Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
AIDAN
Ihaven’t seen Morgan all weekend—not since after the game Friday night, where she essentially ignored me in favor of talking to her cousin the entire time.
Once the last of the fans had left, we invited them out with us to celebrate winning our home opener, but they both politely declined.
Lauren, because her twins would be up at six-thirty no matter how late she went to sleep, and Morgan, because she was “tired.”
When I reminded her that she was supposed to be making sure I didn’t get in any trouble, she suggested that maybe AJ could pay Colt to babysit me instead. Lauren had coughed to cover her laugh and said, “I’m going to go thank McCabe.” Then she left us standing there alone.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m just tired and I don’t have the energy to keep you in line tonight.”
I’d been so tempted to ask her just to come back to my place instead, but I was meeting Max the next morning for breakfast and I’ve literally never had a woman over here before.
My home is too much a part of me to share with strangers, so hookups always happen elsewhere.
But Morgan's not a stranger, nor is she just a hookup.
This morning when I was making myself breakfast, there was a moment when I wondered what it would be like to look over and see her sitting at the table in front of the window overlooking my small backyard space.
I wonder what she’s doing now? I glance out the top of my living room windows, the part that isn't blocked with the privacy shades that rise from the bottom. It’s dark, and across the street on the second floor, a couple walks into their living room with bowls in their hands, before sinking down onto their couch.
Blue light from a TV glows in the room, and I wonder what it would be like to grab a bowl of ice cream and settle into watching a show with Morgan.
The way I’m craving her presence, the sound of her voice, and the sight of her here where I’ve never brought another woman, feels way more intense than the sexual connection I initially thought this was.
I don’t just crave her physical presence; there’s a closeness there that I haven’t felt in forever.
She’s making me want things I’ve been certain, for the past decade, that I don’t want.
Yet somehow, I think maybe I want them with her?
I pick up the remote and pause the video footage of Washington’s preseason games that I’m supposed to be watching but have completely zoned out on.
Before I can think too much about all the reasons this is a terrible idea, all the things that stand in the way of Morgan and me being together, I pull out my phone.
Aidan
Hey, what are you doing?
NerdGirl
Working. You?
Aidan
Same.
NerdGirl
Oh yeah? You out on the ice already warming up for the game two days from now?
Aidan
No, smartass. I’m watching some footage of Washington’s last few games.
NerdGirl
Smart.
Aidan
How would you feel about working over here? I’ve gotten used to having you around.
NerdGirl
And the solution to that problem is to have me around more?
Aidan
Maybe I don’t see it as a “problem.”
NerdGirl
Maybe you should. It feels like you’re breaking a lot of your own rules here.
Aidan
How so?
NerdGirl
Having me around all the time sounds a lot like monogamy.
Aidan
Would you rather I call someone else to come over?
I regret that text the minute I send it, but she starts to respond before I can unsend it, so I know she’s seen it.
I don’t want someone else. I only want her. But we’re supposed to be keeping this casual. It’s how we ensure neither of us gets hurt. It would be wrong for me to switch things up, especially because we can’t be together in the long term, and the last thing I want to do is hurt her.
NerdGirl
That choice is really up to you, isn’t it?
I can hear the snark in her tone even through text, so I hit the button to start a video call instead. It rings enough times that I’m initially afraid she isn’t going to answer, but she eventually accepts the call.
“Yes?” Her tone is dismissive, which is probably what I deserve after that message.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh as I sink back into my couch cushions.
“For what?” She pulls her hair back, winding it into a bun that she secures on top of her head. She’s in a tank top, and I think her laptop must be open on her thighs with her phone propped up on it.
“For making you feel like you were replaceable. That isn’t what I meant. I . . .” I don’t even know what I want to say next.
“You . . . ?”
I run my hand through my hair and sigh. “I don’t know what we’re doing here.”
“Yeah. Me either.”
“I just wanted to see you.”
She gives me a shrug and a sarcastic smile. “Well, here I am.”
“I’d like it a whole lot better if you were here.”
“If you’re so desperate to have me around, maybe you should come over here?”
I sigh again, feeling like I’m fucking everything up. “I can’t. McCabe is picking me up early and I’m riding to the airport with him and AJ.”
“I didn’t hear myself asking you to spend the night.”
I huff a laugh. “We both know what will happen if I come over.”
“Well, you’d best stay there then. I have so much work to do and now I have to pack, since apparently I’m going to Washington tomorrow.
” She doesn’t sound happy about that, so I try not to let her see how excited this news makes me.
The chance for more time with her is always a good thing in my book.
“Any word on whether Natalie’s going to come back?
Or are they going to replace her so you don’t have to be at every game?
” I see how overworked she is. Even last weekend in Ember Cove she was working while I went on my run, and then we had to head back to Boston that night so she could help fix the crisis Natalie created.
It makes me wonder when she ever has time to rest.
“I’m not sure, but I can’t keep doing this.
I was at Lauren and Jameson’s all morning with the twins because I’d promised to babysit so they could go to brunch with Jameson’s college roommate and his wife who were in town for the weekend.
And then what was supposed to be a quick phone call with AJ this afternoon somehow turned into me flying to Washington with you guys tomorrow. ”
She sighs wearily, and her eyes close as she leans her head back against the top of the couch cushions. I wish there was something I could do to help lighten her load, but I also wonder why she offers or agrees to do things for other people when she already has so much on her plate.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She opens her eyes and looks back at the screen. “Yeah. Don’t do anything stupid that would require me to travel with the team beyond the game against Washington.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“This time,” she interrupts.
“I told you I’d be a very good boy if you reward me,” I say with a wink.
She rolls her eyes, but her face lights up with the smile she’s failed to hold back. “I think you’re confusing yourself with a dog.”
“I think you’ll find that with the right kind of rewards, I’m very trainable.”
This time she doesn’t hold back her laugh, and I love the way her cheeks push up and her eyes crinkle. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“Maybe you ought to come over and tire me out then?”
“I can’t, Aidan,” she says, with a sigh. “I have to finish my work and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day. You should get some sleep too. It’s going to be a long road trip.”
“It’s only five days,” I say. That’s actually on the shorter side. The thought of her not staying with the team beyond the first game, and me not seeing her at all during that time is . . . not preferable.
I’m starting to see what Drew meant when he told Hartmann that it was going to be hard to be away from his wife once the season started up.
Not that this is that serious, but given how much I already know I’ll miss seeing Morgan, I can only imagine how the guys with families feel.
Ironically, after over a decade of playing professional hockey, it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I “get it.”
“Even so, rest is recovery. Go get some sleep,” she says. “Good night.”
Before I can respond, she’s already disconnected the call. I sit for a minute trying to figure out what that dismissal means.
The fact that she’s not prioritizing spending time with me, given everything else she has going on, should be a good sign. It means she understands how this whole casual thing works.
I’m no longer sure I want to be the one she practices being casual with. Maybe I never really did. I suggested the friends with benefits situation to spend more time with her, not because what I felt toward her was simply friendship mixed with sexual attraction.
Being with her has filled cracks in my life I didn’t even realize were still there—loneliness, grief, abandonment—and I worry that once this is over, those cracks will open right back up, leaving painful wounds in their wake.
Even as hard as I’ve tried not to, I’m getting emotionally invested. And the way she’s pulling back right now makes me remember the concern I had back in Bermuda: I’m more worried about you breaking me.
“All right, boys,” Wilcott says as he claps his hand against his clipboard. “One more period to go, and you all know what I’m going to say.”
“Do. Your. Job.” Our shouts fill the locker room.
Apparently this is what Coach said to the team at the beginning of Game 7.
Since we went out there and didn’t do what was needed to bring home the Cup, we’ve adopted it as our rallying cry this season—a reminder that should probably feel ominous, but somehow feels empowering instead.
The one thing we can control on the ice is ourselves: how much energy we bring to the game, the precision with which we perform, and how we react when things don’t go our way.
I always thought my reactiveness on the ice was what fueled me.
But it became clear during the preseason that controlling my reactions on the ice actually makes me feel more powerful, instead of letting my emotions get the better of me, which only resulted in too many power plays for our opponents.
I think that might be the lesson AJ wanted me to learn, and the reason she gave me the alternate captain position.
We line up to take the ice, and behind me, Colt and Hartmann are talking about the goalie hug they have planned after we win.
I look over my shoulder, saying, “Let’s not start the celebration too early. We still have an entire period to play.”
“Dude,” Colt says, “winning is the only option we picture.”
Hartmann claps his hand on my shoulder. “Just imagine it. It’s the last minute of the game. We’re up by one. Washington’s on fire, taking shot after shot, but Colt blocks or saves every single shot. You’ve got to picture it to believe that’s what’s going to happen.”
Goalies are always a little out of their mind—you’d have to be, if you’re willing to stand between the pipes while people shoot ninety-mile-per-hour pucks at you. Still, visualizing the win is something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I just never pictured it so specifically.
“Maybe we should do a better job of keeping the puck down near Washington’s net, instead,” I say.
“Sure, you visualize that,” Colt says, then coughs a laugh. “Meanwhile, I’ll be picturing myself saving your ass when that doesn’t happen.”
I swallow as a lump suddenly appears in my throat at the familiarity of it all—the ribbing and shit-talking and camaraderie amongst my teammates.
This. This right here is what I missed more than anything last year.
Not the ice time, I got plenty of that once my hand healed.
Not the travel, because it was actually kind of nice not being in a new city every couple days.
It was the sense of belonging, of being around my people.
And instead of showing up, being there to support them last year like a teammate should, I succumbed to bitterness and licked my wounds in private. Alone, as always.
I see now why so many hockey players get married young, like Hartmann did.
The travel and the unpredictability of the sport is so much easier when you have a family support system.
It’s something I didn’t even realize was lacking until I got injured, and for the first time ever, I’m not just wondering, but seriously considering, if that’s something I’d want.
Someone to come home to, a relationship built on mutual respect rather than the random hookups I had before Morgan was in my life.
“It’s good to be back,” I say.
“It’s good to have you back,” Colt tells me. “Really.”
With that, we follow our teammates into the hallway.
At home, we walk down the hallway to the rink solemnly, each of us running a hand across the Rebels logo painted on the tunnel wall as we approach the bench.
On the road, we’re rowdy, banging the butts of our sticks on the ground with each step as we yell out the Rebels chant.
Morgan’s pressed herself against the wall near the opening to the rink so she can get video of us coming back to close out this game.
Just like at our home opener a few days ago, seeing her there before third period gives me the boost I need not only to get through the next twenty minutes, but to play harder than I’m normally able.
And that goal, the one I visualized on our walk back to the ice, feels even sweeter because it plays out in real time almost exactly the way I pictured it.
The way my line volleys the puck back and forth as we move toward Washington’s net, the way my shot sends the puck sailing past their goalie’s glove and into the back of the net.
It’s all exactly as I pictured it, especially when I glance up at the media booth and find Morgan at the glass looking pleased.