Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
BLUE
I’m having another fire practice.
I don’t know if it’s the win last night that has me so locked in—or the fact that I’m desperate to blow off steam from the sexual tension always about ten seconds from boiling over with Bea—but I’m not about to complain.
I pivot hard, skates shrieking as they bite into the ice.
Grammercy comes in hot, too focused on threading a pass to Dean in the slot to see me coming. I read the tell in his shoulders and the hungry angle of his stick. His eyes flick toward Dean, already counting the goal.
As he telegraphs the move, I lunge first, cutting into the lane, stick down, angling my body, and driving him wide.
He tries to throw me off his scent, faking a pass to the inside, but I don’t bite.
I lean my shoulder into him at the blue line, meeting him with force.
The vibration travels up through my pads, rattling my teeth.
I have a good thirty pounds on the kid, but he’s a fighter, and one of the best offensive players in the league.
I’m lucky to have him on my team, and I know he would never want me to take it easy on him during a scrimmage.
So, I give him everything I’ve got.
Finally, the puck breaks free, and Nix scoops it up clean.
The machine transitions, and we fly the other way, a finely tuned engine firing on all cylinders.
I’ve been locked in all practice. Playing harder than even my usual scrimmage standards require, pushing my body past the point of strategy into something that feels more like an exorcism.
Four nights of sleeping across the hall from Beatrice.
Four days of watching her move through the apartment in silky fabrics that cling to every curve.
Four nights of making dinner together and sitting on the couch with her shoulder brushing mine as we watch movies and pretending the wanting isn’t driving me crazy.
And it’s not just the physical wanting.
Yes, I want to be back in Bea’s bed, making her come for me, more than I want another chance at the cup. But I also want to kiss her forehead in the kitchen, while we wait for the kettle to boil. I want to pull her feet onto my lap on the couch and rub her swollen ankles.
I want to know what she’s thinking of naming Bean…
I want to know if she’s going to put my name on the birth certificate.
I want to be as close as we once were—closer—but all I can do is wait for her to decide. Wait for the time to be right…or not.
Wait and want and slowly go a little coo-coo with both.
I’ve tried to take the edge off with longer morning runs, more intense sessions in the weight room, and skating like the devil himself is after me during this scrimmage.
So far, it’s not working.
But you know what they say, if at first you don’t purge your demons…
Dean and Grammercy come at our defensive line again, two-on-two.
Dean’s on fire today, himself. As the oldest members of the team, we both have something to prove.
But I sense his intensity isn’t about showing he’s “still got it” any more than mine is.
We’re just two grown men with a lot on our shoulders, grateful for the chance to work through some shit on the ice, where—win or lose—we all leave the arena with our hearts in one piece.
The pair of them cross at the top of the zone. Nix takes Grammercy, but I stay with Dean. I keep my hips square, waiting for him to commit, tracking the tilt of his blade. He has speed, and he uses it, cutting hard to the inside, trying to find the crack in my armor.
I stay with him. Stick in the lane, waiting for a mistake that doesn’t come.
He shoots instead of passing—a quick-release wrist shot, high glove side. It’s the kind of masterpiece you spend ten thousand hours perfecting, and he nails the execution.
The puck beats our backup clean.
The thud of it hitting the net echoes through the quiet arena. It’s the sound of something slipping past me despite my best efforts. Despite the focus. Despite reading the play exactly the way I’m supposed to.
Some things get through anyway.
I’m hoping that’s not a lesson that follows me home…
After practice, the locker room smells like the usual suspects—sweat, vulcanized rubber, and Capo’s signature colognes.
Our enterprising Italian launched his own fragrance and body care line this past summer.
On the first day of camp in September, he gifted every member of the team with deluxe gift bags, featuring deodorant, bodywash, and cologne in all three scents, and encouraged us to find the one that “speaks to your soul.”
Despite some teasing from our younger teammates about preferring cologne that speaks to a woman’s soul—specifically the part that makes her want to come home with a guy after rubbing up against him in the club—we did.
Now, the locker room is reliably filled with the scent of virgin cedar forests, heather-dusted highlands, and exotic spices I can’t name.
It’s nice.
And almost completely covers the funk of Parker’s lucky game day socks, festering on the top shelf of his stall, which I’m pretty sure he hasn’t washed since early last season.
I drop onto the bench, the plastic cold against my hamstrings as I lean forward to unlace. My hip flexors ache with a deep, pulsing heat.
I like it.
The physical discomfort is clarifying, a welcome distraction from…other kinds of discomfort.
A beat later, Nix drops onto the bench beside me, laces snapping as he jerks them loose.
“You were locked in out there, man. Especially for a guy sleeping on the world’s worst air mattress.
” He shoots me a sideways glance, the kind that says he’s been waiting to stage an intervention.
“The offer still stands to grab the king-sized one from my storage unit, okay? Seriously. It’s no trouble. ”
“The king wouldn’t fit in the space,” I say. “And I’m fine.”
“There’s no way you’re fine,” he insists. “That mattress wasn’t made for someone your size, Blue. And Bea won’t mind if you move some things around in the music room so you’re more comfortable. You deserve to be comfortable.”
Do I?
And would Nix still think I deserved to be comfortable if he knew…
When he knows?
The reminder that Nix is going to find out that I’m the father of Bea’s baby—probably pretty damned soon—makes me stay hunched forward, even when my laces are fully undone.
I suspect he’s going to wish something far worse upon me than a leaky air mattress.
Besides, the discomfort serves a purpose.
Most nights, it keeps me from sleeping deeply enough to dream.
Because when I dream, I only dream of Beatrice.
And my dreams aren’t G-rated, not even a little bit.
“I appreciate it, but I like things the way they are,” I say, averting my eyes as I step out of my skates.
I don’t like things the way they are, not really. But they are the way they are, and there’s no changing them until Beatrice decides she’s ready for them to change.
“So, you’re a masochist,” Nix jokes. “Is that it?”
I grunt.
Maybe I am. I can’t say for sure at this point.
I grab my towel and head for the showers, leaving Nix chuckling behind me.
The water is already scalding. Confirming at least a slight masochistic streak, I nudge it hotter and stand under it until my skin stings. The heat is good for my aching muscles, and the more time I spend in the shower, the better the chances Nix will be gone by the time I get back to my stall.
My best friend might ask how I’m spending my night off from Clover-wrangling duty, and I’d be obligated to tell him that I’m having dinner with his little sister. And he’d likely assume it was just a friendly date, and that assumption would feel like another lie on my already heavy conscience.
We have to tell him the truth.
Soon.
The longer we wait, the worse this fallout is going to be. And there’s more than my friendship with Nix on the line here. We have a job to do, a team to take all the way this season.
A season that could be my last…
I’m thinking more and more about that possibility lately. What would it look like to take a few years off between the end of my NHL career and whatever comes next? Time to reflect and make thoughtful decisions about what I want to do with the rest of my life?
A hiatus could be good for me.
Not to mention free up time to be the kind of father I want to be.
A father…
The idea still seems bizarre, like I’m playing some strange game of pretend. But it’s not pretend. Pretty soon, Bean will be here, and everything will change. Even a few months ago, that reality was terrifying.
Now, well…it’s still terrifying, but also exciting and a challenge I feel increasingly ready to face.
Yes, I grew up without a single respectable male role model, but it’s not like I don’t have men around me now that I can ask for parenting advice if I need it.
Dean is an incredible father, and Grammercy is what dad goals are made of.
He’s so in love with his wife and their growing family, it shows in everything he does.
He’s always the first one out of the locker room after practice, sprinting out the door to get back to Elly, Mimi, and their new baby girl, Sophia.
And the way he looks at Elly and his girls when he waves to them in the stands at the games…
It’s enough to put a lump in my throat.
It’s brave to love like that, so open and fearless.
Some of the sports blogs have started fucking with him about it, making him the butt of their jokes about players getting “pussy whipped” and losing their edge.
But despite barely sleeping through the night since Sophia was born, Grammercy’s game is only getting better.
And no amount of teasing from the commenters or lamentation from fans, who clearly wish he hadn’t been taken off the market so young, seems to touch him. He’s too in love to give a shit.
So am I.
I just can’t show it.
Not yet. Maybe not ever…