Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
AIDAN
“Renaud!” Our head coach, Charlie Wilcott, motions me over to where he’s standing at the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, as he watches us doing drills. Behind him, AJ stands at our bench.
I skate over, coming to a stop in front of him, and pull off my helmet. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You think anymore about the alternate captain position? We need to make an announcement soon.”
My gaze flicks to where AJ stands next to him.
“Honestly, I’m still conflicted.”
“Why’s that, son?” he asks. He’s the kind of coach who makes you feel like you’re part of the family.
I came on the team at the same time he did, and even though he was also new, he made me feel welcome from my first day.
I improved more as a player in the years I played for him, before my injury, than I’d developed in all the years before that.
There’s been a lot of speculation over the years about what the media calls “The Wilcott Effect”—why his players develop so quickly and his team makes it to the Stanley Cup Playoffs yearly.
But the answer is simple, really. He encourages you to be a better player, and then refuses to let you settle for anything less than your best. It makes me think of what AJ said a couple weeks ago: Sometimes, all people need in order to reach their potential is an invitation.
“I’ve been so focused this past year on getting back to playing, and I promised myself that there’d be no distractions. That I’d be singularly focused on being the best player I can be.”
“What if being the best player you can be means stepping up in other ways, too?” Coach asks, his head cocked as he watches me consider his question.
“I’m just not sure if being in a leadership position, being a role model on the team, is the kind of player I am.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, my response clearly disappointing him. “Because, especially with Colt retiring at the end of the season, our team could use more leaders. We can always find someone else to take your position, but we’d really like it to be you.”
I glance between them, trying to figure out if by “your position” they mean my position on the team, or the leadership position they’ve already decided should be mine.
Could be either, honestly, since I’m in the last year of my contract.
I’d really like to re-sign with the Rebels, and not have the long, drawn out contract process McCabe had last year.
“You’re already going to have to change your brand of playing, Renaud,” AJ says, and I can tell just by her voice that she’s trying to deliver this news gently.
“Being the best hockey player you can be, and being a good teammate at the same time, will mean you’re already right for the alternate captain role. ”
I wonder again if this is AJ’s way of keeping me in line, and I’m tempted to tell her that the real reason I’m so hesitant here is that I don’t know if the guys on the team see me as captain material.
It’s hard to know. While they’ve welcomed me back enthusiastically, the vibe of the team has shifted in a way that leaves me feeling like the ice is shifting beneath my feet.
Perhaps this is my coach and GM’s way of smoothing that transition, making me feel like an integral part of the team rather than an outsider stepping back in? Or maybe I’m just overthinking the fuck out of this, as I’m liable to do.
“All right,” I say, hoping I don’t regret this choice.
Coach claps a hand onto my shoulder pads, giving me a shake. “Good choice, Renaud.”
“We’ll tell the team at the end of practice today,” AJ says, “and announce it publicly right after.” She glances across the ice where Morgan is standing with the social media intern, and motions her over.
It’s taken every ounce of my willpower not to glance over at her every time I’m not involved in a drill or a play, but I keep reminding myself: No distractions.
Now that they’re making me a captain, it’s more important than ever.
“I should get back to practice,” I say, shaking the sweat from my hair before putting my helmet back on.
“Yep,” Coach says. “And you’re looking good out there, keep it up.”
Practice ends about fifteen minutes later, and I’m relieved when AJ announces the captain positions for this season and I skate forward to stand next to McCabe and Walsh to the cheers of my teammates.
We stand there together so photos can be taken, and then our teammates pile in behind us for one big group photo.
I take my time after that, as we file off the ice, just absorbing the feel of the place. A few weeks ago, this rink felt different—unfamiliar, though not unwelcoming. Now, it’s starting to feel like home again.
“Good choice today, man,” McCabe says, knocking his shoulder with mine before he hands me a beer. Thankfully, tonight we’ve picked a proper bar to celebrate the end of our second week of training camp, so I’m not stuck drinking a fucking margarita.
Though if I’m being honest, the level of discretion at The Neon Cactus was nice. Whether they realize we’re professional hockey players or not, no one bothers us there. But at this place, people keep coming up and asking for pictures.
After a year without this kind of notoriety, I’m torn between annoyance at the constant interruptions while I’m trying to hang out with my teammates, and being grateful people remember I exist. With the announcement the Rebels put out this afternoon, naming me as the new alternate captain alongside Walsh, and renaming McCabe as our captain, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m at the forefront of Boston sports fans’ minds.
“Fucking finally,” Colt says.
“What do you mean, finally?” I ask. For at least the last decade, Colt’s been the unofficial captain on this team, since he’s a goalie and can’t wear the C on the ice.
“It’s about time you stepped up. You could be a leader out there and instead you spend half your time in the penalty box.”
“Pfft. You sound like AJ,” I say.
“Because I’m always right?” Colt smirks. “This is a good move for you,” he says, more sincerely. “I feel good about this.”
I wait for him to say something sarcastic, but it doesn’t come.
“Are you getting sentimental in your old age, Colt?” I ask, tipping my beer back as my gaze catches behind him where Morgan has walked in with Jules, Audrey, and AJ.
McCabe and Colt had said “the girls went over to visit Eva” while Hartmann came out with us, but I hadn’t realized that his departure half an hour ago meant they’d be showing up here.
I see what she means about how intertwined she is with my teammates.
I can think of at least five reasons I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
But no matter what I tell myself, she’s always running through my mind.
I look for her every time I’m at the Rebels practice rink.
I picture her every time my hand is around my cock.
I haven’t thought of or looked at another woman since I met her.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt this way about anyone that I almost don’t recognize the feeling.
But when I do, I also remember all the heartache that came with the one and only time I let myself fall for someone.
I don’t want to be infatuated with my stepsister, but I think I’m quickly heading in that direction.
“Dude,” McCabe says as his elbow digs into my side, “you’re staring. And I’m going to guess you’re not eying my girlfriend or Colt’s fiancée, so why can’t you take your eyes off Morgan?”
Fuck. Fuckety fuck. I forgot that under that scowl and his hardened exterior, McCabe is incredibly observant. It’s a skill I’d like him to lose at the moment, especially since I’m not thinking as quickly as I should after these last few beers.
“Just . . . thinking that I never thanked her for the write up she did on me coming back this year.”
On either side of me, my friends snort out laughs that let me know they’re not buying that story. Luckily, there isn’t time for them to comment on my lie before the women are right in front of us.
Her friends cozy up to my friends, and when she glances at me, she looks a bit uncomfortable. She takes in the drinks in our hands and says, “I’m going to go get us some drinks. AJ, Jules, what do you guys want?”
She heads to the bar with her friends’ drink orders, and I give myself a moment to watch the sway of her hips as her short skirt highlights her thick, toned thighs.
Then I snap my gaze back to my friends before I let myself remember what those thighs felt like wrapped around my waist in that cave and around my head in that hotel room.
But as I chat with them, listening to all the updates on Luke and Eva’s baby, my eyes are already scanning the crowd because I’ve lost sight of Morgan.
When I find her, she’s down toward the end of the bar ordering her drinks, and beyond her, on the other side of the bar, sits some random finance bro who can’t take his eyes off her.
The lecherous look on his face as his gaze travels over her has a tight coil winding around inside me.
He says something to the guy sitting next to him, then slides off his barstool and heads around the corner of the bar.
I know the second Morgan spots him, because her spine stiffens and she angles her body the opposite direction like she hopes he won’t see her there. Obviously she knows him.
“Be right back,” I say, handing Colt my beer as I push through our small circle and weave my way through the crowd. I hear murmurings around me as I jostle people out of my way to get to her. He gets there first.
She turns slightly toward him, says something, and then tries to turn away but his hand snakes around her waist. “I have nothing to say to you, Carter,” she says as I come up behind her, settling myself up against the bar on her other side.
“This guy bothering you?” I have to raise my voice to be heard over the loud music from the speakers directly above the bar, and a few people near us turn their attention in our direction.
She turns toward me, looking immensely relieved at my presence. “He was just leaving.”
“Babe,” this asshole, Carter, draws out the word like he’s trying to coax her to give him a chance. “Come on, I miss you.”
The fuck? I need someone to tell me she didn’t have a thing with this guy.
He sounds like a used car salesman who knows he’s fucking you over and has the slightly disheveled look of someone who just lost an important business deal.
A few locks of greasy hair hang down his forehead, and his cheeks are pink in the way that happens to some people when they’ve drunk too much.
“You are, quite literally, the last person on the planet that I want to talk to right now,” she says, her voice so full of disdain that I actually chuckle.
“You heard the lady. Time to run along,” I say, with a little flick of my hand like I’m shooing away a bug. Because that’s what this guy is, an annoying bug.
“Hey, man,” he says, looking up at me from the other side of Morgan. “I’m trying to talk to my girl and I don’t know what your problem is—”
I keep my voice a whole lot calmer than I feel when I say, “My problem is that, a, she’s not your girl, and b, she’s asked you to leave her alone multiple times.”
“Maybe you should mind your own business?” he says, taking the hand that was resting on Morgan’s hip and pushing it into my chest.
I don’t move an inch. “I suggest you not touch me, or her, again.”
“Yeah? Or what?”