?” I force out. “He’s retiring this season?”
“Off the record, yes. If he keeps playing like he has been, he’ll end up on long-term injury reserve,” he confirms. “It’d be a post-trade deadline deal, since they want Rogers to finish out the full season.”
It’s a common misconception that trades can’t occur after the stupidly named “trade deadline.” Teams can make trades whenever they want, but if a player is acquired after the deadline, they’re not eligible to play for their new team in the playoffs.
“I’d have a chance at the Cup with the Bobcats.” An opportunity to clinch the title as captain.
“You’d also get your shot to play for the Devils,” Mark replies evenly, like he hasn’t just dangled the culmination of my entire career in front of me. “That’s been our goal from the beginning. Unless that’s changed?”
“No,” I blurt out. “Sorry, I’m just stunned, is all. This is great. Really great.”
Then why is the thought of leaving Boston and the Bobcats making me nauseous?
“Good. I’ll keep you posted.”
Mark ends the call before I get the chance to say goodbye.
In the quiet of my car, I rest my head against the smooth leather of the headrest and take a deep breath to calm my rapidly beating heart.
I’m not sure whether it’s from excitement or…
dismay? I’ve been working toward this since I was a kid.
It’s what Nathan and I always wanted. But now that it may be a reality, it feels too soon.
Like I haven’t done my due diligence as captain of the Bobcats.
But a person doesn’t simply give up their dream over a case of cold feet.
I take a few more deep breaths to center myself before making my way to O’Leary’s. By the time I push open the creaky wooden door, all thoughts of the Devils are pushed aside. It’s time to celebrate this win with my team.
It’s not hard to spot the guys. Every one of them is over six feet, with the honed muscle of a lumberjack.
With a beer in hand, I make my way over and slide into the open seat next to Elliott.
He’s another reason I agreed to come out.
Getting her brother’s approval may not make or break things with Maya, but it sure as hell won’t hurt.
“Berrett!” Logan yells, louder than necessary. The excitement in his expression is overkill, seeing as how we’ve only been apart for forty minutes. “You made it.”
“I’m a man of my word.” Turning to Maya’s brother, I give him a friendly smile. He’s calm and collected in a way that balances out Logan’s crazy and cockamamie ways. “Hey, Elliott. How’s it going?”
He tips his beer toward me and smiles. “Great game out there.”
I nod in thanks. “Too bad the person you came to watch spent most of the game in the penalty box.”
Logan gasps dramatically. “Rude. I only spent twenty minutes of the game there.”
Cameron and I exchange a knowing look. He takes a sip of his beer, then uses it to point at our left-winger. “That’s an entire period, bud.”
“I’m lucky I got to see you play at all,” Elliott chides with a raised brow.
He and Maya look nothing alike. Whereas Maya’s all soft angles and fair skin, Elliott’s got the build of a quarterback with an olive complexion.
But their sarcasm and facial expressions?
Scarily similar. I’d know, considering I’ve been on the end of that sardonic eyebrow raise more than a few times.
“He just can’t help but start shit on the ice.” Jake laughs, fishing a handful of peanuts from the small dish at the center of the table. “Happens every game.”
“I’m definitely dating an attention whore,” Elliott agrees.
In classic Logan fashion, he throws a hand against his chest and gasps so loudly it sounds like he’s asphyxiating. Rather than rolling his eyes like the rest of us, Elliott smiles like it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen.
“Cole,” a tantalizingly familiar voice calls out. “You finally made it.”
Heart leaping, I spin and blink once, then again, confirming that it is indeed Maya who’s just approached, wearing a Bobcats jersey and a wide smile. Now I’m really damn happy I agreed to come out tonight.
Cam bumps my leg under the table, snapping me out of my stupefied surprise. Tonight’s really taking me for a ride.
I pull her into my arms and let the familiar smell of her perfume surround me. Fuck the bath bomb. This right here is what I need. I have no idea why she’s here, but I’m relieved, nonetheless. “What’re you doing here, bean?”
It’s hard to miss the not-so-quiet comments of surprise from my friends at the nickname, but I block them out and focus on Maya.
“Enjoying a drink with the team after a win.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Duh.”
“You were at the game?”
She nods. “Yup.”
“But you had class,” I state dumbly. Every Sunday from three to six, and Tuesday and Thursday from five to seven. Like a lovesick puppy, I have a reminder set in my phone so I can text her good luck before class.
She shrugs and shoots me a shy smile. “Yeah, well, after all the smack talk about kicking the Raptors’ asses, I had to see if you lived up to your word.”
I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. “You even wore my jersey.”
She huffs a breath. “It’s not your jersey, it’s mine. I paid seventy whole dollars for this bad boy at the team store.”
Turning around, she drags her hair over her shoulder, showing me the back as if I don’t already know it’ll be Berrett embroidered in all capital letters. It goes halfway down her thighs, making it look like some kind of mini dress.
“Want me to sign it?” I tease. “Since you’re such a fan?”
“Hmm, then I could resell it for quadruple its value, right?”
The comment brings me back to when I first gave Maya tickets to the game, when she made a similar comment. I’m just as intrigued by her now as I was then. She’s a thirst I can’t quench.
“I told her you could get her a jersey for free, but she insisted on being a real fan and buying her own.” Sophie shakes her head. She slips into the open space next to Logan, making herself right at home.
“I was debating between your jersey or Cameron’s,” Maya says with a coy grin as she finally sits in the seat next to me. “Lucky for you, I like the number twenty-five better than thirty-five.”
A rough grunt explodes from my chest. I haven’t been jealous over a girl since Zara Owens chose to go to prom with Nathan instead of me during our sophomore year of high school. It was the first and last time we fought over a girl.
“I did play better than Berrett tonight,” Cam adds a little too loudly. “And I’ve got more abs than him.”
Chuckling, Maya brings her drink to her lips. “Good to know.”
When she sets her glass down, I grasp the leg of her stool and tug it toward me, putting distance between her and Cameron. He’d never poach, but that doesn’t mean I like the fake flirting. “How was class?”
A smile races over her face. “Really good. We dug into determining a character’s internal versus external conflict in a novel.”
A lightness fills my chest at the joy in her expression. “I don’t know what that means, but you sound excited about it, so I take it that’s a good thing.”
“Very good. I stayed after class to chat with the instructor, so I was a little late to the game.” She gives me a sheepish shrug. “But I made it before the halftime show.”
Everyone at the table cringes at the term halftime. “Intermission, not halftime,” I correct.
“That’s what I meant.” A flush washes over her cheeks. “It was very entertaining.”
I take a sip of my beer. “What game did they play?”
“Chuck-a-Puck. Two siblings played, and I don’t know what happened down there, but one of the boys started throwing his pucks at his brother instead of the target,” she informs me. “Do you guys not watch?”
“Berrett was doing his captain duties during intermission,” Jake teases. “Whipping us all into shape.”
Maya tilts her head. “Oh, really?”