Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
DONOVAN
“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble as the red light goes off above my head.
With a sigh, I scoop the puck out of the back of my net with my glove and pull myself up off the ice.
The crowd boos behind the glass, and I give the noise a split second more attention than I should, their jeers prickling in my head like a wound.
I should know better by now, but I can’t stop myself from listening sometimes.
It sucks to be in this position when I’m supposed to be the last line of defense, but everything is fucking falling apart in front of me.
The ref skates over and I push the booing to the back of my mind, focusing instead on the sheet of ice I’m standing on.
“You good?” the ref asks.
I nod, opening my hand so he can take the puck. I went down hard on that save attempt, but no damage was done aside from my bruised ego. The ref skates away, and I turn to grab my water bottle from the back of the net as the Springfield Wildcats celebrate their fourth goal of the game.
Yeah. Their fourth. The wheels fell off early in the first period, and I’m just lucky it’s only four that have gotten past me.
My team? One. One single goal tallied by Tucker early in the second period.
An unlucky bounce I’m sure their goalie would love to have back, but at least he won’t get a shutout while I flail around like an asshole over here trying my damn hardest to keep them held to four goals on the other end of the ice.
I finish my sip of water, then turn and pull my mask back down onto my head.
Rocko, a defenseman, skates by and taps me on the pads with his stick, mumbling an apology for fucking up and letting their forward get past him.
I nod, but I don’t offer any words in return.
While I’m not here for the blame game—we win as a team and we lose as a team—tonight I’d kill for some actual defense in front of me and he knows it.
I may have lost my shit a bit in the last intermission and told them as much, watching as they nodded and let me carry on with my ranting.
Coach didn’t say much afterward, but there wasn’t much left to be said after I was done letting them know that I need them to wake the fuck up and stop hanging me out to dry.
To get the fuck out of my face and let me use my damn eyeballs for more than staring at the backs of their helmets because they’re in my way.
Okay.
I’ve gotta calm the fuck down.
This game is all but over, and playing pissed off never works well for me. Some goalies can hunker down and get shit done with rage flowing through them, but I’ve never been that type of guy. I need to stay calm. Be zen or some shit.
With a deep breath, I settle down into my crease, waiting for the puck to drop again so we can get this whole game over and done with.
I narrow my focus down to the sticks and skates of the players on the ice and take another deep inhale, forcing it in through my nose and out through my mouth.
What I don’t do is look at the crowd, no matter how much I find myself wanting to check in with Shiloh.
He’s there, I know. Sitting in the stands just to my right, nestled between two men in Snakes jerseys who’ve been screaming at me all night long.
He’s got my hoodie on again, the green strands of his hair melting into it like a waterfall and his chipped fingernails gripping the cuffs of the sleeves tight.
He blends in with the people around him, each wearing various pieces of green clothing, while at the same time he stands out like a beacon to me.
I’ve glanced his way during every stoppage in play, wondering what he thinks of what I assume is his first hockey game, and wishing I was giving him more than an epic loss to watch.
I wanted to win for him so damn bad. Maybe even more than I wanted to win for myself, but I won’t ever admit that out loud.
My eyes trail away from the players lining up for puck drop, threatening to seek Shiloh out once more.
I have to force myself to focus on the ice, to settle down into my knees and grip my stick a bit tighter in my gloved hand.
If I turn my head, I can see him, but at the same time, if I look at him right now, I’m just gonna get riled up again and that won’t be good for anyone.
Even now, just thinking about him watching us lose this game is threatening to make me see red.
Zen, motherfucker.
Find it.
There are only a few minutes left in this game, and there’s no point getting all heated up again.
Instead of looking at the crowd, I look quickly to the bench, wondering if I should go.
Now is about the time in the game that I could be pulled from net so the team can send out an extra forward, but Coach Bob gives me a curt head shake that indicates I’m staying right where I am.
Yeah.
Makes sense.
This game is all but over at this point and there’s nothing to be gained by pulling me out.
I stand and watch as the seconds tick down, the play contained to the other end of the ice.
The opposing goalie is having one hell of a time out there, Tucker’s line throwing everything they possibly can at him in the waning moments of the game.
A few seconds before the night officially ends, I let my eyes drift over to what they want to be looking at more than the shitty scoreboard.
Shiloh stands among the crowd, his black and green curls glimmering in the bright overhead lights like a spotlight’s been cast directly onto him.
Instead of watching what’s happening at the other end of the ice like everyone else around him is, he’s looking right at me like he can’t help himself either.
His head tilts to the side like he’s considering something, his eyes unblinking as he scans my entire body from the bottom of my skates to the helmet on my head.
His nose wrinkles slightly as he meets my face again, and my stomach drops slightly when I see disgust written into his features, but I get it.
As the final buzzer goes off, I glance at the scoreboard before looking back to him, my failure on display in numbers that make my blood boil and my own stomach swoop in disgust.
Yeah, I definitely get it.
Snow crunches beneath my feet as I walk through the quiet parking lot, the cool air sinking into my skin through the jacket I wear.
Every breath I exhale lingers in the air in front of my face, and I don’t think I’m heading out to wander in the moonlight and unpack my shitty vibes from the game tonight.
Maybe I’ll drive around until I find a spot where the city lights don’t drown out the stars overhead and sit in the warmth of my Jeep instead.
I hope Shiloh got home safe tonight. If I’d been thinking properly when I had him in front of me, I’d have invited him out after the game or something. I’m probably not great company, though, so perhaps it’s for the best if I’m just alone with my thoughts tonight.
Two losses in a row.
There’s no way I’m playing the next game and that sucks. Gilly and I have shared the net pretty equally this season so far, but two losses in a row have me thinking I’m about to be relegated to a true backup spot. Coach needs a goalie who’s on fire and I’m barely smoldering.
With a sigh, I pluck my keys out of my pocket and click the button that unlocks the doors.
The Jeep lights flash in the darkness, but for some reason the interior light comes on like someone’s opened a door.
I stop walking as the light flicks out again, but not before it illuminates a figure in the passenger seat for a split second.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself, taking a step closer as I peer across the lot into the darkened driver’s side window.
I can’t make out anything really, but I’m sure someone’s in there.
I glance over at the security door, wondering if I should go back inside and grab one of the officers, but as I’m thinking about it, the driver’s door pops open.
“Get inside,” Shiloh hisses, sprawled across the seat from the passenger side.
“Christ,” I laugh as I rush to the open door. “You scared the shit outta me.”
He doesn’t respond as he sits back up on the seat, leaving me space to hop into the vehicle.
I quickly start the engine, turning the heat all the way up even though it’s just blowing cold at the moment.
The Jeep has a great heater, but it takes a while to get going.
Another reason I gotta get off my ass before winter really hits hard and get a remote starter installed.
Shiloh reaches his hands out and places them on the vents, frowning as the cold air pushes out against his skin. He grumbles softly under his breath, his curls falling over his forehead as he makes a turtle-like move to cram his head down into the neck of the sweater.
“Here,” I murmur, reaching out for his cold hands.
He pulls back slightly, turning his head up to stare at me with confused eyes.
I gently take his frozen fingers in mine, wrapping his smaller hands in my huge palms. Slowly, I raise his hands to my mouth and part my fingers to blow my heated breath onto the ice blocks that are his chilled fingers.
He’s as still as a statue, eyes wide as saucers as he watches me. I can feel a slight twitch in his hands, like he’d love to yank out of my grasp, but I hold him there cradled in my warmth.
And he lets me.
I keep holding him there longer than I really should, wondering at the way his bare hands feel against my own skin.
It’s been a while since I’ve had skin-to-skin contact with someone who wasn’t a member of the training staff or the team, and I hadn’t realized until now how much I’ve missed a simple touch.
A gentle hold.
Fucking hell, it’s just some damn hands in mine and I’m losing it over here. What a messed up night this has been.
“Better?” I whisper, before blowing another hot breath onto his hands.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head slightly.