Chapter 32 Ouch
OUCH
FORD
Before I head to the game, I slip over to Skylar’s house. “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. But I got you this.” I hand her a new jersey—one of mine. “I wanted you to have a second one. You need two.”
The implication had better be clear—you are coming to as many of my games as you can.
“I sure do.” She holds it up against her chest, modeling it with a sexy sway of her hips. The jersey falls to mid-thigh. She’ll swim in my number fourteen.
“I want you to wear mine,” I add.
She shoots me a sly look. “But should I still wear undies? It’s kind of like a dress. You want access?”
I growl. “You’d better wear undies. So I can rip them off you later.”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
I plant a searing kiss on those sweet, glossy lips. She tastes so damn good. “It’s a good luck kiss,” I say.
She tugs at the tie I’m wearing, wrapping a fist around it and holding me in place. “Then I’d better give you another. You should have double the luck.”
I happily take another kiss from her, my head swimming with endorphins, my body supercharged with lust.
I feel like a goddamn superhero thanks to this woman, to her faith, her spirit, her bold confidence, and her delightful chaos.
I could lift the fucking car. I am so crazy for her.
But I’ve got to get to the game. I tear myself away.
Before I head down the steps, I wheel around.
“Oh, Mom said next week works for her for the after-episode of your podcast. Where you’re going to live stream and show everybody how the house looks. ”
“Perfect. Those do so well,” she says.
“Good. You deserve it,” I say. She’s already gained a new client from the gala. I’m so damn proud of her and the way business is growing for her. But now, it’s time for me to get in the zone. I hop in my car and head over to the arena for family night.
Two hours later, Skylar’s there on the ice right next to me as the Sea Dogs pose for photos for our social media—the players and their partners.
Wesley’s here with Josie. Max with Everly.
Asher with Maeve. Miles with Leighton. Tyler with Sabrina.
And now, this time around, Skylar’s here with me and everything feels right in the world.
Once the photos are taken, I return to the locker room with the guys and go through the motions of getting ready for the game.
This time, though, is different. This time she’s here as mine for real.
Knowing I’m playing for her is a whole new feeling.
One I want to hold on to for the rest of the season.
As I stretch on the ice, I visualize the game. The way I’ll have to be on my toes, looking behind me, playing ruthlessly.
Vancouver has been one of our toughest opponents.
Canadians don’t fuck around when it comes to hockey.
Their defense is stacked with big guys, like Long Neck John, a six-foot-seven-inch D-man with a neck like a giraffe’s and shoulders like a tank’s.
He sees every play and plows down anyone who gets in his way.
In short, I plan to evade him.
That’s easy enough in the first period. I’m faster and smoother. I’m flying down the ice. Hell, I feel like I’ve got wings. I lose him every time he comes near me. Nine minutes into the first period, I’m guiding that puck down the ice, lifting my stick, then sending it right into Vancouver’s net.
Yes, fucking yes.
It’s early and I’ve already put a point on the board. I can’t resist. I spin around, turn toward center ice, and tip my forehead toward the gorgeous redhead in my number who’s cheering for me. I’m subtle enough, but I give her a look and a smile that says, “That one’s for you.”
I head over to the boards and hop over it for the line change.
On the bench, Tyler gives me a fist bump and I knock right back.
I grab my water bottle, down some, and blow out a breath, feeling pretty, pretty good.
All the conditioning, all the time with Leah, all the yoga, all the medicine balls, all the box squats, all the kale smoothies, all the Penguin Mazes and River Rangers, and more than a decade in the pros is paying off.
I feel loose and easy still in the second period, even though Long Neck John keeps breathing down my neck.
But I strip the puck from him on a rebound, briefly glancing toward center ice again.
The thought that she’s watching me, cheering for me, is electrifying.
I’m playing for my woman for real. Maybe soon, I’ll blow her a kiss and the whole world will know that this guy, this undrafted guy, has made it to the top—not just in hockey but in life.
When I skate behind the net, Long Neck John swipes the puck from me.
Shit.
I didn’t even see him coming.
All of a sudden, we’re jostling for the puck, with Falcon and Bryant flanking me. I’ve got to get it back. It was my fault I lost track of it. I was thinking of…her.
Must focus like it’s my fucking life.
I jab at the puck in the fray, snagging it once more when Long Neck John slams into my shoulder.
The hit sends me barreling right into the boards, my torso smashing against them.
It’s like a car rear-ended me. My teeth clench, my bones rattle, and my ribs scream as I wipe out, stumbling backward onto the ice.
I can barely catch my breath. Pain lances through me. My abdomen is on fire. I try to breathe, but I can’t. She’s out there though. Mere feet away in the stands. I can’t get distracted by her again. Or by thoughts of her. And I don’t want her to see me like this. Hurt.
I glance at the action—Bryant’s wrestled the puck from Long Neck John, so I scramble, getting back on my skates and racing after them…
even though everything screams inside me.
My ribs feel like they’re poking through my goddamn abdomen.
They’re shouting at me, but I ignore the noise, chasing Vancouver, chasing the puck, chasing anything until Vancouver scores.
I curse as I try to hop over the boards.
“You okay, man?” Tyler asks.
I nod. “Yeah,” I grit out as I make it over, more gingerly than usual.
“You sure?” he asks again.
I grit my teeth as another sharp, stinging wave radiates through my abs. Is that Commitment? Or Discipline? I don’t even know. Everything is a painful blur. I lower my face. I don’t want Skylar to worry. I can’t have her thinking I’m failing—then she’ll replace me.
You’re failing because of her.
I really need my thoughts to shut the hell up. I try to clear my head. To extradite all these irritating ideas racing through my mind.
A hand lands on my shoulder. “Hey, buddy, we need to check you out.”
It’s the team medic.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am,” I say, then raise my face. “Score’s tied. I’m fine.”
“We need to check you out,” she says, more forceful this time.
Leaving now feels like giving up. I don’t give up. I’m a grinder. I fight it out till the bitter end.
But one more shooting pain—one I can’t fight—and I give in, leaving the game. I don’t look Skylar’s way as I go.
“I’m fine,” I insist, agitated. The clock is ticking. I need to get back out there with my team. “I’m really okay.”
In the athletic trainer’s room, Doctor Booker gives me a funny look. I’m on the exam table in my shorts, my jersey and my lucky—no, unlucky—T-shirt off.
She’s a no-nonsense woman with short, coiled hair and light brown skin. “You’re not fine, Devon.”
“I am,” I say, but I hiss in a breath. Damn, breathing hurts.
“I’m giving you ibuprofen. You’re going to go home. You’re going to rest and not do anything to aggravate the pain. You’ll ice it tonight,” she says.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But tomorrow I can work out.”
She laughs, and it’s a very doubtful sound. I don’t like it one bit. “No, you’re going to rest. Tomorrow too.”
Fine. We don’t have a game tomorrow, so that’s not a problem. But we do have a game in two days. She hasn’t said anything about that, so I might as well let her know I plan to be in the lineup. “I’ll be ready to play against Montreal.”
She sighs heavily and crosses her arms. “You need at least a week’s worth of rest. Your ribs are bruised.
They need time to heal. You’re going to apply ice packs to the injured area for ten to twenty minutes at a time, several times a day.
It’ll help reduce the swelling. You’re going to take some over-the-counter pain medication.
And if you feel like you’re going to cough, hold a pillow against your ribs. It will lessen the pain.”
But all I can hear is at least a week. And at least a week can turn into two. I haven’t been injured in years. I played every single game last year, and the year before. I’m the healthiest guy on the team. That’s—no. No. “That just doesn’t work,” I say, digging my heels in.
“You’ll be back on the ice soon,” she says. “It’ll go by before you know it. Do you have anyone who can drive you home tonight?”
I drag a hand down my face. Close my eyes. I hate asking for help. I don’t want to. My team is going to go on without me, and I’m going to go home because…I didn’t pay attention on the ice. My mind was hanging out in my heart, and I was thinking of a woman.
Now I have to ask her for help. When I’m…broken.
Skylar breathes out a relieved but upbeat breath after she parks the car outside our homes. “Whew. I did it. See? I’m not a bad driver,” she says, and she’s been chatting nonstop on the drive home, clearly trying to make me feel better. To distract me from the pain.
I don’t deserve that either.
I wince and push open the passenger door just as she scurries around the back of the car and offers an arm. I wave her off, frowning. “I’m fine.”
“You’re injured.”
That word rankles me. Not quite like divorced did, but it’s close. She tries again to help me, but I shrug off her hand on my arm. “I can walk. I just wasn’t supposed to drive.”
“You’re a grouchy man, but I’m still going to help you get inside,” she says, flashing a smile and clearly trying to make light of my mood.
“I don’t need help.” I grunt.
“You do, Ford,” she says, insistent and strong.
But I don’t want it. Even though everything hurts as I walk up the steps, punch in the code, and head into my house where Zamboni bounds over to me. Her tail wags as she presses close, whimpering her hellos.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I need to walk her with my bruised ribs, and my chest is aching.
“I’ll take her out,” Skylar says before I can even ask.
“Thanks,” I say, guilt shooting through me along with the pain. As she leaves with the dog, I grin and bear it over to the fridge, grab an ice pack, and gently lower myself to the couch. Those polar plunges have come in handy—this ice is nothing.
Except five minutes later, my ribs feel frozen. Skylar returns with Zamboni, then hustles over to me. My dog comes, too, whimpering and nosing me. I pet her. “I’m okay, girl,” I say.
Skylar side-eyes me. “You’re not.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. It hurts too much.
She sits on the end of the couch and gently sets a hand on my shin, rubbing slow circles. “What can I do for you?”
She’s so caring. So giving. But all I can think is how I want to be able to finish the season on my terms. That was my goal—to finish what I started when I was twenty-four and nobody wanted to take a chance on me.
To play out the rest of the year. What if this injury leads to another? What if I don’t heal right?
How can I recover when I’m so distracted that I lose sight of the puck?
This isn’t anybody else’s fault but mine. My head started wandering to her just like it did at training with Leah and Corbin. These last few weeks, it’s always wandering to her.
The more that happens, the less I can focus on the job. I’m going to bring down the team. They’re going to bench me before I even finish out the year.
What will my legacy be then?
I’ll just be some guy who stayed beyond his prime. A player who hobbled out onto the ice when he should’ve retired.
I scrub a hand across my jaw. The last thing I want is to hurt the woman I’m absolutely falling madly for. But now I’m injured, and it’s my own fault.
Love makes you annoyingly vulnerable. I’m better off white-knuckling it myself.
This woman? This caring, giving, kind, considerate woman who’s looking after me, who’s taking care of my dog? This woman who bought a toy for my dog? Who puts up with all of my mom’s quirks? Who stood up for me in front of my ex?
She deserves better than a guy who’ll get distracted on the job. A guy who gets distracted isn’t dependable.
“Skylar,” I say heavily.
In a heartbeat, tension radiates from her, and everything must be obvious from my voice.
“Yes?”
I breathe out. Breathe in. Let the pain from my ribs shoot through me. “I made a promise to go out on my own terms. To not let my team down. Tonight, I let them down because I was distracted.”
Her brow furrows. Her voice is filled with concern as she asks, “How were you distracted?”
I swallow past the guilt. “Because I was looking at you. I was thinking of you. I can’t stop thinking about you.
” The words should be positive, but it feels like I’m wrenching up my guts, and that’s the problem.
I can’t manage all of these feelings and deliver on my top priority.
My team. “But the thing is, I think about you so much…I can’t concentrate on hockey. ”
She nods a few times, absorbing my meaning. “You really can’t?” she asks carefully, perhaps making sure I mean what I’m saying.
“Yeah. I think we should take a—” I wince. My ribs ache. I brace my arm around them, coughing, because I hate what I’m about to say. She grabs a pillow and hands it to me. I hold it tight as she says what I can’t.
“A break?” Her voice sounds like it’s breaking too, and I grab hold of the lifeline she’s giving me.
“Yeah.” But I don’t want to be a complete dick. “But you can still—you can still shoot the podcast at my mom’s.”
She gives me a look of disbelief. I can’t believe I said it either. But the damage is done, so when she says a harsh, “Thanks,” I just mutter, “You’re welcome.”
And I don’t stop her when she leaves.
Instead, I pet my dog.
Because Zamboni stays. No matter what.