Chapter 33
thirty-three
. . .
Al
It’s Saturday night, and we’re on a national broadcast. As much as I love our local crew, there’s something special about being streamed nationwide on mainstream channels. I always want to play my best, but knowing so many extra people are watching pushes me farther.
“You good, man?” Jenkins asks me as we warm up near the left point.
“Golden.”
He offers his glove and I fist-bump him. “Your family here tonight?”
“Nah. It’s too hard with Emmy’s schedule.” I shrug. There will be plenty of games where they’re able to come, but an eight o’clock start is already past bedtime.
“Too bad. You’re always on fire when they’re here.”
I laugh. “I’m on fire every day.”
“Nah, not like you are when they’re in the stands.” Jenkins smirks at me. “Must be magic, having your wife in the crowd. Maybe I should get one of those.”
“You? A wife? Do you really think you’re ready to settle down?”
The kid is twenty-four, and even though there’s only a four-year difference between us, it feels enormous.
He has a new girl on his arm every few weeks.
They never last long, and they all look the same: tall, blond, and slim, with no personality beyond what gets them the most likes on social media.
It’s not the life I want, but hey, if it works for him…
We continue stretching, and I study him in a new light. “What was your longest relationship?”
He scowls. “Fuck off.”
“Dude, you are so not ready for marriage.”
“I could totally do it. I’d rock the relationship thing.” But the fear in his eyes and the way his voice cracks are answer enough.
“There’s no need to rush into it. Take your time. Find the right person.”
He cocks his head. “Did you? Find the right person?”
I think of this morning, Riley in my bed, her hair splayed across my pillow as she slept. This afternoon, a hasty quickie in the daylight, a stolen moment. The way I’m looking forward to coming home after a hard game and curling up beside her, holding her in my arms all night.
“Yeah. I think I have.”
Jenkins grins, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good. I’m happy for you, man. You deserve it.”
The siren sounds, signaling the end of warm-ups. We troop back down the chute to the dressing room, where Coach Turner gives us a pep talk, McKittrick gives us some advice, and then MacGregor reads off the starting lineup.
New Orleans plays a heavy-hitting game, and although Mitchell left on decent terms, it’s clear his old team isn’t taking it easy on him. Their goons are after him all throughout the period. Every time he’s on the ice, it’s like there’s a beacon highlighting him, drawing their attention.
He takes hit after hit, giving it back tenfold, but by the middle of the first period, we’re run ragged.
The only good news is that they’re leaving me and Jenkins pretty much alone, but Mitchell is our best goal scorer for a reason, and almost all our plays revolve around his slapshot.
Every time we pass him the puck, he gets pummeled.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” McKittrick asks, clapping him on the shoulder when we hit the bench for a line change.
“Hell if I know,” Mitchell says, reaching for a bottle and guzzling the electrolyte drink. “This is fucking brutal.”
“You’ve got this,” Coach Turner cuts in. “Show those assholes exactly why they should have kept you, and what they’re missing out on.”
“Yes, Coach,” Mitchell says with a sardonic smile.
But when we shift back onto the ice, he’s immediately hit from behind, even though the puck is nowhere near him. He collapses to the ice—and doesn’t get up. Sprawled where the ice meets the boards, he’s in a vulnerable position, and I see red.
What the fuck are they doing?
Of course, the ref doesn’t call the penalty.
What good are they? Sure, there are twelve players and four officials on the ice, so they can’t see everything, but such a blatant display of targeting should be obvious.
On the bench, Coach is hollering, and Logan’s using both hands to hold back Jenkins, who’s spitting mad.
Our fans are livid, too, booing and throwing things onto the ice. Play is stopped while the ice crew comes to clean up, and I skate over to Mitchell, who’s being evaluated by Amelia and Derek.
“Dude, you’re bleeding,” I blurt.
He touches his mouth, where a streak of blood is forming. “Bit my fucking lip when I fell. Assholes.”
“You good?”
His attention turns to Derek, who frowns before reluctantly shaking his head. “I’ll clear you, but we have to stitch your lip. You can’t go out there spilling blood everywhere.”
Mitchell’s eyes darken, frustration on his face. “No, that’s their job.”
He has to sit out a shift while he gets cleaned up, so Coach sends Reynolds out with Jenkins and me, and although we land two shots on goal, nothing goes in.
The physicality of their game means we have to up our play, but no matter what we do, we’re held back by their excellent goaltender. It feels impossible. Insurmountable.
But then—Larsson sneaks the puck over the goaltender’s right shoulder, and Easton levels a New Orleans defender with a massive hit, and it finally, finally feels like things are going the right way for the first time all game.
Line change. Jenkins, Mitchell, and I hit the ice again, and our temporary reprieve is fully over, because they’re targeting him again. But it’s not only Mitchell; now, they have it out for all of us, desperation clear on their faces.
We’ve never had beef with New Orleans, not like this.
The Grizzlies take pride in playing a steady, clean game.
We don’t take stupid penalties. We don’t want to hurt anyone.
Sure, sometimes hits don’t land right, or there’s incidental contact that goes the wrong way. By nature, hockey is a dangerous sport.
We play the right way. We care.
These assholes? All they can focus on is the bloodlust. They can’t see past it.
And when Mitchell skates to the left point, and Sinclair passes the puck, their goon collides with Mitchell in a massive hit that lifts our player clear off his skates. His entire body is airborne for what feels like an hour but can’t possibly be more than seconds.
His helmet collides with the ice with a sickening thud that instantly makes me nauseous.
And he doesn’t get up.
A whistle echoes through the silent arena. Even the rowdiest, noisiest fans have fallen quiet.
Panic laces through me. Get up, get up, get up. I skate closer, but the lineman holds me back.
“No, no,” he mutters, his eyes focused on Mitchell.
There’s a commotion to my left as Derek hurries back onto the ice, wearing grippy cleats on his shoes. He rushes to Mitchell’s side, kneeling beside him and talking to him. His voice is inaudible over the rushing of blood in my ears.
Adrenaline courses through me, my vision burning red. I’m overcome with the need for retribution. Revenge. I want to rip them limb from limb until they feel every bump and bruise, every hit, every push and shove Mitchell’s gone through, and do it tenfold.
The lineman’s grip on my jersey tightens. “You can’t go over there, kid,” he says.
After what feels like an eternity, Amelia comes out with the stretcher, and they load Mitchell onto it. A sick feeling punches me in the stomach at his prone form.
This isn’t good.
The refs call our attention, and although Easton wins the face-off, we’re too distracted. Distraught. New Orleans scores on a breakaway, and then the period ends.
It’s a subdued team that heads into the dressing room. Coach tries to give us a pep talk, but it doesn’t work. We just have to get through the next twenty minutes.
Somehow, and I have no fucking clue how, we do. The score is a lopsided 7–1, those assholes reveling in our misery. But it’s more than the score. It’s Mitchell. In a few short weeks, he’s become part of the team. He’s one of us, our brother. And we look out for our own.
Coach lets us know his condition is still being evaluated, and we won’t have answers at least until tomorrow.
My stomach sinks. If it were a simple concussion—not that any concussion is ever simple—they would know right away.
It wouldn’t require overnight admission to the hospital. Something is wrong.
“Hey,” Jenkins says as we get dressed, a downcast expression on his face. “A few of us are heading to the bar. Want to come?”
“You’re celebrating this shit?” Incredulity drips from my tone.
His laugh is hollow. Bitter. “Coping. Drinking our sorrows, erasing this shitty game, whatever you want to call it.”
“Nah. All I want is to get home and crash.” I don’t even want to see Riley, I don’t want to deal with Emmy; I just want to be alone with my thoughts and misery.
“I don’t blame you,” he says, shaking his head. “Another time. You’ll have to bring the wife out with us sometime.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”
With a two-finger salute, I grab my coat and head for the parking garage. I’m just—done.
The drive home feels like it takes forever and a year. I enter the house, stripping off my coat and suit jacket and unbuttoning my shirt as I climb the stairs. Even though I already took a shower at the arena, I need to stand under the hot spray and wash off this numb feeling.
A light shines beneath my door, and my heart skips a beat.
I turn the handle and step over the threshold to find Riley sitting up in bed, wearing my T-shirt and reading a book.
She’s wearing the cutest fucking reading glasses, cat eye with sparkles.
My heart threatens to burst right out of my chest. She’s here. In my room, in my bed.
“Hey,” she says softly. “I saw the game. It looked like it sucked.”
“You watched my game?”
“Of course I did. I always do.”
All this time… I had no idea. She’s never mentioned it before. When I’ve talked about past games, she never intimated she’d seen them. Maybe she’s not as indifferent to me as I thought.
Dropping my jacket and shirt, I crawl onto the bed and tackle her in a hug. Riley laughs, pushing her book aside and then wrapping her arms around me.
“What’s this for?”
“I’m really glad you’re here,” I murmur into her neck. “I missed you.”
Her body slackens against mine. “I missed you, too.”
“Tonight sucked.”
“I’m sorry.” Her hand slides into my hair, scratching at the back of my scalp.
I lean into her, desperate for her affection. My cock gives a lazy twitch, but I’m not in the mood for sex. I want comfort—and she’s freely offering it.
“Can I just hold you?” If she turns me down, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Riley leans forward, kissing me softly. “Anytime.”
Reluctantly, I untangle my limbs from hers. I shuffle into the bathroom, brush my teeth, and drop my suit pants in the dirty clothes hamper, before returning to her—where I belong.
She sets her book and glasses on the bedside table, beside the baby monitor and a glass of water. My heart warms at the thought of her settling in. I could get used to seeing her there every night and waking up next to her every morning.
As I pull back the covers, she turns off the light, immediately sinking down onto the pillows and rolling toward me. I tug her into the circle of my arms, and her familiar scent settles my jumbled nerves.
“Hey, Riley?” I mumble into her hair.
“Hmm?”
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
She settles her head on my chest, her arm slung low around my waist. “Me too.”
Don’t leave me. I can’t ask her to promise that, but the words are on the tip of my tongue anyway. Now that I know what having her in my life is like, I don’t know how I’d ever survive without her.
“Get some rest,” she says, snuggling closer to me. “It’ll be better in the morning.”