Chapter 8
. . .
Silas
These past three weeks have been the best start the Rogues have had to any regular season since the team was formed.
And I can’t say that I’m surprised. Last season, we recorded our highest-ever finish, and right now, we’re sitting pretty at third in the league.
Will is living up to expectations, currently holding the best points tally in the entire league, and Mason and I are on fire in defense.
Frankly, we need to be since our goalie, Denver Smith, is one of the only guys playing worse this season than ever before.
He isn’t up to the task, and I can see his future on the farm team if he doesn’t start commanding the crease.
Aside from Denver, the only other guy struggling right now is my newly appointed alternate captain, Tristan Vaughn.
Before Will signed with the Rogues, Tristan was the golden boy, the player fans would look to for a goal or at least something to cheer about when games were long and oftentimes ended in a loss.
Now, he’s lost that spark, and fans are chanting Will’s name in place of Tristan’s.
It’s no secret within the team that Will and Tristan’s rivalry has turned personal, and unfortunately for Tristan, it’s starting to really affect his game.
Tonight, we’re playing the New York Blades at home, and with less than five minutes remaining in the final period, we’re guarding a slender two-to-one lead.
Mason sends the puck up the ice to Will, trying to take advantage of the power play handed to us by their recently traded center.
I hold my breath, praying Will doesn’t get caught on the breakaway as he skips past one defenseman and takes another out of the game with a deke pass to Tristan, who is already open to take a shot on goal.
Yeah, that will really help their rivalry.
Winding back, Will takes the shot, firing the puck straight between the goalie’s legs before he can get down to stop it. Nothing about that passage of play was easy, but Will carries it off like it was another day in the office.
Coach Callaghan catches my eye on my way over to celebrate with Will, and I detour to the benches.
“I want you to switch out for the last few minutes,” he instructs, straightening his tie, like he always does when he’s nervous.
I nod and take a seat on the bench, chewing on my mouth guard.
Will bumps fists with Coach first and then me, offering me his trademark cocky smirk as he moves down the line of teammates.
“How’s your wrist feeling?” Coach’s blue eyes fall to my left glove, and I roll my wrist, as if to prove that I’m not in any pain when the opposite is true.
Most players carry injuries their whole careers, but since I entered my thirties, I’ve noticed the healing process is slower and sometimes never fully complete.
This particular injury has been recurring since I sprained it in a game last season, and I’ve been growing increasingly frustrated that I can’t seem to recover full motion in the joint. It’s not enough to stop me playing—yet.
“Candice worked her magic with it this morning,” I tell him, hoping the mention of the physical trainer will placate his concerns.
Candice is known not to take any chances when it comes to a player’s well-being.
Trouble for me is, I’m telling more lies. Sure, Candice asked me about my wrist. I just managed to convince her I was fine with my charming smile and high pain tolerance.
Call me irresponsible with my body, but hockey is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever had, and if I’m not on the ice, my mind wanders to unhelpful places, like what the girl of my dreams is doing and how I can fix up another opportunity to see her.
It’s been well over a week since we ate pizza together in her bed while she hid behind my shoulder.
Pizza and a movie are basic activities and something most people share at some point during their friendship.
To me, it was one of the best nights of my life, and after I graded her mermaid ten out of ten, I seriously considered making a move on Vesper that would either lift me out of the friend zone or bury any kind of relationship we might have altogether.
Maybe I should heed Chloe’s advice and let fate run its course with Vesper. It’s why I got the word tattooed on my body after all.
“Move that ass along and let your buddy sit down, will ya?”
I didn’t even see Mason get switched out. I shift down the bench, and he takes a seat next to me.
He pulls off his helmet and runs a glove through his dirty-blond hair. When it’s sweat-soaked like this, it almost looks brown.
“God, jeez …” he quietly says. “Please tell me that Smith is going on the trade list or at least finding a new home on the farm team. My blood pressure can’t handle it every time someone takes a shot.”
I should remain professional and keep my thoughts to myself.
“Yeah, I know,” I say just as quietly, lips barely moving as I speak.
The media is really fucking good at lip-reading these days—as Will found out a few weeks back, when he went viral for calling Tristan a jackass.
Again.
“Do you know what Denver’s fate is, Cap?” Mason asks, hope blooming in his voice.
I shake my head and check on Coach’s proximity to this conversation. “No. Although I’m pretty sure the GM feels similar to us. He was pictured at a recent Toronto game, checking out their goalie.”
Mason’s brows rise into his hairline. “Rhys Sharpe?!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn. I mean, yes, absolutely Rhys Sharpe, but also, damn. I can’t see him pulling on a Rogues jersey. He’s in his prime, and we’re … well, we’re one rung from the bottom of the shit ladder.”
I bark out a laugh, incapable of not finding this guy amusing. His personality alone should’ve been enough to save his marriage, which still hasn’t recovered since it broke down for the final time last season.
“Are you headed out tonight?” Mason asks, hope evident in his voice.
He’s always been the guy you could count on for a wild night out, reminding me of myself when I was younger. However, since Eloise left him, my defenseman has been hitting the bars and booze way more than normal.
“We can stop by Riley’s …” His voice takes on a teasing edge as he side-eyes me.
I choose to ignore what he’s insinuating.
“It’s Vesper’s night to work, no?” he presses, either not taking my silence as a hint to drop it or not caring, period.
“I have no idea what shifts she works,” I lie.
Again.
Unlike Coach, Mason doesn’t fall for the ruse.
“Come on now. Don’t kid a kidder. We both know you’re hot on the petite bartender.” He coughs out his next words. “Your brother’s ex.”
This time, I don’t ignore him. Shocked that he’s picked up that I’m into her. I thought I’d hidden my feelings well.
“Why don’t you head up to the media box and ask if you can announce that shit on the jumbotron?”
He playfully elbows me in the ribs. “Shall I take that response as your confirmation?”
I blow out an exasperated breath. “Take it however you want. Nothing is happening between us and likely never will.”
Mason’s eyes flare wide, and, dammit, that’s all the confirmation he needed.
“Bro …” He places a gloved hand on my right shoulder. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re down for a bit of code violation?”
“I don’t want to know what you’re insinuating by that.”
He clicks his tongue as the game enters the final minute. We’re sixty seconds away from a historic win, and I’m fully ready to shit myself from nerves.
“Listen, I’m not saying that bro code isn’t steeped in bullshit patriarchy, but if you went there with Vesper, you’d for sure be crossing some kind of line. It would be the same if you and Vesper had been dating and then you went there with her sister.”
I look at him, totally gobsmacked. “Are you for real?”
He just grins and continues watching the game. Tristan collects the puck and refuses to pass it to Will, like a true fucking professional.
“I’m most definitely for real. But you’ve always been a rule breaker, Si.”
“I cleaned up my act years ago,” I bite out.
Mason doesn’t mean to antagonize me, but any mention of my past always rubs me the wrong way. I was young, stupid, and easily led by my dad, who saw me as a target to do his dirty work.
My teammate’s eyes are full of apologies when he looks at me again.
“Sorry.” I wince. “I know that’s not where you were going with that. But Vesper is off-limits, and knowing that you’re right just rubs salt in the wound.”
He tips his head from side to side. “I never said not to go there. In fact, the older I get, the more I believe that you should go after what you want. I screwed up with Eloise, to the point where she won’t even answer my calls at all these days. Don’t be unhappy and not in love, like me.”
The sadness in Mason’s words resonates deeply inside me as the buzzer goes and the players start leaving the ice.
We make our way down the tunnel and set our sticks on the rack before he turns to me again, a brightness back in his green eyes.
“So, is she working tonight or not?”
I can’t help it; I smirk. “She’s working.”
“Ha!” He points at me, turning around to walk backward. “I knew you had her schedule memorized. You have to come out now, just so I can berate you and your unrequited crush all night.”
“You know …” I say, pushing into the locker room and letting the door close in his face.
He catches it quickly and looks borderline offended.
“I used to think Will was the most annoying guy on the team. Now I’m concluding that it’s definitely you.”