Chapter 10
CALLUM
Arizona is in fine form tonight. They’ve been making us work hard to break the puck into the offensive zone.
Vega steals it from their defense and shoots it up the board to DuPont, who slaps it toward the net.
It rebounds and Arizona is all over it, quickly taking possession on an odd man rush.
Luckily for us, they’re offside on the entry and we catch the break that could give us a chance to win this game.
My lungs work overtime, sweat trickling down my back as I position myself.
Tension crawls up my spine, my eyes burning from exhaustion.
We didn’t win yesterday and losing back-to-back nights would be unacceptable.
We still have seconds left on the clock and, with the score tied, this game has entered next-goal-wins territory.
The puck drops and Moore flicks it to Kubanski.
Arizona rushes him but he’s off toward the offensive zone. I keep pace, meeting him just as he crosses me, letting me swipe the puck and snap a quick shot before their tendy realizes the exchange. By the time he’s thrown himself onto the ice, the puck slides through his five-hole.
I pump my fist in the air, skating away in victory as red flashes behind me. Seconds later, my boys crush me—cheering, hooting, celebrating. When we break apart, Moore and I are facing each other, grinning from the win. Out of nowhere, a switch flips and his smile wavers.
“Nicely done, Spuddy.”
He skates off before I can say anything.
Knocks on my helmet draw my attention away from him as thumps on my back and more ‘well dones’ are tossed at me.
Novak points toward the screaming girls wearing our jerseys.
I wink and wave as we skate off the ice and back to the locker room.
But all I’m fixated on is how I hate this awkwardness with one of my closest friends. And how it needs to be fixed.
***
Rohan Moore is an enigma. Calm, commanding, even-tempered. In the three years I’ve played with him, I’ve never once seen him stir up shit. He takes the A on his jersey as seriously as Vega takes the C on his.
What I’ve never been able to understand is his near monk-like behavior. The man has women falling all over his surly ass but barely gives them the time of day. There was a rumor he had a secret girlfriend a year ago, right when Theo joined the team. But no one has any proof of it.
What Moore thinks, feels or does is anyone’s guess.
The only time he ever seems to lose his temper is when we play against Vancouver, whose main enforcer was Moore’s former D1 teammate.
I wonder if Moore’s three-game suspension last season had to do with their rivalry, or if it was something else entirely.
No one on the team except Coach, Vega, and Moore himself know the story, and it’s clear they won’t reveal why our star center was benched.
Maintaining a mystery is an art Rohan has perfected. I haven’t. I need shit out in the open so it doesn’t feel like there is the constant threat of an anvil ready to fall over my head.
I nod at DuPont who passes by, his arms around a leggy woman who’s hanging on to him like he can help her defy gravity. I snort and shake my head when he shoots me a happy grin before leading his lady friend toward the exit.
I wish I could do that too, but I’ve unfinished business to attend first. With determination pumping courage through my veins, I grab two lagers and saunter over to the booth where Rohan sits.
I slide the beers across the table and take a seat, holding my mug out expectantly. He hesitates for a moment before picking his up to clink against mine. The silence is not tense, but it’s not as easy as it should be.
“We cool?” I start.
“Hmm.”
“Did you fail Communication 101? Use your words, dumbass.”
He groans, sounding a lot like a bear. His nickname, Yogi Bear, makes perfect sense.
“I don’t want you to be a grumpier bastard than you already are,” I needle. “Talk to me.”
He grumbles under his breath and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Let me recap. You called me a man-whore and warned me to stay away from your cousin.”
His gaze snaps to mine. I don’t blink.
“Fuck off, Finnigan. I was feeling protective. I’m s—”
I interrupt him before he can even finish.
“Don’t apologize. I get it.”
“Wasn’t gonna apologize,” he snorts. “She’s my little sister, no different for me than Irsia. I’ll break any man who messes with her.”
“Point taken. Just so you know, I can be friends with a woman without trying to get into her pants.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “Name one.”
“Chloe.”
He slants me a look which makes it clear he’s unimpressed.
“You slept with her.”
“We’re still friends. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“I don’t want you to go apeshit on my ass if you see me speaking with a woman related to you.”
“Do you plan on making it a habit to speak with women related to me?” he asks.
I trail a finger along the edge of my mug in a slick circle, pursing my lips thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t call it a habit, but I also don’t think I want to avoid her just because her older cousin gets his big-brother-panties in a bunch over us talking.”
“Why would you—”
“I saw Alia the other day.”
“The fuck?” he growls, going stiff once more. “You met with her again?”
I no longer know if I’m entertained or exasperated. Probably both. “Calm the fuck down,” I snap, irritated. “I ran into her while I was grabbing a bite to eat. Unplanned. We chatted a bit and I gave her a ride home. Like I would for a friend.”
“A friend.” Suspicion lingers in his furrowed brows, his expression only mildly less fierce than before.
“Yeah. Friends. Kinda like how I thought we are.” I glare pointedly at him.
I didn’t set out to become a fuck-boy, but when a string of one-night stands didn’t want anything further, I settled into the role everyone believes is the real me.
I’ve fully indulged in that lifestyle, but I’m tired of Rohan behaving like I’m dangerous and can’t be trusted with Alia.
Especially because I’m not going to stop being her friend even if he disapproves.
If anything, he’s challenged me to show him there’s more to me than what everyone’s seen so far. I can be friends with Alia without my dick getting friendly with her lady-bits. Easy peasy.
Rohan draws a massive hand down his face, scratching his stubble as he sighs. It’s a deep, heartfelt sound where every remaining tension in his body seeps away in front of my eyes. He looks tired when he finally meets my gaze.
“Sorry. I trust you, man. She needs people in her life,” Rohan admits. Maybe the alcohol has loosened him up some. “Good ones,” he adds. “Unlike the assholes who deserted her when her ex—” He shakes his head, filling his mouth with beer instead of finishing his sentence.
“When her ex what?” I prod. Sue me, I’m nosy. I want to know what Alia’s shitty ex did.
“Nothing. Long story. Don’t feel like getting into it.”
Unwilling to disturb this newfound peace between us, I don’t push. “Just know I’d never disrespect you or your family. Besides, I like your mom’s food too much to risk getting uninvited to dinners at the Moore house.”
Rohan finally cracks a grin, one I return easily.
“You coming to Diwaloween?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I have my outfit planned already.” Every year, Mama and Papa Moore put on a team dinner between Halloween and Diwali in a strange and hilarious mishmash of traditions. It’s one of the few unsponsored team events everyone refuses to miss.
“So, we’re cool?” I hold my fist out and Rohan bumps it, rolling his eyes like it’s childish.
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
That night, I sit in my hotel room unable to sleep.
Instead, I’m out on the balcony with a cup of chamomile tea and my laptop propped open, channeling my inner creep.
All because I can’t get Moore’s words out of my head.
On a hunch, I type Alia’s name in the search engine.
While there are no mentions of her personal life apart from a short article announcing her divorce from a Namik S, a banker at a well-known financial institution, there are tons more I never expected to see.
“Holy. Shit.” I scroll through picture after picture of a young woman in white pants and a collared t-shirt on a green field, playing with her teammates and glowing in a way I can only hope I’ll see in person someday.
The national fucking team? Alia was a serious cricketer. She downplayed it as a hobby when I’d asked. I study a picture of her, possibly a decade old. She looks like she’s in her late teens, but that’s not what makes me pause.
It’s her smile. Unafraid, certain, assured.
She’s staring straight at the camera, like she’s in a dare and refuses to be the first one to blink. As beautiful as Alia is now, she glances away when I speak with her. Like she’s scared of what I’ll see if she allows me a closer look.
Then, I find a headline with the picture of a crushed car which sends a sharp jolt of fear twisting at the base of my spine. Anyone who walks away from a wreck like that with their lives intact is lucky. The more I read, the clearer it becomes why she doesn’t play anymore.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve skimmed through at least half a dozen articles that help me piece together the story of a rising star cut down in her prime. I sit back, perturbed. I need to hear about this from her.
Sunday can’t come soon enough.