Chapter 15
~Daley~
The sound of laughter follows me down the hall as I head towards the ice, and I can only hope they’re not teasing River too badly about bringing his mom to practice.
Nobody seemed dismissive when I offered them a cookie, but how men behave behind closed doors could be a completely different matter.
River has told me more than once that I don’t want to know the kind of conversation that goes on in his team's locker room. Will it be better or worse now that he’s with adult, professional players?
Honestly, I can’t be sure.
The man at the security desk told me I could get to the stands through the player’s entrance to the rink, and sure enough, one of the arena employees opens the door at the bottom of the stairs for me with a smile.
A few other people sit dotted around the stands, perhaps other family members, but they all seem preoccupied with their own conversations, so I head to an empty section of seats and pick one about four rows up from the ice with a clear view of the entire rink.
Seeing the team’s logo on the ice, the giant jumbotron suspended from the ceiling, and the thousands of empty seats really drive home that this is no ordinary hockey team. It’s about as far away from our small town’s rink, with its three rows of seats and one-person concession stand, as it gets.
Memories play across my mind like old home movies as I wait for the team to appear.
River on the ice for the first time, barely able to take two steps without falling over.
My grandfather setting up a goal, complete with a scarecrow goalie, in the basement so River could practice.
Tears in his eyes after losing a game. My heart nearly beating out of my chest when a 13-year-old River got checked from behind at a game in Minot and didn’t get back up right away.
His collarbone still aches sometimes where it broke that day.
Through each step, each heartbreak and frustration, each win and celebration, he loved this game more than anything, and when the team finally streams onto the ice wearing their practice jerseys and I see the number 19 with Adams on it, I immediately burst into tears.
For fuck’s sake, Daley. Pull yourself together.
Rifling in my purse, I find the Kleenex I thankfully remembered to shove in there this morning and dab at my eyes as discreetly as possible. When River glances up into the stands, I don’t want him to see me sobbing, not when I’ve already embarrassed him enough for one day.
The men circle the ice for their warm-up, not wearing their helmets yet as they break into a series of choreographed drills that are so standard that River and the other new members have no trouble keeping up.
One of the coaching staff blows a whistle after a few minutes and they move into stretches next, spreading out across the ice to give themselves room.
Is it a coincidence that Deacon finds a spot directly in front of me, impossible to ignore? No matter where I try to look, I can still see him from the corner of my eye.
On his back, he lifts his legs and twists his body to one side and then the other. Straightens his legs and bends them again. Normal, necessary stretching positions. Even when he opens his legs and stretches them out to the sides, there’s nothing inherently erotic about it.
But when he flips over and begins to stretch out his groin, rolling his hips towards the ice in an unmistakably familiar motion? My cheeks instantly heat as my mind takes all kinds of detours it shouldn’t.
What is going on? One moment, I’m crying with pride over my son’s accomplishments and the next, I’m lusting after his teammate, a man I already swore I was never thinking about in that way again.
Maybe this is some kind of midlife crisis.
My hormones haven’t felt this out of my control since I was a teenager.
And then Deacon looks back over his shoulder, his eyes connecting with mine as he catches me staring right at his ass.
Oh, God.
Instantly, my head swivels away, but not fast enough that I don’t see the smile on his face.
Thankfully, my eyes land on River, and my son gives me a cheerful wave as he finishes up his stretches and heads to the bench to get his helmet on.
Soon, they’re running drills and I get caught up in the organized chaos of it, the coaches calling out names and plays which the players scramble to complete.
Almost without me realizing it, my eyes drift over to the bench, to the number 22 and the name Belin splashed across the back of Deacon’s jersey.
He seems to be writing something down, but the angle isn’t right for me to be able to see what it is.
I go back to watching River before Deacon can catch me staring again.
The team moves onto a shooting drill and Deacon takes up a spot in front of me again, his back to me as he feeds pucks to approaching players so they can take their shots on goal.
He’s fast and accurate, placing the puck in the best spot almost every time so the player has a clear shot.
I get so caught up in watching his rhythm that I don’t even see River take his shot.
I do, however, notice when, during a break for the goalie, Deacon picks up one of the pucks on the end of his stick, tosses it around a few times in some classic stick handling tricks, and with an expert flick of his strong wrists, sends the puck flying in a soaring arc over the boards and glass and into the row right ahead of me.
If I had better reflexes, I could have caught it, it came that close to me.
What the hell?
The drill resumes and he goes back to passing the pucks to everyone else in a steady stream and no one seems concerned about the missing one on the floor in front of me.
Leaning forward, I get a better view of it sitting beneath the seat, and a glimpse of something silver catches my eye. Is that… writing?
My eyes dart back to the ice but no one’s paying any attention to me. The team is fully engrossed in their practice, so as gracefully as possible, I step over the seat in front of me and down into the next row, bending to retrieve the puck from the concrete floor.
I wasn’t wrong; there’s definitely a word written on one side of the puck with a metallic marker. Just one word with a question mark at the end.
Dinner?
My heart thumps with unexpected force as I try not to panic. Is he asking me out?
Okay, obviously he’s asking me out. That word didn’t just randomly appear on a puck that he tossed to me, after I saw him writing something down earlier. Don’t be stupid, Daley.
The better question is why he’s asking me out when I told him nothing else would happen between us?
Also good questions: why is the way he asked it so fucking sexy, and why do I want to say yes?
Furtively, I glance back up to find that the drill has finished and the players are all milling around, catching their breath as they wait for the next instruction.
His hand resting on his stick, half-listening to his teammate talking beside him, Deacon’s looking straight at me.
As subtly as possible, I shake my head no. As flattered as I am that three months apart haven’t made him forget all about me, it’s still a terrible idea.
His head cocks to the side and he spreads his hands in a gesture that clearly means Why not?
Since I can’t do much without yelling out an answer, I simply point down the ice to where River stands, chatting with a couple of the other players.
He looks in that direction too, appearing to contemplate that response until the coach shouts out an order and they all skate back towards the centre of the ice.
Well, that’s that, then. I got what I wanted, so why the hell doesn’t it feel that way?
A heavy lump of lead settles into the pit of my stomach as I return to my original seat and the team divides up into two groups for a game of scrimmage to finish off the practice.
It’s a relaxed practice game with no one keeping score, just a chance to use their skills in a more real-world setting than the formal drills.
It’s also River’s first time in a true game setting with real NHL players.
On his first shift, Deacon gets past him and scores.
River’s head falls back in frustration, but I watch as the captain puts a hand on his shoulder and says something to him, no doubt reassuring him or offering him some piece of advice.
The next time out, Deacon tries the exact same move but River’s ready for him and manages to knock the puck off his stick.
They bump fists afterwards and warmth fills my chest.
Just a few minutes before the end of the practice, Deacon’s in another 3-on-1 situation, but when he goes to take his shot, the puck flies off his stick in the complete opposite direction of the goal, vaulting over the glass and landing a few seats beside me.
Everyone else shouts out a warning in case I didn’t see it coming, but I’m perfectly fine, and Deacon holds up a hand in apology.
“Sorry!” he calls, and the coach throws another puck onto the ice so they can resume play.
My heart starts racing again and not because of what everyone else saw as a close call with a puck. No, it’s because I’m pretty sure that puck went exactly where he meant it to, and sure enough, when I walk over to pick it up, there’s another silver message written on it.
Trust me.
Brows scrunched, I flip it over, looking for some additional context, but there’s nothing there. Trust him with what?
Not sure what else to do with them, I tuck the two pucks into my purse.
When the practice ends, I head down to the stairs to congratulate River. He’s sweaty and short of breath but beaming with happiness. “I’m going to shower and get changed. Meet you back out at the desk?”
“Sounds good. You looked great out there.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
His grin couldn’t be any wider as he heads off down the hall. Deacon is just a few players behind him, the last off the ice, but he doesn’t say anything when he walks by. He does, however, pull off his helmet, revealing a sweaty, matted mess of dark hair, and winks at me on his way past.
My thighs clench and my stomach flips like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Honestly.
Having spent enough time in rinks over the years, I knew enough to bring a book along to pass the time I’d have to wait, and I’m engrossed in a particularly riveting chapter when two figures appear in front of me.
My skin prickles before I even look up to find my son and none other than Deacon next to him.
I paste on my most confident, relaxed smile even if it’s completely faked and address myself solely to River. “Ready to go?”
He glances over at the man next to him before giving me an apologetic grimace. “Actually, some of the other new guys on the team are going to go out and get something to eat. They asked me to go, and I said no because we have plans, but…”
“You want to go,” I filled in for him. “Of course you do, that sounds great! Don’t worry about me. I have my key and I can take a taxi. I’ll see you when you’re done.”
My eyes move to Deacon who’s just standing there, not saying a word.
“I’m sure you’ll all have a good time.”
“Oh, I’m not going.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, fighting a smile. “They don’t need me babysitting, they’ll have more fun without me.”
I’m getting a feeling I know where this might be headed, and River immediately confirms my suspicions. “Deke offered to drop you off at my place on his way home so you don’t need to worry about a taxi.”
“Did he?” My question comes out more sarcastically than I intended and Deacon bites his lip to keep from laughing while River’s brows knit quizzically.
“Is that a problem?” my sweet son asks. “I don’t have to go.”
My tone instantly shifts. “No, I want you to. Don’t mind me, I can go with Deacon. It’s all good.”
Deacon’s grin slips loose and my stomach flips once more. What in the world am I getting myself into?
Trust him, indeed.