Chapter 41 #2
The spotlight illuminated the American flag, but it also lit up the row of jerseys a few rafters back.
My gaze locked on the one sporting number sixty-one.
I had to swallow hard, but I didn’t feel as brittle as I had during our home opener or during the ceremony when they’d retired Leif’s number.
If anything, determination swelled in me.
Leif would’ve understood the need to grieve, but he also would’ve worried himself sick if someone couldn’t get back on their feet.
If they were struggling so hard that they couldn’t move forward.
In fact…
Standing there on the ice with Leif’s jersey high above me, it occurred to me that Rachel had been right.
Had the roles been reversed and I’d been the one with my jersey raised long before my time, Leif might well have collapsed the same way I had.
He was tough as nails, but he had the biggest heart of anyone I’d ever known.
How had I thought for even a moment that he would’ve disapproved of or been disappointed by my collapse, when I knew—I fucking knew—he’d have struggled just as hard in my skates?
Maybe he wouldn’t have crashed and burned the same way I had, but I was a damn fool to think he wouldn’t have been an absolute mess after losing a friend. Or even a teammate he didn’t know well.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d been afraid I was letting my best friend down by coming unraveled the way I had.
And somehow, gazing up at his number right now, I understood that Leif would’ve tried to hold up the team the same way I had.
He’d have piled everyone’s grief and shock onto himself and tried to carry us all, hiding his own pain and soothing everyone else’s until he—being as human as anyone else—would’ve crumbled.
I closed my eyes, surprised I didn’t squeeze a tear free. As the anthem wrapped up, I took and released a deep breath, feeling lighter as yet another anchor chain fell away.
I’m not weak. I’m not a fuckup.
I’m as human as the man I’m still grieving.
And tonight, I’m going to do his memory proud.
Just before we broke away to set up for the faceoff, Peyton bumped my glove with his. When I turned, he was smiling, and I smiled right back.
My first game with these men in way too long, and then I’ll spend the rest of the night sleeping next to you.
Hell yeah.
A minute later, the puck dropped, and we were off and running.
The Pittsburgh Whiskey Rebels were bound and determined to wring two points out of this team, but Charlotte was going to make us work for it.
Though we won the first faceoff, they stole the puck and broke away, speeding into our zone, three-on-two against our defensemen while we forwards were hot on their heels.
Eminem got to the puck carrier first with a hard hip-check that almost sent the guy sprawling.
Somehow, the guy didn’t lose possession, and even a viper-fast poke check from Trews didn’t relieve him of the puck.
They were almost on top of the crease now, the puck carrier dancing through the defensemen as he tried to either pass or shoot.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t see Peyton coming, though.
Just as the puck carrier deftly avoided another check from Eminem, Peyton swiped the puck right off his stick. He spun away from another of Charlotte’s players, and I—hovering near the blue line—slapped my stick on the ice.
There was too much traffic for Peyton to pass it to me, so he did the next best thing—he whipped around behind the goal and saucer-passed over everyone’s heads. I was wide open, and I tracked the puck, mentally calculating if I should chase it or—
Nope, it was low enough.
I jumped up, snatched it out of the air, dropped it to the ice, and tore across the red line, then the blue one. I had no idea what was going on behind me because the crowd was going absolutely insane, drowning out every sound and even my own thoughts.
I skated for all I was worth toward the goal, focusing on the goalie, tracking his movements, watching him watch me. Fake it? Backhand? Top shelf? Five-hole?
I wound back to rip a shot over his shoulder, and when he rose to anticipate it, I snapped it under his pad.
The roar that came out of me was swallowed up by the crowd. Elation surged through me, and I banged myself off the glass in the same instant the red light came on.
My first game after rehab. My first shift. My first shot.
I was fucking back.
My teammates crushed me in hugs, smacking my helmet and shoulders.
“Welcome back, Calds!” Eminem shouted over the noise.
“Fuck yeah, Captain!” Trews said.
Peyton didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to. The pride and love in his eyes said it all.
The impulse to knock our helmets off and kiss him was almost overwhelming.
If not for the deafening roar around us, not to mention the hands pounding on the glass behind me, I might have forgotten we were in front of thousands of fans, not to mention all the cameras.
I might have locked lips with him right then and there.
And goddammit, I wanted to do exactly that.
Fortunately, I kept my head together. He and I exchanged a gloved fist bump, and then I was leading the guys to the bench for more fist bumps.
Our shift was over, so we took our places on the bench.
As Peyton dropped beside me, his shoulder touched mine, and I had to fight hard not to put an arm around him or rest a hand on his thigh.
Physical affection was just so easy between us.
So habitual. And damn it, I’d had to spend two weeks away from him while I was on my conditioning loan, and Peyton had been on the road with the team until yesterday morning, so we’d only had one night together lately. I needed to be able to touch him.
Not now, though. Hockey now. Hands all over Peyton later. I could wait.
Or, well, I thought I could.
I kept it all under the surface until early in the third period.
We were up 4-2, and we had Charlotte on their heels.
The fourth line kept them hemmed into their end the way they were so good at doing—keeping them busy and unable to do even a partial line change despite their players being absolutely gassed.
Then our guys started to peel away one after the other, and my line along with Eminem and Trews hit the ice to push hard against the exhausted Charlotte players.
Davis was the last to join us, and his timing was perfect—a Charlotte defenseman had made a desperation play, flinging the puck toward the penalty boxes to get it out of the zone without icing it.
Two of them had seized the opportunity to drag their tired asses toward the bench, probably thinking the puck was about to leave the zone, so we’d also have to leave, regain possession, and re-enter the zone to keep it onside.
What they didn’t expect was Davis intercepting the puck just before it would’ve crossed the blue line.
Now it was still onside, they had two players way out of position, and the remaining three were ready to collapse.
Davis passed to Eminem, who shouldered his way past a breathless defenseman, and fired the puck toward the goal.
Peyton was waiting at the edge of the crease, and he tipped it in easily.
The horn sounded. The red light came on. The crowd lost it.
And fuck me, but the absolute joy radiating off Peyton almost dropped my knees out from under me.
How had I landed such an absolutely stunning man?
And how the hell was I supposed to keep my hands off him for another—I glanced at the clock—seventeen and a half minutes?
Fuck it.
Just before we were going to skate to the bench for fist bumps, I couldn’t resist, and I asked, “You care if the fans know about us?”
Surprise took over his expression, but only for a second. Then his grin lit up the whole arena, and he pulled off his helmet. “Absolutely the fuck not.”
My heart went wild, and I took off my own helmet, glided a little closer, and kissed him.
I thought the crowd had gone nuts when my name was announced or when I’d scored, but I was utterly unprepared for the way they responded to the two of us kissing. If anyone didn’t like it, their distaste was completely lost in the deafening, stadium-shaking roar that went up.
We broke the kiss and looked up, and sure enough, we were on the Jumbotron. We laughed and waved, which only egged the crowd on.
No one needed a delay of game penalty, though, so we kept it short, and we went to the bench so Baddy’s line could go out.
I had my nose buried in the iPad a moment later, watching the replay of our last shift, when the crowd started going nuts yet again. I snapped my head up to see what was happening.
But… there was nothing really happening on the ice. There’d been an icing call, and everyone was getting ready for another faceoff.
Then Peyton elbowed me and pointed up.
As soon as I saw the Jumbotron, my jaw went slack.
The camera was on us.
And there was a pink heart around us with the words KISS CAM blinking below us.
Suddenly all our teammates were banging their sticks on the boards and telling us, “Give the fans what they want!”
“Oh my God,” I said.
“You heard ’em.” Peyton touched my face and turned me toward him, and…
And oh, wow, we gave the fans what they wanted.
Brief. Chaste. Nothing that would cause a scandal beyond “OMG two men kissing.” But I could guarantee that no one in this building or watching at home had any question about if Peyton and I were together.
Yeah, we’d probably hear about it from PR.
Quite frankly?
I really didn’t care.