Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge Calloway: Not to be dramatic, but Roe Monroe’s knee might be the most talked about joint in North America.
Ash Patel: Post-game analysts last night said he’s playing the best hockey of his career. One called it “mature, technical dominance.”
Stan Gordon: Another one said, “This isn’t a comeback. This is a redefinition.”
Riley Novak: His edgework is sharper, his slap shot’s back, and he’s taking hits like his knee never left the league.
I only get three days.
The league breaks for the All-Star weekend, and it’s the longest trip home I’ll have had since the season started. That includes the holidays where my watching over of Dom and Jamie’s schedules took priority. I was only gone long enough to say I was there for Christmas.
I say my goodbyes and count the hours until I’ll be sleeping in the bed I haven’t stopped thinking about since October.
Thatcher picks me up at the train station, and the look in his eyes is full of promise, even with the chaste kiss we share on the platform.
He drives with his hand on my thigh, and I drag my fingertips over his forearms.
Jamie’s at school and we don’t make it past the front hallway.
He presses me against the inside of the door, mouth hot against mine, like we’re picking up a conversation that never stopped. His hands are callused and sure—tugging me closer, under layers, around the small of my back.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, rough and low against my throat.
“I know,” I say, dragging my hands up under his shirt. “I missed you too.”
We don’t rush, but we don’t waste time either. It’s not frantic, but it’s not careful.
When his skin hits mine with nothing in between, I groan, thrilled with the feel of him against me.
By the time we’re in bed, Thatcher is being too much his methodical self in prepping me.
“Fuck, it’s good enough, Gabe,” I moan as his fingers know exactly what they’re doing.
“Not rushing this.”
I grab my dick that’s already beginning to throb. He chuckles and kisses the tip, sucking just enough to get the precum that’s dripping.
“Fuck! Not helping.”
Goddamn his infinite patience as he scrapes his scruff on the inside of my thighs.
“Almost there.”
I clutch his waist, pulling him up to me.
“You have no idea how almost there we are. Get inside me now, Thatcher. I’m not joking.”
Gabe pauses, his eyes full of love and desire. “Yeah?” he asks, but he’s already sliding in.
“Fuck that feels so fucking good, babe.” I arch up, encouraging every inch until he slides home.
“Jesus,” he mutters, holding very still, either for him or me, I don’t know.
His lips meet mine and it’s game over. We both move. He strokes deep and sure and I roll my hips to meet him, not worried about all the noise I’m making when I call out for him to fuck me harder and to not stop.
Ten minutes later, we’re tangled in the sheets with the window cracked open, both of us breathing like we just finished a sprint. His hand is resting low on my stomach. My leg’s slung over his. His mouth brushes my shoulder once, then again.
“That was something” he mumbles, already half asleep.
“Catch your breath, then,” I say. “I want an uncomfortably sore ass for the train ride back. You have work to do.”
He hums and gives me a sleepy chuckle.
“Can do,” he promises, and I seal it with a kiss.
Thatcher falls asleep fast, like he always does when he’s been working late, one arm across my chest, dead weight and warm. I stay awake a little longer, listening to the wind through the cracked window and the hum of this house that always feels so full of life.
I reach for my phone without moving too much. I can feel the lure of a nap pulling me under too, so I want to set an alarm to make sure we’re up before Jamie gets home from school.
One missed call.
Jerry.
I text instead of calling.
Me: Are you serious? I’m only back in Fox River Falls for 72 hours. If the kid burns down the locker room, that’s on you.
A minute later, the reply pings in.
Jerry: I’m not babysitting your loud adopted son. Don’t make me fine him for cussing again.
Me: Please do. Tell him I’m back Monday. He can’t crash the team group chat again until then.
Jerry: Fine. But you owe me a signed puck and dinner with fewer vegetables.
I set the phone down, smile to myself, and let my eyes close.
The bar is nearly done.
Thatcher’s breathing is steady beside me.
Dom will survive a weekend without me.
I snuggle deep into the bed, hoping Thatcher’s scent is forced down into my bloodstream.
***
The new normal becomes weekends at best and long stretches of calls and videos at worst.
It’s not easy, but with Thatcher by my side, it works.
And then somehow, it’s my last game in the NAPH. I’m incredibly grateful to know that before the game even begins. I want to savor every moment.
I haven’t told anyone it’s my last game.
Not officially. But it’s been decided for a while now.
Every time I picked up a drill bit to help Thatcher with something.
Every time Jamie texted me from the bar with a photo of crooked stools or new drink ideas.
Every time I stepped onto the ice and knew I didn’t need to win anymore, just to finish well.
And then a few weeks ago I took another hit to the boards and my knee protested. And kept protesting. I moved down to third line instead of second, just to cut the play time. I’ve rehabbed it back, but a frank discussion with the experts in sports medicine told me where I stand.
I let myself wallow in that news for about twenty-four hours—not that I didn’t know it was coming—but then I set up a series of calls with my finance guys and started putting the business side of The Five Hole together in earnest.
I’ve taken Dom as far as I can. As a player he’s solid; as a man trying to find his way in this crazy sport, there isn’t much else I can offer. He’s made it through two seasons now and the rest is on him.
We surpassed every expectation set for the team, so I can’t say I’m disappointed. That would fly in the face of everything this team has worked for. Not that I’m expecting a loss either, but I know the reality. Even if the Knights continue on in the playoffs, I won’t take the ice again.
That’s a choice. I wanted to know when that day had arrived. And I do.
As I look around warmups, I know no one is disappointed with the season. We’re a team that went far and is looking forward. Not to the past.
I like to think I’m part of that in some way.
It’s a road game, and the arena’s packed. Dom is bouncing like he’s had three coffees and a Red Bull, chirping everyone who breathes.
“Something’s in the air tonight, old man!” he yells at me. “You gonna go out in style or limp to the locker room?”
“Depends,” I deadpan. “You planning on blowing your coverage again?”
He grins. “You’re gonna miss me.”
I roll my eyes. “When is that?”
He checks my shoulder, skating close. “I know you have a plan for this game, Monroe.” It’s the first serious thing he’s ever really said to me all season that wasn’t about him. “Got that hot man back home.”
I narrow my eyes. Dom made no qualms about flirting with Thatch the last time he was here for a game with Jamie.
“My man,” I emphasize. Dom just grins and I give him a handshake on the way out.
I will miss him. But not enough to stay.
“Monroe!” Coach is standing by Jerry and hails me over, so I skate that way.
“You’re first line tonight, Monroe,” Coach clips. I look to him then to Jerry.
“What?”
“You earned it, Monroe,” Coach says, then Jerry claps me on the back.
I take my place when the anthem is sung. Going out the way I came in feels right. And when the camera pans to me, I give the fans the best smirk I can. They roar and I feel it to my core.
I skate my ass off. All I can say is that everything gets left on the ice. I give it all I have. This is my last game, and if they’re giving me time on the first line, I’m going to make Philly feel every second of it.
We lose in overtime, but it doesn’t feel like a loss. I block two shots, get the assist on one goal, and clear the crease in the final minute like I’m a rookie again. The crowd’s loud, the team’s louder, and Dom yells my name like I just saved his life.
“Monroe! I’m gonna name my dog after you!”
“Then train it better than you listen,” I mutter, grinning.
I wonder what the commentators think when that buzzer sounds and I can’t help but flex my arms and yell like I hoisted the damn cup itself.
I think we confuse the crowd when everyone piles on me. There’s still something to celebrate, for me, even with a loss on the board.
I sit in the locker room after the game a little longer than usual. Everyone else is cleared out and headed to the bar.
My gear’s off, my pads piled. I trace the edge of my skate blade with my thumb, not because it’s loose, but because I want to remember this. A lot of things in my career are lost to a haze of pills, so I know how important it is to latch onto these moments. Keep them.
Across the room, Jerry leans in the doorframe.
“They want to re-sign you,” he says without ceremony. “Another one-year deal. Same role. More money. They’ll keep your no-trade clause, and if you can’t skate for injury, they’ll hold you on the reserve instead of a cut.”
I nod slowly. “I figured.” It’s a hell of an offer.
“You thinking about it?”
I meet his eyes.
“Not even a little bit.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “I did what I came to do.”
“What about a contract extension for post-season?”
“Nope.”
I want to leave just like this. First line, helping to build a team that’s going to be a force next season. Not washed up and limping out a contract on the IR list. Not finished by parties and bad choices. Not traded all over the league.
He studies me. Then nods once.
“You skated first line tonight like you were born to it. Good way to go out.”
“I thought so,” I say. I don’t mention the throb in my knee that hasn’t stopped since fifteen in.
“You gonna tell Dom?”
“Let him find out in the group chat. He’ll cry,” I say, although I have already told him, right after the game.
Jerry snorts. “You’re a bastard.”
“Yep. Probably,” I retort. Dom is the kind of guy who can lead the Knights or any team he’s on to a wild victory.
If I’ve laid a firm foundation, he won’t make the missteps I did.
I already told Jerry the best thing they can do is find some earnest captain, one of those do-good Captain America on ice types the Midwest seems to churn out.
Or Canada. Hell, they were a dime a dozen when I was coming up, which is why I got so much attention by not being Mr. Perfect.
Dom would be so busy protecting a guy like that he wouldn’t have time for trouble.
In the hotel room, I send two texts.
To Dom:
Me: You’re ready. Just remember to pass once in a while. And keep your chin up. Literally. Protect that jaw.
He sends back twelve crying emojis and a selfie flipping me off.
To Thatcher:
Me: Get out the good flannel. I’m coming home.