FOURTEEN
Max
O n Friday night, I return to the ice and have my worst game of the season against Cape May. Heck, maybe since I became captain. That responsibility weighs so heavily on me suddenly. Being so caught up in my own head, I feel like I’m letting people down.
As a defenseman and the captain, it’s like cheering from the sidelines. Many centers are captains. That’s too much pressure in my opinion.
Even though we’re ahead by one goal, nothing is working for me tonight. I catch myself flinching whenever the other team’s center or wingmen power skate up to me. They’re practically snarling tonight. Playoff spots are on the line, so it’s understandable.
I’m nursing wounds this team doesn’t know about. Not that they’d take it easy on me if they did. They’d come at me harder. Just like I’d do to them.
Our crease is chaotic tonight. Their offense is on fucking fire. I’m not able to get a break and catch my breath except when my line leaves the ice. What used to feel like forever, salivating to get back in the fray, now feels like seconds.
It takes me until the second period when we’re down three-goals-to-one to realize I’m being watched.
Luca.
He’s positioned right next to Beck in what is arguably the most important spot, right behind the players. Coach needs to see everything on the ice. And apparently, someone decided so does Luca.
Does the security staff stare at us so intently like this? I doubt it. But I can’t say for sure. Luca is protecting me from an outside threat. In fact, staring at me won’t help.
On my next break, I turn around to tell him to knock it off, but this time, he’s facing the crowd. Looking high into the rafters where retired shirts and banners hang from steel beams.
Every player imagines their name and number up there. Getting your number retired is a BFD in any sport.
My mind strays to those back-to-back games against Richmond next week. They can shake up where we stand in our division. Coach reminds us not to dwell on first place and how many games we’re ahead. Or whether or not a win or loss will affect our position.
We have one job.
Win.
And if we win against Houston before we face Richmond, we clinch the playoffs. But the more we win, the better our position will be to have more games played here in our home arena. Sure, we all travel during the season. By May, after preseason training starts in August, we’re bone-weary. It’s better to make the other team travel more.
With a free moment to breathe, I spot Luca talking on his radio, then pointing at something. I look up, too. A sketchy looking dude is being pulled out by two guards. He’s not yelling like a drunk fan, in fact, he’s going quietly. Watching this, I nearly catch a stick in the jaw right after the puck drop.
With Luca facing the ice again, I let it all go. I’ll ask him later what happened. Right now, my job is to stop the puck from advancing to my goal.
Like Gordon Ramsey cuts up vegetables, I chop, chop, chop with my stick until the puck is free so I can pass it to the offense. But tonight, the damn thing keeps turning up in my zone like a stray dog I fed once .
Pushing myself, I stop the puck again and again. But Cape May catches a fluke bounce off my skate and scores, tying up the game.
Overtime.
Fuuuuck. I’m done. Sore. Tired.
But Madison, our forward, is hungry tonight as he rockets across the blue line. With Hayden hanging back, I follow the wingers, and we hammer the other team’s crease until the puck flies into the net.
I practically faceplant onto the ice. But my teammates drag me into a group hug, others clearing the bench to join us. We wave to the fans. Some throw merch onto the ice. The PR department recently announced that all merch thrown at us gets signed and donated to the local children’s hospital.
We clomp off the ice and into our dressing room. The equipment staff are everywhere, helping players off with skates. Trainers are there checking bandages and bruises, shining light pens into the eyes of the guys who took rough hits against the boards.
At the door, Luca stands with another security detail agent. That guy’s looking around the room smiling, reveling in the win. But Luca is only looking at me.
Not smiling.
After we give our interviews, shower, and dress, all suited up, I head for the exit with Luca silently trailing me. I was told I can no longer drive my car to the stadium like I’ve been doing my entire career. Now Luca drives me in a brand-new armored SUV with tinted windows. It’s a custom number the team rented for me.
The alarm chirps, and when I spin around, Luca is there with his fob. He hustles to walk ahead and opens the back door for me like I’m a Kardashian. Being driven around, and all this white-glove treatment, is not my brand .
“I’m tired of this shit.” I yank on the passenger door and pop into the shot-gun seat.
In the side mirror, I watch Luca slam the back door and with a sexy-as-fuck gait, stride to the driver’s side.
We drive in silence, and I let go of an exhale. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Luca asks, not facing me.
“For not forcing me to sit back there so my guys don’t see me being treated like a diva.”
A few players got into their expensive sports cars, some likely heading to O’Malleys. I didn’t even bother mentioning it to Luca, who undoubtedly would have said ‘no’ to going out. I’m too tired to party anyway.
With a rare weekend off, I plan to rest up. That means locking myself in my penthouse, only leaving for the practice facility’s training rooms.
When we reach a light, Luca’s gaze cuts to mine and he finally responds to my tantrum. “I know what to argue for and when to give a client space,” he says smoothly. “Don’t ever think you’re getting away with something or that I’ll give in if you wear me down.”
Wear me down... What a mouthful. And now I’m thinking of his mouth.
Bad. Bad. Bad.
“I saw you looking up into the stands during the game. What were you looking at?” I ask, staring straight ahead.
“The crowd.”
“Obviously.” I shake my head. “Did you see something in the mezzanine level? You got on your radio and looked stressed out.”
Luca yanks this tank of an SUV over two lanes, forcing me to grab hold of the ‘oh shit’ handle. The car behind us swerves. The driver lays on his horn, giving us the finger as they pass .
“What the hell?” I ask, loosening my grip on the handrest. I think it will have a permanent indentation of my fingerprints.
“You do not let anyone see you watch me,” he seethes.
“Why?”
“If this is an ongoing threat and Richmond is plotting another move, they are watching everything. Testing everything. To see what I’ll do. To see what you’ll do. If you took your eyes off the game to watch me, they just figured out distracting me distracts you, and that’s when they’ll strike.” He speaks with chilling confidence about the behavior of people who want to hurt me.
I shake my head, still needing answers. “Who got pulled out of the seat?”
Luca swears under his breath. “I don’t know. Stupid police let him go without getting a name before I had a chance to check him out.”
That doesn’t surprise me. “What was the guy doing?”
“Filming you. From what I saw.” Luca gets a good stare going on me, and I feel his gaze heating my skin.
“That’s it?” I ask, pulling at my tie.
“A guy in a suit, that high up, no jersey, no merch, no beer, filming you, right after you got attacked?”
I frown at the implication. “Why film me? The game is fucking broadcasted on live television!”
“Proof he was there.” Luca squeezes the steering wheel. “Typical contract hit behavior.”
The word hit twists my stomach. “Hit, as in killing me? One of the Russian guys had a knife that night. He could have stabbed me, but he didn’t. What the hell is going on?” As I beg for more details, I remember I grabbed their hockey stick. In my hands, that too is a lethal weapon .
The Russian may have just pulled the knife to defend himself.
“There’s been no communication from Richmond, no verbal or written threats. But I have you covered off the ice. That’s all that matters.”
I think about that. “You think they’ll attack me on the ice? ”
Luca glances out the side mirror, and swings back into the road. “They tried to get you off the ice and did a half-ass job. Whoever is behind this in Richmond won’t screw it up a second time. They’ll come at you when you least expect it. But with me around, it will be much more difficult.”
“You don’t know much about hockey. You can’t just attack a guy on the ice unprovoked.”
“It’s the only time I can’t physically protect you.” His visceral tone sends shivers through my veins.
“Trust me, if someone did something stupidly illegal on the ice, they’d have four guys and a cleared bench out there retaliating. What you’re talking about just doesn’t happen. It’s too easy to get caught. There are fines. Losing draft picks.”
“But the damage will be done. I’ve seen people get away with a lot of shit they shouldn’t.” His concern has an unexpected weight that keeps me quiet for a beat.
“I appreciate that, and that you bring a level of...” I want to say paranoia, but that’s rude. “Concern to this assignment.”
I still don’t believe I’m in any real danger. The GM and Coach Beck are being overly cautious.
But I’m too tired to argue anymore.