Chapter 47
MISTER CUDDLES
Dev
I take off across the ice, catching up with my team as they start drills at one end of the rink. My feet feel like lead as we skate in a speed drill. My mind keeps drifting back to a few days ago, when we left Vancouver, when Aubrey opened her heart but closed the door.
I get it. I fucking get it. I understand why she said what she said. But goddammit, my hopes soared and crashed in the same damn second.
I’ve got to shove it out of my mind.
It’s time to take my place in the net, so I set up camp where I belong. This is my home. Me, and the goal, my stick and my pads. But mostly, my body blocking the other team from doing their job.
There’s something very lone wolf about being a goalie. Your job is the opposite to most of the other guys. They move around the ice. I move around the net as they attack during practice.
Like right now. Half the shooters are lined up in one corner. The rest at the other end. After each shot, the shooter camps out on the other side to be a rebounder for the next guys. Keeps me from being lazy.
Like that’d happen.
Stefan comes at me first, taking a shot on goal.
Then he rebounds to Hayes, who makes his move.
Next Hollis.
Then Fisher’s coming at me.
I make save after save against some of the best shooters on the team. A cold thrill rushes through my veins when no puck gets past me. I need to just keep up this focus for the rest of training camp, the pre-season, the long season, and into the next year.
Without Aubrey.
I blink away that thought as the drill ends, and Coach moves into the next one, mixing it up so my teammates are coming out of the corner, from behind the net, or across the zone.
Coach barks out commands, but my concentration is shot this time. It’s back in the hotel suite with Aubrey. It’s on the streets of Vancouver with her. It’s in the woods with her. It’s in the ghost town saloon when she asked who are you, then proceeded to show how well she knew me.
I really wanted her to know me.
She saw me for who I am just like I saw her.
And I fucking miss her. Hell, I practically miss the splinters she removed from my hand. My palm tingles with the memory of shards of wood as a puck whips past and lodges cleanly in the net behind me.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, then slam my stick into the ice.
Rookie move.
“Ryland, take five,” Coach Riley shouts.
I rip off my helmet and skate away, jaw clenched, irritation coursing through me as our backup goalie comes in.
I’m on the bench knocking back some water when Coach comes over. “What’s going on out there?”
“Nothing,” I grumble.
“I’m not sure about that,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“Then get back out there and let’s get these plays down.”
Yup. That’s the key.
That’s all that matters.
This is my year, my chance, my time. Garrett and I have plans. Lock up a long-term contract and play my ass off till we win the big one.
With that in mind, I hit the ice again. Nothing will get past me.
* * *
Except everything does, and I’m so fucking pissed as I stomp to the locker room at the end of practice, tossing my helmet in my stall, ripping off my jersey, and yanking off my skates.
“Brick.”
The nickname comes from Stefan, the first one in the locker room.
I don’t even look his way. Don’t want him to see me so angry. “What?”
“It’s just practice. It’s just training camp.”
I shake my head. “It’s not.”
“It is,” he says.
“I don’t want to play like that,” I mutter.
“Everyone has bad practices. Everyone has bad games.”
“No.”
He laughs. “What? Just no? You can’t say no.”
Finally, I turn to him, feeling vulnerable and hating it as I drag a hand through my hair. “I can’t have a bad practice. Don’t you get it?”
Hockey doesn’t disappoint me. Hockey doesn’t break my heart. Hockey is always here. Hockey is dependable when nothing else is.
“Dude. This is not like you,” he says.
“I need to play well. All the time,” I bite out, building up a new head of steam.
Stefan comes closer like I’m a rabid dog, then sets a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get a beer after practice.”
I stare at him like he’s nuts.
“Fine, fine. A water with no carbs and a salad or what-the-fuck-ever,” he says.
At least he understands me.
* * *
Later, we’re at The Great Dane. That’s the restaurant/bar Stefan owns.
Hayes is there, too, along with Fisher, who joined the team recently.
Hollis is here too and he’s telling us a story of a guy he knew in college who was tired during a game from an all-nighter.
“So then Brody says to the captain, ‘Well, it’d be helpful if I could get an espresso during intermission.’”
Wait. That perks me up. “Did he get one? Did he actually order an espresso during a game?”
“Said he was feeling a little sluggish,” Hollis recounts, “and that an espresso would do the trick.”
This I have to know. “And did it?”
Hollis’s eyes widen as he nods. “He fucking attacked the puck after that. Went on a tear.”
Hayes tilts his head, seeming to consider this. “Are you saying we should get an espresso cart rink-side?”
“I was promised espresso when I was traded so I say yes,” Fisher puts in dryly.
I say nothing, knocking back some seltzer as Stefan looks my way. “What do you think, Brick? Next time you’re sluggish during a game, want a cup?”
I roll my eyes, then grab onto the trash talk. “I’d think a whole jug for you.”
Hollis smiles as if he likes the idea. “Nothing wrong with a little caffeine.”
“When are you ever tired?” Stefan counters to the laidback new guy who’s magic with cats.
Hollis draws a deep breath, seems to give it some thought. “Fair point. It’s rare. But that’s because I’m married to sleep.”
“What hockey player isn’t married to sleep?” Hayes asks.
“This is like a serious devotion to it. I’ve got a sleep mask and a special pillow,” Hollis says, as if he’s proud of his bedtime accouterments.
Stefan sits up straighter, blue eyes twinkling. “Wait. You bring a special pillow on the road, Hollis? That’s fucking gold. Your new name is Mister Cuddles.”
Hollis groans, leans back in his chair. “I don’t bring it on the road, and I’m not Mister Cuddles.”
“Mister Cuddles,” Stefan says, having a grand old time, pointing to Fisher next. “Because Fisher’s other new guy.”
There’s too many new guys to keep track of.
Fisher grins with relief. “Glad I got that one.”
The nickname wars perk me up. I meet Stefan’s gaze, a little accusatory. “We agreed Hollis’s nickname was Magician. Fight me on this.”
We spend the next hour arguing over the nicknames for Hollis and for Fisher, and in the end I win.
* * *
When we leave, Hayes, Fisher and Hollis walk ahead and Stefan hangs back with me, a paper bag of leftovers from the restaurant in his hand.
We’re shooting the breeze about the season and the city, then Stefan tells me he wants to take a detour.
We say goodbye to the other guys and swing by the park.
It’s dark and late, and I’m not sure what’s up but he finds an old guy on a bench doing a crossword puzzle by the duck pond.
“How’s the puzzling going, Henry?” Stefan asks the guy.
“This one’s easy. A five-letter word for penance. Atone,” Henry says, answering it before we have the chance.
Stefan gives him the bag. “Chicken risotto special tonight. Not too shabby.”
The grizzled man smiles. “Thanks, kid.”
“Henry, this is my buddy, Dev.”
Henry turns to me, arches a brow. “You like ducks?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t feed them then.”
“I won’t,” I say, grateful for the unsolicited advice.
Henry returns to his crossword puzzle book.
We leave, and I understand completely what Stefan did for me tonight. “Appreciate this, man,” I say to the captain as we stand at an intersection, the evening traffic passing us by.
“Anytime,” he says.
But when I’m home alone, wandering through my wide-open living room, the spacious kitchen, and the balcony with a view of all of Pacific Heights, I’m just that.
Alone.