Chapter 21
ETHAN
Spoiler—that guy did not stop sending things to Jake.
For a solid week, boxes kept piling up and piling up. A bunch of them required signatures, too, which was stupid. Most of it was useless swag that went straight into the recycling bin or the dumpster.
Well, aside from the various protein powders and whatnot. We had been throwing those away at first, but then Marek had said, “What happens if racoons get into your dumpster?”
“They sometimes do.” Jake had shrugged. “So what?”
Marek eyed him as if he were equal parts horrified and gobsmacked that Jake could be so stupid. “Do you want a herd of trash pandas eating all that protein powder? Haven’t you seen that episode of American Dad! where the racoon gets all roided out from that shit?”
That had us all cracking up, and Jake had not, in fact, seen that episode. Carson pulled it up on his phone, and after watching the giant cartoon racoon wreaking havoc, Jake had innocently met Marek’s gaze.
“What’s wrong with that?”
Marek had just rolled his eyes and let the subject drop, apparently resigning himself to the idea that we were signing ourselves up for the fallout of rodent roid rage.
We had taken his comments to heart, though, and we were no longer putting the protein powders in Jake’s trashcan.
We were secretly putting it in Marek and Carson’s.
“And now we wait,” Jake said with a grin as he shut the lid.
I just snickered, and then we headed up the walk to join the guys inside.
As soon as we came in the door, Marek eyed us. “You two are up to something.”
“Us?” Jake showed his palms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Carson rolled his eyes. To me, he said, “If you two are ever being interrogated, don’t let him do the talking.” He punched Jake’s arm. “I didn’t think you were up to anything until you tried to play innocent.”
“Fuck you,” Jake said.
“Not my type. Sorry.” Carson grinned and snaked an arm around Marek’s waist. “I’m much more into—”
“Lalala! I can’t hear you!” I put my hands over my ears and shook my head. “I don’t want to know what you two do in the—”
Marek groaned, muttered what were probably some Czech curses, and stepped out of his fiancé’s grasp. “Do you want beers?”
“Not until they tell us what they were up to!” Carson inclined his head. “What’s going on, Radovitz? Because now I suddenly want to go check my brake lines.”
“Pfft.” I elbowed Jake. “I don’t think he’d even be able to find the brake lines, never mind cut them.”
Jake shot me a horrified look. “What? You think I—ugh. I’m offended.”
“No you’re not,” Marek muttered. “Do you guys want beers or not?”
We did, and in a matter of minutes, the four of us were settled into their living room, beers in hand.
There was an HLWNA game tonight—the league a step down from the PHL.
Those games weren’t broadcast, but like ours, the team streamed them online.
Coach had told Marek there were a couple of forwards he was interested in pulling up to our team, especially while Frost was out with the flu and I was down with a busted hand.
Lucky for us, our boyfriends were more than happy to watch hockey, and they were even happier if it meant chilling with beer and pizza.
About midway through the second period, as yet another fight broke out, Jake said, “You know, this doesn’t really jive with the ‘hockey doesn’t have as much fighting as it used to’ line you guys fed us.”
“It doesn’t have as much fighting as it used to.” I sipped my beer, then tilted the bottle toward the TV. “But this is the HLW.”
Carson and Jake eyed me.
“They’re the second-tier minor league,” Marek said. “And they’re… ” He gestured with his own bottle toward the screen. “Scrappier than we are.”
“You don’t say,” Carson said. “Do they actually know how to play hockey?”
“In theory,” I said dryly.
Marek huffed a laugh. “They’re supposed to. But yeah—scrappy. And it isn’t like they haven’t played some hockey tonight.”
Carson cocked a brow. “Didn’t you just say like five minutes ago that the only reason there are goals on the board right now is that both the goalies suck?”
“There is that,” Marek admitted. “But someone still has to get the puck into the zone—onside!—and into the goal.”
“Which is tough,” I deadpanned, “especially when their entire defense is punch the other guy in the face.”
Jake choked on his beer. I chuckled and patted his back, which earned me the finger.
Onscreen, the refs broke up the fight. The players went to the boxes and continued screaming at each other through the glass while the teams set up for another faceoff.
Before they’d even finished their time, they each had a teammate join them for their own five-minute penalties. Yeah, pretty typical HLW.
Good thing I never played in that league.
Wow. That was a thought. As the game went on, my stomach curdled around the beer I’d drunk.
What if I had ended up in that league? Some guys did claw their way up from there to the PHL and even the NAPH, but it was tough.
And though, all joking aside, hockey was a more important skill at every level than fighting, there was a lot more fighting in the HLW.
I’d have gotten my ass handed to me.
And I wouldn’t have known Marek, who wouldn’t have introduced me to Jake, who wouldn’t have taught me how to fight…
And I wouldn’t have broken my stupid hand, and…
It didn’t matter, though, because I wasn’t in the HLW. I was quite firmly in the PHL. Right?
Except Coach had us watching this game so Marek could give him feedback on a couple of forwards with potential to come up. There was a third line forward who was currently filling my spot, and he was on a six-game point streak.
What if, after my hand healed, there was no room for me in Vegas? What if they didn’t re-sign me at the end of the season? What if I had to go play somewhere else, assuming another PHL—or HLW—team even picked me up? Shit, what if that stupid fight had derailed my whole career and my whole life?
Guys went down with injuries and bounced back all the time. It was part of hockey. But any minor league player knew that another man’s injury was his chance to shine and lock down a spot on the team. It was cutthroat in its own way, but that was how things worked.
So what happened if my absence gave someone else the opportunity to ensconce himself on my team, and when I came back, there was no place for me?
If the team didn’t re-sign me at the end of the season… then what?
Rolling a swig of beer around in my mouth, I surreptitiously watched my boyfriend as he and Carson listened to Marek explaining a play that had just happened onscreen.
What if Jake thought I was a loser? Or worse, what if he felt guilty?
As if he’d caused me to lose my career? What if he withdrew from me and—
“Hey, Berns.” Marek stood and gestured toward the kitchen.
“Oh. Uh.” I got up too, taking my now empty beer with me. To Jake, I asked, “Do you want another?”
He shook his head and smiled. “I’m driving. Better not.”
“Fair enough.”
As I continued toward the kitchen, Carson called after me, “What about me?”
“It’s your house, idiot,” I threw over my shoulder. “You want a beer, ask your man for one.”
That garnered some grumbling, which made me chuckle, if a bit halfheartedly.
As soon as we were in the kitchen, Marek turned around and pinned me with a look. “All right. What’s going on?”
I halted. “Uh. What?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been zoning out, and you’ve had that look you always get when we’re down a few goals with time running out. Like you’re about to panic.” Inclining his head, he repeated, “What’s going on?”
“Oh.” I put my empty bottle on the counter. “Just… ” I pointed irritably at my arm.
Marek’s lips quirked. His scrutiny didn’t lessen in the slightest.
I avoided his eyes, which probably didn’t do a thing to make him less suspicious.
He exhaled sharply. “Come on. I’m your teammate, and I’m your friend. What’s going on?”
I chewed my lip and stared at the floor between us for a moment.
I mean, he wasn’t wrong—if there was anyone I could talk to about this, it was Marek.
It took a minute or so for me to pull my stupid thoughts into some kind of order, but I finally did, and I looked at my teammate.
“What if I lose my career and my boyfriend because I fucked up by punching that guy?”
His eyebrows jumped and his lips parted. Then he rolled his eyes, and the look he gave me was similar to the one he’d given Jake over the racoon roid rage. Equal parts “are you fucking serious?” and “oh, you sweet, sweet dumbass.”
“Why would you think either of those things?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely confused.
“Because I’m down for weeks when the team needs me?
” I shrugged. “Because my boyfriend-slash-fighting-coach got a front row seat to me… ” I flailed my uninjured hand.
It didn’t matter how many times Jake had reassured me that I hadn’t screwed up and that an injury like mine wasn’t that uncommon.
Maybe I was just too raw about everything tonight because I was so painfully aware of the precariousness of my career.
Even though I’d seen countless players come back from longer recoveries, I couldn’t shake the certainty that I’d broken more than some bones that night.
I felt stupid for being this insecure, but…
I also felt this insecure, and it fucking sucked.
With an exasperated sigh, Marek put a hand on my shoulder. “Berns. Listen to me. First—hockey. You’re not going anywhere.” He emphasized that with a sharp shake of his head. “Coach said the other day this—playing without you—is just good practice for when the Aces finally call you up and keep you.”
I blinked. “He… He did?”
“Yes. And Coach doesn’t bullshit about things like that.”
A glimmer of hope tried to break through, but then my heart sank, as did my shoulders.
“But this is exactly when I need to shine. I need to be playing top-notch right the hell now so the powers that be notice me and call me up.” I exhaled hard.
“Not sitting on the bench because… ” I gestured with my cast hand.
That earned me another of Marek’s “God, you are so stupid” looks. Not in a mean way—in the way he looked at Jake about the racoons or at Carson about pretty much anything. Pity, surprise, and some affection. A very Marek look if there ever was one.
Shaking his head again, he said, “They have seen you. You have been shining. Injuries happen.” He paused.
“And one of the assistant coaches from the Aces was in the locker room the other day. I heard him telling Coach they were glad to see you showing some grit. That’s what they’ve been waiting for you to develop. ”
I straightened. “Wait, so they were happy to see me fight? Even with… ” I waved my cast again.
“Yes, they were.” Marek chuckled. “You punched that fucker hard enough to break your hand. That shows some grit. That’s what they’ve been waiting for you to develop down here in the PHL.
Once you’re healed and playing again—assuming you don’t make the roster at training camp this year, you’ll be one of the first to get called up when they need someone. You’ll see.”
Swallowing hard, I tried not to cling too hard to that possibility.
But I mean, how could I not? Marek had made peace with being in the minors for the rest of his career, but he had an excellent hockey IQ.
His ability to read players—to gauge their development and potential—meant that coaching was almost certainly in his future.
He also wasn’t the type to blow smoke up someone’s ass; he wasn’t a bullshitter, and he also didn’t like to give people false hope.
Telling a player he was bound for the big leagues was great for the ego in the moment, but realizing later that it wasn’t true could be a slow, crushing form of devastation.
So when Marek said I was likely to be called up—that I might even make the Aces’ roster at training camp—I believed him.
“Now,” he went on, “as for your boyfriend.” He tsked and rolled his eyes. “That man”—he jerked his chin toward the living room where we’d left our boyfriends—“is an idiot sometimes. He’s… Well, an idiot. But even he isn’t stupid enough to let you go.”
That got a tentative laugh out of me. “You really think… I mean, even after—”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Berns.
” Marek rolled his eyes, squeezed my shoulder, and let me go.
“You got hurt. It happens. The team isn’t holding it against you.
The coaches aren’t holding it against you.
And for fuck’s sake, that man who is ridiculously in love with you isn’t holding it against you. ”
Heat rushed into my face. “You think he’s—”
“Kecá? kraviny.” He gave my shoulder a shove. “Yes, dumbass. Don’t be an idiot. Of course he’s—”
Outside, something crashed. There was a skittering sound, followed by some squeaking. Then another crash.
Marek closed his eyes and pushed out a breath through his nose.
“What was that?” Carson called from the living room.
Marek groaned. Then he headed for the door, “It’s the fucking racoons again!”
I laughed, grateful to be out of my frustrated teammate’s crosshairs, and followed him out to chase away the trash pandas.