Chapter 15
AVERY
I had hoped that the brief holiday break would give both Peyton and me a chance to forget what happened in Detroit.
No such luck.
I knew the instant I walked into the locker room for our morning skate that he hadn’t let it go. He met my gaze, then quickly dropped his and refused to look my direction again. That boded well for a pleasant practice.
Though I wasn’t much better off, to be honest. The best parts of my whirlwind trip back to Abbottsford had been the annual tradition of getting hammered with my cousins on Christmas Eve.
My dad, brother, and I had all shuffled downstairs on Christmas morning, eyes barely open as we sucked down coffee and tried not to collapse beneath the weight of our hangovers.
That had been about twelve blissful hours of not caring about anything, followed by several hours of wondering if my head might explode.
By the time I’d sobered up enough to care about much, I was jumping on a plane and heading back to Pittsburgh.
Now I was back here. Back in Pittsburgh. Back in the Whiskey Rebels’ locker room.
Back in the place that reminded me of Leif and back in the crosshairs of my linemate’s icy contempt and relentless pity.
For the millionth time, I wished I’d just gone up to my room in Detroit and gotten trashed in peace. I never got that drunk in public, and the fact that it was Peyton who’d seen me? Fuuuck.
Putting on my gear took more work than it should have.
Even pulling on my base layer was a struggle because my hands were shaky and sweaty, and my mind was just…
not here. It didn’t help when Peyton got up and clomped out of the room toward the sheet.
Was I imagining the extra sharpness in his steps? The anger in his gait?
Maybe. Maybe not. Did anything make sense anymore?
I sighed as I dropped onto the bench and started putting on my shinpads. I hated the mixed bag of bullshit that set up shop in my brain every time I looked at Peyton. Every time I thought about him, honestly, but especially when I looked at him. When we were in the same room, the same plane.
The same bar.
I cringed inwardly. That night he’d taken me back to my hotel room weighed miserably on my shoulders, the humiliation burning in my chest. I hated the shame that burrowed behind my ribs whenever he asked me if I was okay, or when he looked at me like he wanted to ask because he suspected something was wrong.
Oh, there was something wrong, but he’d never understand. Nobody would. They’d all think I was a mess—mostly because I was a mess—and then they’d know I wasn’t worthy of a Whiskey Rebels sweater. Especially not one with a C on it.
And the mess just got messier the more I thought about it, because sometimes he’d catch my eye, and an entirely different but equally unpleasant feeling would sweep through me: how much I wanted him.
God, he was so damn hot. Of course I’d always loved the way hockey players were built—lean, sculpted muscle was my absolute catnip.
Peyton was on the broader end of the spectrum for guys in our sport; he wasn’t built like a football player or anything, but his shoulders were a little wider, and his hips and thighs—oh my God.
The things a man could do to me with a physique like that?
Jesus Christ, I hadn’t been laid in way too long, and I’d have chewed off a limb to have someone like him take me for a ride.
But every time that zing of attraction took hold, it was followed immediately by an avalanche of embarrassment and self-loathing.
Yeah, he was hot as hell, but in what universe would he be even slightly interested in me after what had happened in that hotel room?
Even if he’d been totally onboard—both into me and game for hooking up with a teammate—I’d seen to it that that ship sailed, sank, and vanished through a wormhole.
Snowball’s chance in hell didn’t begin to describe the odds of Peyton ever laying a hand on me.
Damn shame, too, even in those moments when looking at him had rage flaring in my chest.
As I continued gearing up, all those conflicting thoughts colliding inside my head, Leif’s voice came to the surface: “A hundred bucks plus three steak dinners on the road says you screw him before the season’s over.”
Fuck.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry or throw up. Maybe both.
But I couldn’t. Sometimes I did one or the other, but right now, I had to put on my gear, get on the ice, and convince everyone who was looking that I still had any business on this team.
No, I wouldn’t be losing that bet, and not just because the man who’d offered the wager wasn’t here to collect. There was no way Peyton wanted a piece of me now. Early on, I’d caught him stealing glances at me, and there’d been that glimmer of hope that the attraction was mutual.
One drink too many, though. One stupid, drunk mistake in a hotel room.
And now I had to keep playing alongside the man my best friend had bet would be in my bed before the season was out, knowing that at best, Peyton looked at me with pity.
That didn’t bode well for teammates, especially linemates, and it definitely didn’t pave the way toward anything sexy or affectionate.
One minute I hated him for what happened that night and everything he said after. Couldn’t he have just left me to drink myself stupid in peace?
The next minute, though, I hated myself. Why hadn’t I just stayed in my damn room? So what if I’d already gone through the minibar? I could’ve ordered more booze. Hell, I could’ve DoorDashed more.
But no, I’d taken my ass down to the bar, and Peyton hadn’t been able to just walk by and leave me alone, and now…
Now we could barely look at each other.
What the hell was I supposed to do about any of that?
My focus sharpened when I went out for warmups that night.
We were playing in Boston, and these assholes had knocked us out of the playoffs last year.
It hadn’t been pretty, either; things had gone all right for the first two games of the series, but then they’d started injuring our players.
They’d been out for blood, and they’d gotten it, with the refs only calling some of them as minor penalties instead of ejecting players and fining or suspending them. It was a shitshow and a half.
By the fourth game, three of our forwards and two defensemen were down with head injuries.
In games five and six, we lost both goalies.
The next thing we knew, were in an elimination game with five kids from the farm team skating, our third-string goalie in the net, and a nineteen-year-old backup goalie who’d never played at this level before, never mind in the playoffs.
They’d wiped the floor with us.
Now we were healthy and out for redemption. And revenge. Revenge was definitely on the list.
They weren’t just going to roll over and take it, though. As soon as the puck dropped, the game turned physical. Hard checks. At least three or four crosschecks that didn’t get called.
Okay, fine. If the refs weren’t going to call penalties—prison rules!
A defenseman tried to poke-check the puck away from me.
I slammed him hard into the boards—not high, not dangerously, but definitely enough to leave him in a heap while I continued into the offensive zone.
A minute later, someone slammed Davis into the boards, which resulted in a brief scuffle, but no gloves came off and no whistle was blown.
Boston snagged possession and broke away, and Davis wisely ditched the scrum to help us on defense.
Then during a commercial break, Astala and someone from Boston started yapping at each other, which led to them dropping gloves.
The video must’ve been hilarious for people watching at home—two players going at it while the ice crew skated around them with their snow shovels.
After sitting for five minutes, Astala and the other guy came out of the box during another stoppage, and there was still two and a half minutes to go in the first period.
The fans were getting their money’s worth, that was for damn sure.
The second period started much the same way.
Lots of checking, pushing, shoving, and crosschecking.
And we were moving the puck around and getting scoring chances during that, too.
We’d come out of the first period with a 2-0 lead, thanks in part to Ziggy standing on his head, and now we were as determined to make it 3-0 as Boston was to get on the board and catch up with us.
Seconds after yet another faceoff, a whistle shrieked at the same time there was a ripple of shock from the crowd.
Oh, no. What now?
I turned, and the panic that tore through me almost knocked me off my skates.
Blood pounded in my ears, the only sound in the otherwise silent arena.
Someone was down, one of our guys and an opposing player crouched beside him as Trews waved to our bench for help.
Oh. Shit.
I skated closer, and just before Evan got to him, I saw the number on his sleeve.
Nineteen.
Peyton.
Evan crouched beside him. Peyton was moving, at least; hands and feet, which was always a good sign. He was on his side, though, curled in on himself. That could mean any number of things. Head injury? Ribs? Wind knocked out of him?
Evan still had his towel over his shoulder, so no blood. A good sign, but it also left a lot of questions.
Come on. How bad is he?
Please get up, Peyton.
Please, please get up.
I didn’t think my heart had ever beat as fast as it did in that moment, and it was only when my vision started darkening around the edges that I realized I’d forgotten to breathe.
Shit. Shit, I needed to pull it together. There was nothing I could do to help Peyton, and falling to pieces myself wouldn’t help him or anyone else.
I skated in some small circles, ostensibly to keep my legs loose. Mostly I just needed to move. I couldn’t stay still and watch Evan tending to Peyton.