Chapter 10 #2
The air was cold, but it didn’t have the bite of a midwestern winter like I’d grown up with in Omaha, never mind the two seasons of major juniors I played in Quebec or the years I’d spent in Detroit. Today reminded me a little of the chill of a practice rink—comfortable and familiar.
We joined some of the guys and the wives on the back deck. Below us, Avery and Ziggy were kicking a soccer ball around in the yard with several of the kids, and I… couldn’t help staring.
This was the first time since I’d come to Pittsburgh that I really saw Avery relaxed and smiling. He and Ziggy were chirping each other, but they were mostly encouraging the kids, and they cheered them on every time one got the ball into one of the two hockey nets on the grass.
When one of the younger kids tripped and fell, Avery helped her up and dusted her off.
He didn’t fall all over himself and freak out that she might’ve been hurt—just made sure she was okay and got her smiling again before any tears could start.
Within seconds, they were back to their game, the little girl trotting after the ball and giggling with Avery right on her heels.
Oh, fuck me—that was the version of Avery that had made coming to Pittsburgh extra appealing. Relaxed. Laughing. So adorable with kids that it made my insides go all gooey. I’d seen so many videos of him with young fans or with the Make-A-Wish kids, and he was always ridiculously cute with them.
Today, the transformation was jaw-dropping.
It wasn’t just that his face lit up when the kids wanted to play—it was like he came alive.
Yeah, he’d chirped along in the basement while we’d played pool, but there’d still been that sad edge to his mood.
Now that he was outside with the little ones, he seemed to have shaken off everything else.
Maybe in another time and place, I could have acted on this attraction. Nobody cared anymore if players were gay or if teammates dated. It just wasn’t a big deal.
But there was no chance of something happening between me and Avery. Not even if this attraction was mutual, which it probably wasn’t.
As the informal soccer game wore on, I realized Leif’s widow was watching, too, a serene smile on her face.
She turned to me. “Oh. I don’t think we were ever really introduced.” She offered her hand. “I’m Rachel Erlandsson.”
“Peyton Hall.” I shook her hand gently, not quite sure what to say.
“How are you liking it here?”
“It’s been good so far.” I laughed. “Not as cold as Omaha or Detroit, so…”
She laughed too. “The milder winters are nice, that’s for sure.” She gestured at the kids playing with Avery and Ziggy. “Are any of them yours?”
“No. No. I’m… It’s just me.”
“Gotcha. Well, the little one out there is Elsa, my youngest.” She nodded toward the yard. “The two brunettes are also mine. Kalle and Linnea.”
I realized then that Elsa was the girl Avery had helped up earlier.
“They’re cute,” I said. “Looks like they’re having a good time.”
“They always do.” She laughed softly. “And they’ll probably sleep hard tonight. Playing like this always wears them out.”
I cocked a brow. “The kids? Or…?” I gestured at Ziggy and Avery.
She giggled softly. “Well, the kids. They’re always exhausted after spending time with their uncles.” She quirked her lips. “The guys probably sleep pretty hard, too.”
I laughed. “Yeah, my nieces and nephews wear me out. Maybe that’s the secret to getting everyone to sleep on road trips.” I nodded toward the soccer game. “Turn them loose with some kids until everyone passes out.”
“You’re not wrong. They always—” She caught herself, and her voice hitched a little. She cleared her throat, then said, with a smile that seemed ever so slightly forced, “They always wore their dad out.”
Shit. All roads led to him, didn’t they? I couldn’t blame her at all; it just had to be hard, having a casual conversation and slamming face first into your grief.
“I bet,” I said quietly. “My brother has Irish twins. One’s three, the other is two. He’s always passed out on the couch even before they go to bed.”
That brought a hint of life back to her expression, and she smiled with a touch more feeling. “I can imagine. A pair of toddlers? Been there, done that.” She grimaced and crossed herself, and we both laughed.
I wasn’t sure what to say after that.
Fortunately, we were interrupted by Baddy letting us all know it was time for dinner. There was a veritable stampede of children onto the deck and into the house, with Avery and Ziggy following at a more subdued pace.
“They didn’t wear you out, did they?” I asked them.
“What?” Avery scoffed. “Of course not.” He smacked Ziggy’s arm. “I was just hanging back in case this old guy collapsed or—”
“Oh, fuck you, Calds.” Ziggy shoved Avery, knocking him right into me.
I caught his arm and shoulder, and I laughed. “Whoa, easy there.”
Avery laughed. “I’m good. I’m good.”
As he righted himself, he met my gaze, and for a split second, we both froze. My pulse sped up. I had no idea what I was seeing in his stunning hazel eyes—what thought was crossing his mind and giving him pause—only the words that slammed into my own consciousness:
Holy shit, you’re gorgeous up close.
Mercifully, he broke eye contact and cleared his throat. “Come on. We better find seats before they start putting people on the floor.”
“On the floor?” I huffed. “What kind of uncivilized Thanksgiving is this?”
“Eh,” Avery said over his shoulder as he headed inside. “Baddy’s hosting. We have to keep our expectations low.”
Something flew at Avery’s head, though he deftly avoided it. A dinner roll, I thought. That was followed by, “I heard that!”
“I wasn’t trying to be quiet!” Avery fired back.
I just chuckled, my heart still pounding for reasons I didn’t want to think about right then.
Despite the huge house, space was a little limited with this many people and their families, and several of us did end up in the living room, which was fine.
The dining room table was designated for the kids, and there was a longer table for most of the adults.
Some of the parents had worked out a system where three would sit with the kids for a while, then trade with three others and rejoin the adults.
I thought about offering to help, but they seemed to have it down to a science, so I left well enough alone.
Those of us who didn’t fit at the table loaded our plates and settled onto the couch and chairs in the living room. Baddy’s wife provided TV trays for anyone who wanted them, and there was the coffee table and end tables. Most of us just perched our plates on our laps.
I sat on the end of the couch with Mix in the middle and Ziggy on the other end. Baddy took one of the recliners; he and Eminem were swapping kid table detail, so at some point, Eminem would come in and take that spot. Trews and Laramie sat on the floor and put their plates on the coffee table.
In the recliner kitty corner to me, his plate on his thigh and his other leg slung over an armrest as if he’d been thrown into the chair, was Avery.
He picked up his beer off the coffee table.
“Hey, Mix.” He tilted the bottle toward our teammate.
“Tell the new guys about that prank we pulled on you when you were a rookie.”
Laramie straightened a little, clearly interested.
For his part, Trews looked justifiably alarmed.
Mix sighed, jabbing his fork into a green bean. “You really want me to tell new guys what an absolute bag of dicks you are?”
“Pfft.” Ziggy tilted his beer bottle toward me, then Laramie and Trews. He said something to Mix in Russian, which got a grunt and a shrug that I thought translated to, “okay, fair point.”
“Hey.” Avery lobbed a bean at Ziggy’s head. “How about sharing with the whole class?”
Ziggy threw it back. “I said, ‘You don’t think they know by now? They’re not stupid.’”
Laramie, Trews, and I all nodded, and I was a little too enamored with the wicked laugh from Avery. He was gorgeous to begin with, but he’d been so sad and distant since training camp, his stunning smile far too rare. Whenever one broke through, it messed with my pulse.
Thank God, none of them noticed me staring at him. Or nearly dropping the plate I was carefully balancing on my lap.
That was just what I needed—to mop up my Thanksgiving dinner off Baddy’s carpet while the whole team realized I’d been ogling our captain.
While I regained my dignity and equilibrium, Mix put his beer bottle down and sighed.
“These assholes. When I came to Pittsburgh, I lived with Sigayev.” He tipped his head toward Ziggy.
“Because my English was…” He furrowed his brow, then turned to Ziggy, who said something to him in Russian.
Nodding sharply, Mix said, “My English was less good.” He narrowed his eyes at Avery. “And that asshole…”
“What?” Avery snickered. “I didn’t do anything!”
“Bullshit.” Mix rolled his eyes. To us new guys, he said, “He had Willie write everything on whiteboard in French. And then he paid Coach—the one we had back then—to start practice in French.”
Laramie groaned. “Oh, God. My team did that to me in major juniors.”
Trews shot him a look. “Didn’t you play in Quebec?”
“Yeah, but still.” Laramie shrugged. “My French sucked.”
“At least you knew a little French,” Mix muttered. “Me?” He tsked and shook his head. “All I know is French curses.”
At that, Laramie brightened. “Well, yeah. That’s the important shit!”
Mix laughed. “Russian curses are better.”
Trews frowned. “I don’t know any of those.”
“What?” Ziggy straightened. “How are you in this league, and you don’t know how to swear in Russian?” He waved a hand and didn’t wait for a response. Thumping the end table with his finger, he said, “Time for you to learn.”
And just like that, he and Mix were off and running, filling the rookie’s head with Russian profanity. Laramie listened intently, too; he hadn’t picked up nearly as much as I had during major juniors.
As I sat back and watched the interplay, laughing at Trews and Laramie sounding out the new words, I sensed someone watching me.
I turned and met Avery’s gaze. He jumped a little, as if he hadn’t expected to get caught, and he flicked his eyes back to our teammates.
After a second or two, he cautiously looked my way again.
I hesitated, then offered a small smile.
When he returned it…
Oh, fuck me.
I didn’t want to read anything into it, so I didn’t. I refused to interpret that mischievous little sparkle in his eyes as anything other than amusement over our teammates discussing Russian curses.
But as I turned my attention back to the swearing lesson, my pulse pounded in ways it had no business pounding. Suddenly I was in that same place I’d been when I’d first signed with Pittsburgh, wondering how I would ever concentrate with Avery Caldwell on the ice beside me.
He wasn’t flirting, Peyton.
He’s just being friendly, and he’s laughing at all the Russian talk.
Get a grip.
I chanced another look at him.
Busted him looking right back at me.
And when he pulled his gaze away this time…
Oh, fuck me again.
He blushed.