Chapter 25
MADARS
I took a different route back from Gibraltar to Sevilla. It took about the same amount of time, but it changed up the scenery a little. Instead of following the coast, we went deeper into the rolling, forested hills and farm country.
“Okay, I have to ask.” Connor gestured up ahead. “Why do I keep seeing random giant bull silhouettes and beer bottles with cowboy hats?”
I instantly knew what he meant. Up on a hillside were two billboard-sized cutouts that were common around Spain. One was just a black bull. The other was a beer bottle with a hat, vest, and guitar.
“Oh, those? They’re ads. The bottle is Tío Pepe. It’s sherry, I think.”
“Oh. Huh. And the bull?” He grimaced. “Those aren’t for bullfights, are they?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s also some kind of booze. I want to say wine? Might be brandy. I can’t remember.”
“Hmm.” Connor tapped his phone screen a few times. “Oh, it’s the Osborne Bull. It was meant for advertising brandy, but now it’s just a cultural thing.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
“Right?” He put his phone away. “Do you ever see ads for bullfights? I saw the bullring in Sevilla, but I don’t remember seeing any ads or billboards or whatever.”
“I’ve seen them before. I was in… I think it was Segovia? And there were banners up for one. Just like photos of the matadors and stuff.”
Connor squirmed in the passenger seat. “You’ve never been to one, have you?”
“Absolutely not,” I said without hesitation.
“Good. That’s a hard limit for me.”
“Same.” I shuddered. “I’ll stick to fighting with other hockey players.”
“And I’ll stick to breaking up hockey fights.”
I tsked. “Ugh. Refs like you ruin all the fun.”
Connor laughed and elbowed me. “Oh come on. We only step in when one of you is clearly getting your ass kicked.”
“Exactly! Like I’m just about to win, and you come along and Nerf the fight.” I rolled my eyes. “Rude.”
He snickered. “Yep. That’s what I’m there for. To ruin someone’s night.”
“I knew it!” I wagged a finger at him. “I fucking knew it!”
“Pfft. Like it’s a big secret. And besides, we’re just getting back at you all for giving us so much lip.”
“Really?”
“Oh, man,” Connor laughed as he pressed back against the seat. “I swear sometimes the hardest part of my job is keeping a straight face.”
“Oh yeah?” I glanced at him. “Like from all the chirping?”
“Well, that, but mostly from all the grown men arguing with me like children.” He chuckled, then mocked, “‘But he hit me first! How come he doesn’t get a penalty?’ Uh, I don’t know, bruh—maybe because his was a perfectly legal and clean hit, and you cross-checked him in the face?”
“Ugh.” I shook my head. “But then when it is a dirty hit, and the refs only call the retaliation…” I shot him an inquisitive look.
Connor tsked. “I know. That annoys me too. I swear, Bill Carson and I almost went to blows over it my first season.”
“Did you?”
He nodded. “Everyone knows he does that. A player can sucker punch another right in front of him, but he’ll only blow the whistle on the punched player returning fire.
It’s so damn stupid.” He made a disgusted sound.
“I called him out one time during an intermission because he’d put someone in the box over it.
I was like, ‘Dude, everyone knows the guy you put in the box had major neck surgery a few years ago. He got punched in the neck from behind. Yeah, punching him back was a penalty, but the other guy should’ve had an intent-to-injure. ’”
I made a face. “Can’t you call that one?”
“Sometimes.” Connor sighed. “But I didn’t see it happen until the replay. By that point, it was too late.”
“That’s such bullshit,” I muttered. “You guys should be able to make calls based on replays.”
“Yeah, but I can see why they don’t. If we start contradicting each other, then it undermines everyone’s trust in us.” He barked a humorless laugh. “As if they have much of that left after all the shit that’s come out.”
“There is that. Man, that whole thing was…” I exhaled, shaking my head.
“It wasn’t fun, that was for sure. I mean, I’ve always kept my nose clean, but even I was nervous about something coming out. Like, it didn’t matter that I’ve never done anything unscrupulous. At that point, all it would take was someone accusing me, and…” He dragged a finger across his throat.
“Shit,” I muttered. “But it’s mostly died down?”
“Mostly. The guys who were doing dirty shit are gone. The rest of us are under a microscope—and honestly, we should be—but we’re probably safe.”
“That’s good.”
“It is. So now we can get back to what we do best—keeping unruly hockey players in line.”
I scoffed with mock indignance. “Unruly? Rude!”
Connor shrugged. “Am I wrong?”
“I mean…” I quirked my lips. “Okay, you’re not wrong, but you and your boys really do take the fun out of things sometimes.”
God, I loved the way this man laughed. It took all I had just to keep my eyes on the road because all I wanted to do was stare at Connor like a lovesick kid.
“We really are such jerks,” he said, still laughing. “Not letting you guys fight, or trip each other, or slash each other.” He tsked and probably rolled his eyes. “Such assholes.”
“Yep. All of you.”
He chuckled and elbowed me. I elbowed him back.
“Imagine if you didn’t have us,” he said. “It would be a literal bloodbath.”
“It would be entertaining.”
“Uh-huh. Right up until someone tripped you, knocked your teeth out, and then scored.”
“At which point he’d get his ass kicked,” I countered. “And since there’d be no refs to break us up or keep us from really beating his ass, he’d know better than to put himself in that situation.”
“Do hockey players really have that much foresight? Do they really? Because from what I’ve seen…”
“Hey. Hey.” I elbowed him again. “Watch it.”
“Or what? You’ll sass me on your way to the penalty box like every other hockey player on the planet?”
“Probably.”
We both laughed as I continued driving.
“Eh, you all aren’t that bad,” I conceded. “Sometimes I’m surprised you don’t give us more penalties for some of the things we do.”
“You and me both,” he muttered. “Especially the way some of you boys like to mouth off.”
“I would never.”
Connor coughed, “Bullshit.”
I gave him the finger. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Drumming my thumbs on the wheel, I chuckled as a memory crossed my mind.
“Oh. One of my teammates got into a fight… I think it was last season? The one before? Anyway, they’re going at it, and the other guy pulls his jersey over his head.
” I chuckled. “My friend goes to punch the guy he was fighting with, but of course he can’t see, and—”
“He punched the ref, didn’t he?” Connor asked with a laugh.
“Right across the face.”
Connor whistled. “Bet that went over well.”
“No, it did not. I say the refs kinda deserved it for pulling them apart. They both needed their asses kicked.”
“Including your teammate?”
I nodded. “Good guy, don’t get me wrong, but he was becoming a shitbag on the ice. He’d done some cheap shots and dirty hits the last couple of times we played that team.” With a half-shrug, I added, “He kind of had it coming.”
“Yeah, that happens. But hitting the ref isn’t a good idea.”
“To be fair, it was an accident.”
“So is tripping most of the time.” He shrugged. “Still a penalty.”
“There is that.” I glanced at him. “Have you ever gotten hurt while you’re officiating?”
“I mean, I get knocked around all the time, and I’ve been hit with plenty of pucks. But I’ve had to leave games twice.”
I glanced at him, eyebrows up. “Yeah? What happened?”
“Oh, man.” He exhaled. “The first time was my, like, tenth game, I think? Took a slapshot to the thigh. I had on pads, of course, but it was a Vasily Abaturov slapshot. Even the goalies limp away after one of those.”
“Fuck,” I whispered with a grimace. “How bad was it?”
“It was just bruised really bad, and I was sore for days, but it hit just right and I lost feeling in my lower leg.” He coughed a laugh. “Dropped me like a sack of potatoes. Couldn’t stand or skate for the rest of the period.”
“Ouch.”
“Right? The second time was last season during the playoffs. It was the conference finals, and you know how intense those can get.”
I nodded. There was nothing quite like postseason hockey, and the closer a team was to the finals, the more unhinged things could get.
“Yeah, so we had revolving doors on both penalty boxes all night. Everyone was spoiling for fights because both teams had been playing dirty throughout the whole series. It was just… I mean, I’ve officiated some chaotic games, but that one was something else.
” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Anyway, it went to overtime, so of course the intensity is off the charts. Everyone’s foaming at the mouth.
We didn’t even bother calling a lot of the penalties or we would’ve emptied both benches. ”
I laughed. “I’ve played games like that. They’re wild.”
“They are. So finally, they’ve gone a good two minutes without a whistle.
Everyone’s getting chippy and tired. There’s finally line changes on both sides, and one of the guys from Philly comes flying over the boards and takes off toward the offensive zone.
Right about then, I’m keeping an eye on the other bench because they’ve been coming dangerously close to too many men on the ice.
This guy from Philly is focused on the O-zone, I’m focused on Charlotte’s bench, and—” Connor clapped his hands together.
“We collided. I don’t even remember anything.
One second, I’m watching the line change.
The next, I’m looking up at stadium lights. ”
“Holy shit,” I breathed. “How bad were you hurt?” My heart was pounding—I remembered hearing that a ref had been stretchered off after a collision during that conference final. I just hadn’t realized it was Connor.
“Oh, you know. Concussion. Whiplash.” He half-shrugged. “I was done for the season, but there was only one more series left after that anyway. I felt kind of shitty for a couple of weeks, and then I was back to normal.”
I whistled. “Fuck. That could’ve been bad. Like… worse.”
“Believe me, I know. The player who hit me ended up missing the Cup finals because he was worse off than I was. He fractured his jaw on the ice and messed up his neck.”
I sucked in air. “Jesus. But he’s okay now?”
Connor laughed. “He’s a hockey player, Madars. He could’ve been in a body cast with three limbs held on with sock tape and he’d still be week-to-week at worst. I mean, I saw the shit you played through in major juniors.”
Chuckling, I nodded. He wasn’t wrong. Still, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Pfft. Sure you don’t. Unless you don’t remember—okay, maybe you don’t remember, but you had that nasty concussion you tried to play through.”
I waved a hand. “I was fine.”
“You were seeing double and couldn’t even talk without stumbling over your words.”
“I could still see the puck and the goal. I was fine!”
Connor laughed again, shaking his head. “Typical hockey player.”
“Typical ref—trying to ruin my fun.”
“That’s what I’m here for!”
We exchanged playful glares again, and both chuckled.
As we continued up the winding road that would eventually lead us back to Sevilla, we continued bantering about hockey, how much refs and players drove each other insane, and the injuries both would insist on skating through out of sheer stubbornness.
I loved this. I loved it so much. Snarking about hockey with someone who knew the sport, but also just being with Connor. The gorgeous scenery outside had nothing on the beautiful man sitting beside me.
I don’t know when I fell in love with you.
But I do know I never want this feeling to end.