Chapter 15 #2
The frozen lasagna we ate for dinner that we picked up in Aberdeen is definitely not on my nutritionist’s approved list, but it was sinfully delicious. And right now, watching the firelight dance across the walls, and listening to Mother Nature showing off outside, I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m sitting on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, my back resting against the sofa, legs stretched out in front of me. Louis is perched on the sectional behind me, his injured arm propped up on pillows, and a plate balanced on his lap.
I reach for the bottle of IPA on the coffee table. The condensation is cold against my palm. I take a long swallow, the bitter hops biting at the back of my throat.
“Easy there, killer,” Louis teases, his voice low and vibrating with amusement. “I thought your body was a temple? Isn’t beer akin to pouring sludge into the engine of a Ferrari?”
I snort, staring into the flames. “Temple is closed for renovations tonight. Besides, if I don’t turn my brain off soon, the engine is going to overheat.”
“Still running the tape in that head of yours?”
“Always,” I admit. “I can’t stop thinking about everything. The standings. The pressure. All of it.”
Lou pauses as we enjoy the fire and the feeling of our full bellies.
“You wanna hear a little bedtime story about my early days? My first playoff start when I was playing for Montreal?”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “Um, duh! Who’s gonna say no to a bedtime story?“
He chuckles, leaning forward into the firelight, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Alright, so, it’s my first year as a starter in Montreal, right?
My second year in the league, and we scrape into the playoffs by the skin of our balls.
Of course, we get Boston in the first round, and they’re monsters—President’s Trophy winners, their best season in decades. ”
“Yeah, I remember that game,” I say thoughtfully. “Wasn’t that the one where you had some kind of equipment problem that caused you to miss part of the game?”
“Equipment problem was the official story, yep.”
“And you're telling me that wasn’t quite true?”
He chuckles, and I turn around, sitting cross-legged so I can face him.
“Before we continue, I should preface this by saying that I was younger then, and there’s a chance I wasn’t as strict about my diet as I am today.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. Of anyone on our team, Louis worries less about nutrition than anyone else. Something I used to find incredibly annoying.
“So, we’re in Boston the night before the game, and I’m hungry, but our coach was strict about curfew, and the restaurant was closed, so I decided to order in.” He pauses. “Indian food.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, starting to see where this story is going.
“Now, let me say, it was some of the best Indian food I’ve had in my entire life. Delicious. And I demolished it—probably ate enough for three guys.”
“Oh, no,” I say with another chuckle.
“Oh yes. So I wake on game day, and my stomach is a little… off. But I’m sure I’ll be fine by game time, and my coach would’ve my balls on a silver platter if he figured out the reason I wasn’t feeling well, so I didn’t say anything.
Figured I’d tough it out. You know, man up and power through it.
So by game time, my stomach is making noises like a washing machine full of tennis shoes. ”
“Oh my god, you played sick? Like, puking?” I can’t hide my disbelief. Even I’m not that stubborn.
Lou throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, sweet summer child, I wish I’d been puking. No, Young Padawan, my issues were coming from a place quite a bit south of puking.”
“Oh my god! You didn’t? During the game?”
“Well, by some miracle, I make it through the game. The big problem is that when the final buzzer sounds, it’s tied.
We gotta go into overtime, and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have an—ahem—incident, like immediately.
So the second the horn sounds, I’m off the ice, making a break for the bathroom.
My ass cheeks are clenched so hard I’m pretty sure I could have turned a lump of coal into a diamond. ”
“Holy shit,” I choke out.
“Indeed,” he snickers, taking a pull from his beer. “ So there I am, in full gear, waddling at top speed down the tunnel like some kind of armored penguin in distress.”
Oh my god, I howl. “But you made it, right? You didn’t actually shit your pants right there on the ice?”
“Pretty fuckin’ close,” he laughs. “But I make it to the bathroom and full-on dive into the stall,” Louis continues, animating the story with his good hand. “There’s barely time to get my pants and Under Armour down far enough so that I can sorta hover there and, uh—let nature take its course.”
“Oh my god.” I wipe away tears of laughter.
“So I’m in there dying. It's violent, like my guts are staging a coup, and I’m praying to every deity I know to either end this or kill me. And then I hear Fredéric, our equipment manager, calling for me.”
He puts on a ridiculous French Canadian accent. “Louis! Louis! Where are you? Coach is looking for you! Deux minutes! You must get back on ze ice!”
I’m doubled over with laughter by now.
“Anyway, I’ll never know how, but I managed to get myself under control and get back out there.
But I did miss the first three minutes and thirty-four seconds of overtime.
Our poor backup had to go in cold because I was trapped in a bathroom stall, shitting my brains out in full goalie gear, while eighteen thousand people wondered where I went. ”
The laughter rips out of me almost unexpectedly. The stress, the anxiety, the constant low-level hum of need-to-be-better snaps, as I fight for breath and my stomach starts cramping.
“A heavily armored penguin!” I gasp, wiping at my eyes.
“Hockey is not always a dignified sport, Tanner,” Louis says solemnly. “You gotta let that shit go. Literally, in my case.”
“Oh my god,” I breathe, forcing air back into my lungs. “The great Louis Tremblay. Defeated by curry.”
“It keeps you humble.”
The laughter slowly tapers off, leaving a comfortable silence. The fire crackles while outside, the storm throws rain against the glass in aggressive sheets, but in here, it’s cozy and warm and comfortable. Secure.
The firelight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth. His hair is messy, falling over his forehead, and his sling makes him look vulnerable in a way he never allows on the ice. He’s looking back at me, his dark eyes soft.
He’s not a statue or an idol. He’s a guy who eats bad takeout and laughs at himself. He’s a guy who brought me here, to the edge of the world, because he knew I was drowning.
What I’m feeling isn’t about admiration or envy because I want this man’s job. I don’t want what he has anymore—I just want him.
The guy who sees me so clearly. Who somehow knows what I need and gives it to me before I’ve even realized it.
Louis holds my gaze, his eyes still full of laughter, but there’s more. There’s heat and want. The air between us crackles almost louder than the fire.
I take a slow breath, letting the cedar and warmth fill my lungs.