CHAPTER NINETEEN
SAM
A sharp pain radiates through my shoulder when I strike the side of the arena, one of my former teammates throwing his entire body weight behind the hit so I feel every inch of the impact.
“Good to see you, Anderson.” He smirks before skating away.
Fuck you , I say to Sanders in my head because all the air has left my lungs.
I skate off the ice and collapse onto the bench next to Ollie.
This is our third game on the road this week, and we’re playing Anaheim tonight. It was strange, walking back into the place that I called home for the first three years of my professional career. But the problem was, it never felt like home. My old teammates aren’t happy to see me. Neither are the Anaheim fans, as they expressed when they welcomed me with boos every time I entered the ice the first few shifts. We’re in the first period, and it’s still scoreless. Neither team has hit the back of the net halfway through the second period either.
“Your teammates welcoming you back to Cali?” Ollie asks, his eyes on the game.
I rotate my shoulder a few times, reassuring the head trainer that I’m fine when he asks. “There’s no love lost between me and those guys,” I admit.
“Even if you were the best of friends while you were here, you became the enemy the minute you were traded.”
“Well, no worries there. I never pretended to like those guys, and they returned the favor.”
“Sounds like a fun situation,” Ollie retorts.
Ollie’s been in Chicago since he was drafted, and he was welcomed with open arms by the players, the organization, and the fans. I haven’t felt that kind of love since college.
I’m glaring at my former teammates. “They don’t want to go to war with me.”
We both watch as Tempe retaliates for the hit on me, slamming Sanders into the wall down by their goal. He goes down hard. Tempe stands over him with a smirk on his face for a second before skating off.
Ollie glances at me as he adjusts his helmet. “Lucky for you, the guys here are loyal. There is no me anymore. Only we .” He rises and tumbles over the wall, yelling over his shoulder, “You’re one of us now. They go to war with you, Anderson, they go to war with all of us.”
A sense of pride and belonging seeps into my chest for the first time since I can remember. This was what I was missing during my time in Cali. The camaraderie. Friends, not just guys you share the ice with. Hockey became all about business in Anaheim, and I lost some of the love I’d always had for the sport during my time there. I didn’t realize how much the negativity had taken a toll on me until I was removed from the situation and thrust into a better one.
Coop blocks a shot on our goal, and I see Beers skating over to the bench as the puck is cleared. I jump the wall and take his place, controlling the puck as it floats right in front of my stick. My thighs burn as I dig in to gain speed. I dodge another hit as one of my former teammates barrels toward me, and I pass the puck to Ollie. My momentum takes me around the back of the goal and to the other side as Ollie takes a shot. I fight for position as it hits the pole and ricochets. I react, managing to get my stick on it before it’s cleared. I watch as the puck floats across the line, my arms going into the air in celebration as the red light starts circling to indicate a goal. In the next moment, I’m down on the ice, gasping for breath, as someone checked me hard from behind. Then, chaos erupts.
Everyone is pushing and shoving. Ollie is yelling about the dirty play, his forearm pinning number forty-four’s neck against the wall. A referee is squatting beside me, asking if I need a trainer, while I remain on all fours, grimacing through the pain in my low back. Cruz drops his gloves and grabs the uniform of the guy who hit me, Darius Zar. Zar drops his gloves too. He was my biggest rival in Anaheim. We threw fists more than once during my time here.
Cruz has a handful of Zar’s uniform, and Zar is holding his Hawks jersey as I elevate to my feet. They spin in a circle, trying to get the best angle. The crowd is going wild, egging them on. Cruz strikes first, hitting my rival’s cheek. Zar’s fist grazes the side of Cruz’s helmet. They take a few more swipes each before it’s broken up, and it’s obvious my new teammate gets the best of him when Zar leaves the ice with a split lip and bloody nose.
Cruz heads to the locker room with a five-minute penalty for fighting since there are only four minutes left in the period. But the smile on his face and the fist bump he gives me on his way out are priceless. And the fight lights a fire beneath the rest of us. Ollie scores again before the end of the period, and the team adds two more goals within the first ten minutes of the third.
The game ends with a 4–0 score in favor of us. I don’t think another victory has ever felt this sweet.
The locker room has a celebratory feel. If I wasn’t sure that I was accepted as a member of the Hawks organization before, there is no doubt now. This is my team. I am one of them. And that feels even better than the win.
We shower and dress as a group. I see Sidney Haskas glaring at me from across the parking lot as we walk to the bus a little while later. He’s wearing a custom thousand-dollar suit and a frown. I’m in such a good mood that I give the fucker a smile and a wave, though it might be more mocking than genuine.
“Don’t poke the bear,” Ollie reminds me.
“Why not?” I counter. “He poked me first.”
When I enter the bus, I see Emerson sitting near the front. She’s looking out the window, and the seat beside her is empty. She looks surprised when I fill it, just like she did at the pool yesterday. For some reason, it’s becoming harder for me to pretend like she doesn’t exist on this trip. Especially when she wears that little yellow bikini. She has no clue how hot she is. Her innocence only increases her sex appeal, as evidenced by all the eyes on her yesterday at the pool, including my teammates’. And I had a front-row seat to that douchey waiter hitting on her and that Zuckerberg look-alike assaulting her at the restaurant. But regardless of where we are, Emerson seems oblivious to the attention she draws. It doesn’t seem like an act either. It appears genuine.
“Hey,” she says in that raspy tone of hers that’s quickly becoming familiar.
I saw a movie once with a young Demi Moore in it, and Emerson’s voice reminds me of hers. It’s naturally sexy and rough, like she swallowed a mouthful of gravel before speaking.
“Great game tonight.”
“Thanks,” I respond, settling into my chair. “I didn’t know if you would actually watch the game. I know what a big hockey fan you are.”
She smirks. “Maybe it’s growing on me.”
“She’s becoming a fan, ladies and gentlemen,” I mock.
“And all this time, I thought you were just a pretty face …” She studies my profile for a few silent minutes.
A couple of my teammates slap me on the shoulder or bump my fist on their way to the back.
I run a hand through my hair and smirk. “Nope … I’m a great hockey player too. The fact that I’m good-looking is just a bonus.”
“And so humble …” she hums, making me laugh. She pauses for a beat. “It seemed like your old teammates were picking on you.”
I arch an eyebrow, my expression amused. “ Picking on me. That’s an interesting description of getting my ass kicked all game.”
“You seemed to be doing some of the ass-kicking too,” she murmurs through a laugh. “Somehow, I doubt you were completely innocent out there.”
“I just try to give as good as I get,” I reply with a smirk.
“Well, mission accomplished.” She leans back in her chair, her arm brushing mine on the armrest.
The coaches board the bus, the doors close, and we start moving forward.
“Thanks for the spa treatments,” Emerson murmurs, wiggling her fingers so I can see her pink-painted nails.
“No problem,” I say, uncomfortable with her mentioning it.
I called the hotel spa the day after our poolside picnic to arrange it for her. It wasn’t something I’d ever done for a woman before. I wouldn’t have even considered it. But I felt like I owed her for the way I’d treated her in the beginning. Emerson traipsing across downtown Seattle to find me and staying on my uncomfortable couch all night to make sure I was okay made an impression, I guess.
“Consider it an employee perk.”
She squints. “But I’m not your employee.” It’s the Hawks who are paying her, not me.
“Well then, consider it thanks for carting my ass back to the hotel in Seattle in one piece.”
Her smile is small as she glances out the window again, but I can tell she’s pleased. An unfamiliar warmth fills my chest.
We sit in comfortable silence and listen to the coaches rehash the game from the seat in front of us. It doesn’t take long for the bus to make it back to the hotel. The entire team makes plans to hit a local sports bar for food and drinks. Even Ollie plans on going.
“Come out tonight,” I say to Emerson.
She hesitates as we walk down the hall toward our rooms. “It seems like a team thing.”
“Everyone’s going, not just the team,” I counter. “The trainers, the coaches … everyone.” I pause in front of her door. “Come on. You’ve got to eat.”
I want her to come. I’m starting to feel responsible for her. She’s here because of me. And I like having her around, which I never would’ve said when this trip began. I guess she’s growing on me.
“Okay,” she finally says before pushing open her door. She holds it open with her shoulder.
“We’re meeting in the lobby in an hour,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’ll be there.”
I head into my room after Emerson’s door closes behind her. I check in with my parents. They were watching the game on television, so my dad wants to talk specifics about it. My mom has her annual exam coming up to screen for cancer again, and we talk about the details so I stay in the loop.
“I’ll plan on sending that lemon cake again,” I boast when she takes the phone back from my dad.
Ever since my mom has been in remission, she goes back annually to make sure the cancer hasn’t returned. When she receives that clean bill of health, she celebrates with a lemon cake, her favorite, from a bakery near their house. It’s become tradition at this point. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve gone to a bakery and bought one lemon cupcake to celebrate on my own each time during my stay in California. No dessert has ever tasted sweeter than that cupcake does. Because it means Mom is cancer-free again.
We talk for a few minutes more before I gather my room key and make my way to the lobby. I stop to knock on Emerson’s door along the way, but she doesn’t answer. She’s the first person I see though when the elevator doors open. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug her petite curves. Her hair is down, kissing the tops of her shoulders, and a smile lights up her face as she talks with Bastian.
The entire team is congregated in the lobby. The atmosphere is happy and rowdy, and I feel that sense of belonging again as I joke with a few of my teammates. We walk as a large group down the block to the sports bar, turning heads as we go. We pack the place as soon as we enter, pulling several tables together. Emerson ends up across from me, sitting next to my French Canadian teammate. They’re speaking in his native language, so I have no idea what they are saying. Emerson struggles at times, and Bastian helps to fill in the blanks for her.
We order food, and I get a beer. I unconsciously made a personal decision to drink less for a while after the night in Seattle, but I agree to take a shot with Cruz when he asks. I figure I owe him at least that for defending me during the game. But I decline the next one that he tries to send my way.
“I never thought I’d see the day when Anderson turned down hard liquor.” Coop laughs.
“I’m not that big of a lush,” I counter, noticing more than one pair of raised eyebrows around the table. From their reactions, maybe my drinking was a bigger issue than I thought.
“Here’s to Coop’s shutout,” Cruz yells to the table, lifting his shot glass. “And here’s to kicking Anderson’s former team’s ass all over the ice tonight.”
“Hear, hear!” I yell, lifting my beer and taking a drink. Those who have them down their shots.
When the food arrives, Emerson looks surprised as the waitress places a basket of crispy brussels sprouts in front of me.
“What?” I ask, popping one in my mouth.
“Just surprised to see you eating a vegetable.”
“Want one?” I offer.
She scrunches up her face in disgust. “No way. I hate brussels sprouts.”
I chuckle. “Kind of ironic that you call me out on my eating habits when you won’t even try one.” I nudge the basket closer to her. “They’re good like this. Crispy. My mom used to brown them in oil and then finish them off in the oven. It’s the only way I would eat them.”
We stare at each other in a silent challenge. She finally gives in, dipping a sprout in the ranch that came with it.
She pops it into her mouth and raises her brows as she chews. “That’s really good.”
“I told you,” I say, leaving the basket in the middle of the table so she can have more if she wants them. “Though you covered it in so much ranch that I doubt you could even taste the sprout.”
She laughs. “Now, who’s judging?”
The entire team eats and talks, most of us rehashing moments from the game. About halfway through the meal, Emerson goes to the restroom, leaving her phone on the table, face up. It starts ringing. I look at the screen to see that Eliott is calling. The call goes to voice mail. A second later, it rings again. She takes her seat a few minutes later.
“Eliott just called,” I tell her.
“Okay, thanks.”
I watch her face, gauging her reaction to see who Eliott is to her. But she remains stoic, placing her phone face down on the table after looking at the screen.
“Who’s Eliott?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
“My boyfriend.”
I finish my beer and toss my used napkin into the empty basket of food. “Ah, so Eliott’s the elusive boyfriend you rarely speak of. You gonna call him back?”
“Eventually,” she says evasively, taking a long pull of soda from her straw.
I’m interested to know who Eliott is. I wonder what kind of man Emerson is attracted to and how long they’ve been dating. If they’re serious.
We both get pulled into different conversations for a while. About twenty minutes later, Emerson slips out the front door. I follow, not wanting her to walk home alone, if that’s where she’s headed. I find her in the alleyway instead with the phone pressed to her ear.
“I’m sorry,” I overhear her say before she sighs. “This is the first chance I’ve had all night.” The frustration is thick in her voice.
I hesitate, ready to turn around and walk back inside to give her privacy when she spots me.
She covers the mouthpiece with her palm. “Do you need something?”
Her tone takes me off guard. Both the accusation behind her words and the anger are unexpected. I thought we were in a better place now, maybe even becoming friends. But she’s suddenly looking at me like she did earlier in the week. Like I’m an asshole and she can barely stand me.
“No. Just didn’t want you walking back to the hotel alone, if that’s where you were headed.”
“Obviously not.” She gestures toward the phone.
“My bad.” I frown with a huff. “I won’t worry about your well-being anymore.”
I turn to leave, but she grabs my shirt with a sigh, stopping me.
“Look, Eliott …” She turns her attention back to the call. “I can’t really talk right now. I’ll call you when I get back to the room.”
He says something I can’t hear. She sighs again, lifting her face to the sky.
“Okay, fine. I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.” She hangs up the call and shoves the cell into the back pocket of her jeans. After a few seconds, she turns toward me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”
“Trouble in paradise?” I ask, leaning against the brick wall next to her.
“You could say that.”
“Want to talk about it?” The alleyway is dark, except for the glow from the restaurant that lights the sidewalk in front of the building.
She shrugs and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, staying silent. I wait her out.
“He wants to get married.”
Emerson watches my face to see my reaction. She looks more surprised that she told me than I am at what she just revealed. I guess that answers the question about how serious they are.
“How long have you been together?”
“Since sophomore year of college.”
I whistle long and low. “That’s a long time.”
They started dating around the same time I left for Anaheim. It seems like another lifetime when I attended college. So much has happened since then.
“About the same amount of time that you’ve been a fuckboy,” she snarks, grinning at me. “Oh, wait. You’ve been a fuckboy much longer.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” I counter, glancing at her with a smirk.
“Isn’t it?”
“I guess it depends on the day.” I chuckle, my mind momentarily shifting to the GM’s daughter. “So … you’re a relationship girl.”
“I enjoy being with one man if that’s what you mean,” she admits. “I never was one to sleep around, not even when I could. It didn’t seem fun to me, being vulnerable like that with a stranger.”
“Huh,” I say, mulling over her words.
Her head rotates until she’s looking at the side of my face. “What?”
I turn to meet her stare. “You’re equating sex with vulnerability. I’ve never looked at it like that before.”
She rests her head against the wall and glances at the sky again with a soft grin on her face. “Maybe it’s a girl thing, but, yes … having sex is like giving a piece of yourself to someone. It is to me at least. And I never desired to do that with a bunch of nameless, faceless strangers.” She pauses for a few beats. “What’s it like?”
“Sex with strangers?” I ask.
She nods.
“It’s like chasing a release while not giving a piece of yourself to the other person.”
“Isn’t it empty?” She asks the question like she really wants to know the answer.
“I haven’t really thought about it. But in truth, I never think about the women much beyond the door slamming behind them as they leave.”
“That’s kind of sad,” she murmurs. “For the women, I mean.”
“I guess. But it’s only sad if they go into it wanting more.”
“Don’t most people go into it wanting more?”
“Not me,” I answer immediately.
It’s easy to be open with her because she’s not judging me. She’s genuinely interested in my perspective.
She nods and stays quiet for a bit before making a confession. “I don’t think I should be with Eliott anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask. “You want to experience all that nameless, faceless sex that’s out there?”
“No.” She laughs, shoving my shoulder. She grows serious again. “When someone says they want to marry you, it should make you happy. Excited . Instead, I panicked.”
I stay silent and wait until she continues.
“I never felt the butterflies and fireworks that people sing about and write about in books. Not even from the beginning.” She glances at me. “Have you ever felt that before?”
“Once,” I admit honestly, thinking about Oakley. “But I was young and didn’t appreciate it at the time.”
“Timing is everything,” she murmurs.
“Maybe.” I shrug.
“I don’t want to settle,” she says.
“Then, don’t.”
“Change is hard.”
I nod slowly. “But staying with someone when you’re not happy is worse than adjusting to the change.” I pause before continuing, “Maybe look at it as an adventure. It can be exciting to start something new. Look at me. Coming here from Cali is turning out to be a great move.”
She tilts her head and stares at me for so long that it makes me uncomfortable.
I stand up straight. “What?”
“You sound kind of wise all of a sudden,” she says, a hint of awe in her voice.
“I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, but never wise,” I say, brushing off the compliment.
We start walking to the end of the alleyway. I automatically turn toward the hotel instead of heading back into the bar. Emerson follows me.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she says. “And besides, I’m starting to think you sell yourself short at times.”
And I’m starting to think that I like the way you see me better than the way I see myself.
Emerson doesn’t notice the broken pieces when she looks at me. She sees me as whole instead. And somehow, I’m starting to feel glued back together.
We walk back to the hotel, side by side, but stick to less personal topics of conversation. She goes into her room, and I disappear into mine when we reach our floor. And the next morning, we leave to catch a flight back to Chicago. I realize it’s the first time in a while that I can remember not being hungover on the plane ride home.