Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley Novak: I don’t want to start anything, but Roe Monroe played like a man on fire tonight. Two goals. Two assists. Thatcher and Jamie were both in the stands.
Ash Patel: You mean the game where Roe pointed to Jamie after the second goal? The kid lit up like a Christmas tree.
Stan Gordon: That wasn’t just a good game. That was NAPH bait. You don’t skate like that unless someone’s watching.
Patti Jensen: Speaking of watching—Thatcher didn’t move the whole third period. Just leaned forward like his life depended on the outcome.
Gabe blinks at me and pushes back from his workbench. Any other time, I would love for him to tell me about the miniature Fox River Falls he’s creating. He doesn’t even try to hide it from me this time.
A while back I came out here looking for him and saw the tub on the workbench with the lid off instead of tucked secretly on the shelf.
His work is amazing, but since he never mentioned what he was working on, I didn’t know if I should mention that I saw it.
And touched it. And looked through the pieces.
But right now, my heart is hammering too hard for me to think straight about anything other than the call I just had.
I lean my ass against the workbench, nervous energy causing me to shift my phone from one hand to the other.
“What’s wrong, Rory?” he asks, maybe for the second time.
My mouth goes dry.
“I got called up.” I’m not sure how I deliver the words. They seem strange and foreign to even say. I hadn’t expected a call-up at all this season. Not really. Not as much as I had convinced myself I expected it.
Gabe, God bless this amazing man, doesn’t miss a beat. His first, genuine reaction is a huge smile that breaks across his face like the sun itself from behind a storm cloud.
“That’s fantastic. You were phenomenal tonight.”
A breath leaves me. The first I feel I’ve taken in a long minute.
“You thought I was phenomenal?”
“Of course I did.”
I can’t help the smile now. No one is a harder sell on hockey than Thatcher.
“Thing is that I’m supposed to be on a plane.” I look at my watch. “Team plane in less than an hour. Game’s out east, so I’m behind before I start.”
Gabe is moving now, up out of his chair, ready to problem solve. “What do you need?”
I put a hand on his chest, the feel of it warm and inviting to my touch. It pulls me in, begging me to be right here, turning that touch into something more. I’ve never been this addicted to anyone, but I settle for wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him close.
“You okay with this?”
Thatch smiles. “Did you think I forgot you played hockey, Monroe?”
“No,” I stammer. “But I—“
“You got called up. That’s a good thing.”
“I don’t want it to change anything between us.” Damn, I’m so close to saying those three little words. But not like this. Not with my emotions all haywire. Not if he might ever think it was for a reason other than the simple truth.
“Then it won’t.” He kisses me quickly. “Afraid I won’t be waiting for you?”
I open my mouth and close it again. I close my eyes and open them to refocus on Gabe.
“You and me . . .” He gestures between us. “This doesn’t change. You don’t need to focus on that. You and I are . . . whatever this is.”
“Exclusive,” I remind him firmly.
“Alright. Exclusive. Pretty sure that was already established.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. If I had anything left in the tank for another lover after the way we’ve been wrapped up in each other, I’d have more stamina than even a pro hockey player.
“We’re dating,” I add quickly. Not concerned that I might sound slightly unhinged. “Boyfriends sounds weird.”
Thatcher gives me a long look. “We can clarify whatever you need to clarify, Rory. But I’m in your corner. Cheering.”
My eyes feel stingy and watery for some reason.
“You gonna wear my jersey?” I tease, trying to get my emotions on his level.
“Every game,” he promises with a kiss. “Now, let’s get your stuff packed.”
In less than an hour I walk onto the team plane, fortified by Jamie’s hugs and assurances of how I’m going to “crush it” and Thatcher’s steadfastness. I touch my lips where they still burn from our goodbye kiss.
Steadfastness and complete sex appeal.
I am so fucking lucky.
“Welcome, Mr. Monroe,” the attendant says, and there’s something in her tone that I’m not sure how to read. I look at her carefully as I take a seat and maybe she looks familiar.
She smiles at me again in a way that clearly means I should read something into it. But I can’t. I have no idea what she means.
“I’m Ava, if you don’t remember, Roe. When I heard it was just you on this flight, I snapped up the job as quick as I could.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. “That’s . . . flattering.”
She gives me a wink, trailing a hand over my thigh.
I groan in frustration, the past reaching up to grab me like a ghost. The last time I was on the team plane . . . to be honest, I can’t remember it that well. There was a haze of pills and liquor crowding my mind because it was just me and like two other guys from the team.
I search my brain to remember why it wasn’t the whole team on the plane. All-Stars? An exhibition or skills challenge like The Freeze?
I swallow hard as the attendant continues to flirt with me, touching me everywhere she can as we prepare for takeoff and in a manner that suggests she has reason to believe I would welcome it. God, for all I know she’s got great reasons based on past behavior I don’t even remember.
I finally clear my head enough to snag her wrist loosely.
“Look, I’m going to try and sleep on this flight because I have to hit the ice first thing, so you don’t have to go to all this trouble,” I assure her. “You can just leave me with a bottle of water and my eye mask.”
She smirks at me and then nods to the pilot when he steps in to tell her we’ll be off in just a few minutes.
“Of course, Mr. Monroe.”
I let out a breath when she disappears, which is fine. I can find my own water when the plane takes off. Except, before I can even get my eye mask out of my bag and over my eyes she’s back, and this time with a crystal glass of what looks and smells like a very nice whiskey.
Ava opens her hand and reveals a small metal box.
She sets it down and I stare at it hard.
“I need you to take that back, please,” I manage in a shaky breath.
I see her brow knit in confusion, and yeah, whatever my original impression of her was, it was clearly in my Roe Monroe, bad boy of hockey era.
“I’m sober. Been that way for a while,” I tell her, my eyes locked on the glass. I’ve been around beer and liquor with the team and even with Gabe. Maybe a drink will help.
No. Even that is the wrong move here. No numbing out.
With the stress of what this series of games might mean looming over me and the temptation to find out what is in that tin box, I have no business taking down my inhibitions.
Frankly, I’m shocked the Knights’ assistant coach, Jerry, didn’t have the crew searched.
I’m not afraid I’ll mess up my sobriety—that’s not it, exactly. I have so much more to lose now. More than I ever have. Past me, superstar team captain me, didn’t know shit about what could be on the line.
And it’s just that the , and Ava, aren’t tempting. At all.
Not even a bit.
How could they be?
Ava doesn’t have Thatcher’s gorgeous eyes that darken when he’s aroused or look so lovingly on his son.
Her hands don’t have that work-roughened feel that lights me up like electricity and burns like fire when he touches my skin.
If pressed against me, I bet she wouldn’t have the lean muscle and fresh wood scent that drives me out of my mind.
But Gabe has all of that.
I have all of that.
I also have a solid record of game time that I’ve worked harder for than any first line start I ever earned.
I may have walked into Fox River Falls with nothing, but now I have the world at my fingertips, and I’m not fucking that up for anything.
I know full well what’s on the line this time, and it’s not something I’ll give up without a fight.
Ava gives me a long look and takes the drink drink and box away, returning with a bottle of water.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
My eyes jerk up. “Thanks,” I tell her. “And sorry, also, if I . . .” I trail off. If I what? Disappointed her? Left an impression I can’t remember?
“No,” she says firmly, then smiles. “No need for an apology. She—or he—is lucky. Good luck.”
***
By the time I hit the ice the next morning for the pre-game skate, the thought of the encounter on the team plane is a million miles from my mind.
I warm up on the bike and then hit the ice. I’ve played in Boston before with the Knights, but I still like to get the feel and shape of the ice beneath my skates first thing. The ice is fast tonight, and that’s just the way I like it.
After a while, Benji comes up to me and practically tackles me to the boards.
“I didn’t even see your bags this morning, roomie,” he teases, since we’re sharing a room on the road.
I shrug. “I just came straight to the ice. I wasn’t sure I’d have enough time for the hotel thing.”
Benji gives me a good-natured punch to the arm, and then it’s off to warming up with the team and figuring out where I fit in here.
Luckily, the first game goes well.
We get out in front early, which takes some pressure off the second and third lines—where I am.
I skate solidly, setting up a few shots on goal although I don’t take any myself. I feel just a fraction too slow for that, but quick enough for the assist. Biding my time, I’ll wait until I’m more in the zone to tempt the goalie.
In the second period, I come from behind the net, sending the puck down the ice when a guy from Boston hits me on the left, taking me down to the ice and snapping my stick.
I pop up quickly so I can swap the equipment and get back in.
I feel my knee engage, almost hyperextending in my efforts to move the way I want.