Chapter 7
DANNY
Two games in the press box feels like a fucking lifetime.
Watching from upstairs while the team played without me was torture. Not just because I couldn’t play, but because sitting still has never been my thing. I’m built to move, to hit, to be in the middle of the action. Benching me is like caging something that’s supposed to run wild.
But I’m back now, and Colorado’s going to remember it.
Now I’m back on the ice for our game against Colorado, and everything feels right again. The cold air, the sound of skates slashing ice, the weight of the pads. This is where I belong. It’s my sanctuary.
“Welcome back, asshole,” Carter says during warmups.
“Missed you, too.”
“Try not to punch anyone tonight. PR guy probably got an ulcer just from you being back.”
“He’ll survive.”
“How is he?” Carter asks. “Seems a little like an uptight prick.”
I shrug. “Noah’s a good guy. He’s just…a little wound. Guess it’s the job.”
“Noah, huh?” Carter grins. “We’re on a first name basis now?”
“Fuck off.”
The anthem plays we line up, and the puck drops. I’m on the ice for the first shift, and it’s like I never left. Muscle memory kicks in… where to be, when to move, how to read the play. Colorado’s fast, but we’re faster.
The first period is clean, both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. I throw a few hits that are legal but hard enough to make a point.
I’m back. Don’t forget it.
Between periods, Coach goes over adjustments to the line. Power play needs work, defensive zone coverage could be tighter. Standard shit. He doesn’t look at me differently than anyone else, which I appreciate. No special treatment, no extra scrutiny, no warning words. It’s just hockey.
Things get interesting in the second period.
Colorado’s frustrated. We’re up 2-1, and they’re playing more aggressive.
One of their defensemen, Henderson, takes off toward our net.
He’s a big guy, maybe six-three, and he’s a real dick player.
He takes a run at Tate after a whistle. It’s not a dirty enough hit for a penalty, but it’s definitely pushing the line.
Then he “accidentally” bumps into Tate while skating back to position.
I’m there before he can do it again.
“Back off.”
“Or what?” Henderson grins like he wants a reaction. “Gonna get yourself suspended again?”
“Try me and find out.”
My hands aren’t on him. I’m not touching him. I’m just standing between him and Tate, protecting my teammate.
He looks at me for a long second, decides it’s not worth it, and skates away.
Tate nods at me through his mask. No words are needed.
The ref skates over. “Keep it clean, Masterson.”
“Always do, ref.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe that for a second, but he doesn’t call anything. Probably because I didn’t actually do anything except stand there. That should make Noah happy.
I skate back to the bench and my eyes dart over to the tunnel entrance. My breath hitches when I spot Noah standing against the wall looking hot as fuck in a navy blue suit, jaw set, eyes already on me.
PR guys don’t usually come down during games. They stay upstairs in the press box or in their offices. But there he is. Standing in the shadows where most people wouldn’t notice him, but I do.
When I look at him, he doesn’t turn away. He just stares at me with those deep dark eyes that turn my insides molten. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of my teammates, Ryan Keating, watching us, too.
I pull my gaze away after a minute that isn’t nearly long enough because knowing my teammates, they’ll jump all over it if they catch me eye-fucking the coach’s son when he’s supposed to be keeping me in line. And the fact that Keating saw means he’s gonna be the first to bring it up.
I try to focus on the game. We score again in the third period. I get the assist and pass it to Jack, who buries it in Colorado’s net. The arena erupts. I skate back to the bench, a smile stretched across my lips. When I glance at the tunnel, Noah’s gone.
We beat Colorado 4-2. I finish with one assist and two minutes in the box for slashing someone who had it coming.
And I can’t lie. It felt fucking awesome.
In the locker room afterward, everyone’s relaxed, talking loud and laughing louder. Good wins do that. Coach steps in the center of the room and gives his speech.
“Good win. Solid effort. Masterson, welcome back. Two penalty minutes.” He almost smiles. “Let’s keep it there.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He leaves, and the room relaxes even more. Guys start stripping off gear, heading for the showers, talking about where we’re getting food after.
“Two minutes!” Jack announces loud enough for everyone to hear. “Has to be a personal record for Masterson.”
I chuckle. “What can I say? I’m a changed man.”
“Saw you were almost ready to throw down with Henderson in the second period,” Cam calls out from across the room. “So don’t bullshit us with this reformed Masterson crap.”
“I didn’t throw down,” I say with an eye roll.
“Yeah, but you wanted to,” Tate says with a grin. “Admit it.”
“It woulda felt good.” I shrug. “But I let it go. Wanting and doing are different things. Someone smart told me that.”
“Someone smart.” Carter laughs. “Seems like the PR guy’s really getting through to you, huh?”
Across the locker room, Riley Collins is changing in silence, head down.
He played five minutes tonight on the third pairing — solid, careful, nothing flashy.
Tate catches my eye and nods toward Riley, eyebrows lifted.
The kid's been quiet for weeks, and Tate's been trying to figure out why.
I've seen him try. Riley deflects every time.
I make a mental note to swing by his stall after the showers. Sometimes guys just need someone to ask if they're okay.
Then Keating drops into the stall next to mine and the moment passes.
My spine stiffens. Fuck, here it comes. I keep focus on my bag because Keating has a nasty habit of picking up on shit nobody wants to admit to. He’s not as much of a dick as he used to be but he still likes to stir the pot every once in a while.
I grit my teeth, bracing myself.
“So the PR guy seemed real interested in you during the game. You guys spending a lot of time together?” he asks. Quiet. Just for me.
Thank fuck.
I avoid his eyes. “Community service. Media training. All mandatory shit.”
“Right. Mandatory.” He unlaces his skates. “Just saying, people notice things.”
“What things?”
“The way you looked at him. The way he showed up to watch you play when he should be doing whatever PR guys do in their ivory towers.” Keating shrugs. “Not judging. Just saying you might wanna be careful. He’s the coach’s kid. That’s complicated.”
He grabs his stuff and heads for the showers before I can figure out how to respond.
I sit there for a minute, toying with my skate laces. Keating’s not wrong. I have been looking at Noah differently. And apparently it’s obvious enough that at least one of my teammates picked up on it.
This is a problem.
I finish changing fast, grab my bag, and head out. Usually I’d hang around and go grab food with the guys, but right now I need space to think.
The parking garage is mostly empty. Late game means most people cleared out already. I head toward the spot where I parked my truck, stopping short when I see Noah leaning against the driver’s side door.
“Congratulating all the players tonight or just me?”
“Just you. Good game. Good restraint.”
He’s still in his suit, perfectly fitted to his frame, looking like he just stepped out of the pages of GQ. Meanwhile I’m in sweats and a hoodie, my hair still damp from the shower, looking like I just rolled out of bed. As usual.
Jesus, we’re really like night and day in every way.
“You were watching,” I say.
“Always.” He shifts his weight, and I notice he’s got his tablet tucked under one arm. “The real reason I wanted to find you was to talk about the clinic on Saturday. We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The rink is double-booked, so it’s being moved to the Raptors practice facility.”
“So?”
“So your teammates will be there for morning skate.”
I open the back door and toss my bag inside. “Let them watch me do community service. Might shut people up.”
A shadow crosses his face. “People are talking?”
“People always talk.”
“About what?” He pauses. “Us?”
The way he says “us” makes my chest tight.
“About me spending time with Coach’s son,” I say. “A couple of the guys said something today. Probably just busting my chops.”
“Keating should focus on his playing.” Noah clears his throat and straightens his jacket, back to business. “Saturday. Ten AM. I’ll send the access code.”
He walks away and fuck, I don’t want him to. I don’t want this conversation to end with him walking away and me standing here trying to figure out what just happened.
“Noah.”
He stops. Doesn’t turn around, just stops.
“Thanks for coming down. For the game.”
“It’s my job to monitor player conduct.”
“Is that what you were doing? Just monitoring?”
He turns then, looks at me, and his expression shifts. Just for a second. Like a door opening and closing so fast you’re not sure you saw it.
Then it’s gone, replaced by that professional tight-ass mask he wears so well.
“See you Saturday, Masterson.”
He walks away, and I’m left standing there next to my truck. Keating was right. This is fucking complicated as hell.
Because Noah is getting in my head and under my skin.
And he just shut down completely when I brought up the fact that he might be thinking the same things as me.
I throw my bag in the truck bed, get in, and start the engine. I sit there for a minute with my hands on the wheel, staring at the dark gray cement wall in front of me.
This is a bad idea. Noah controls my media access, my public image, whether I survive this probation period. Getting involved would complicate everything. Could blow up my career, his career, probably Coach’s career too if it goes sideways.
But I keep thinking about how he looked a few minutes ago when his guard dropped and I saw something real underneath all that control.
I drive home on autopilot, not really paying attention to the roads. My building’s quiet when I get there. Most people are asleep. Normal people with normal jobs who don’t spend their nights getting checked into boards and fantasizing about PR directors.
Inside my condo, I drop my bag by the door, grab a beer from the fridge, and sink onto the couch in the dark.
My phone buzzes with a text from Noah.
Access code 4187. North entrance. Good game tonight.
Three words at the end that he didn’t need to add.
Good game tonight.
Professional courtesy, probably. Or maybe not.
I text back.
See you Saturday.
I frown at the phone. Maybe I should add something else.
Thanks for waiting. Thanks for watching. Something that acknowledges what just happened in that parking garage.
Instead I go with humor. My usual.
Try not to stress about it too much.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then they appear again.
That’s my job.
Stressing?
Managing you.
How’s that working for you?
The dots appear and disappear three more times. I watch them, grinning like an idiot, waiting to see what he’ll say.
Still figuring that out.
I put the phone down on the coffee table, lean back, and stare at the ceiling.
Whatever this is, it’s not stopping.
And I’m done pretending I want it to.