9. Marshall
CHAPTER NINE
MARSHALL
It was the third period, and we were up two to one against Montreal.
I was skating along the boards with the puck on my backhand, my head up, reading the ice.
Ashford was on the far wing, gliding toward the net with his stick on the ice, calling for a cross-ice feed.
I saw the window and loaded up to make the pass only I didn't see the defenseman coming at me.
He came from my left, their shutdown guy, six-three, two-twenty-five, the player whose entire job was to find players with their heads down and rearrange their evening.
His shoulder hit my hip at full speed. The impact folded me sideways, my left leg going one direction and my torso going another.
I hit the ice with a sound I felt more than heard.
A dull, wet thud that traveled through my shoulder and into my skull.
The whistle blew. The noise from the crowd got louder as it always did when someone from the home team went down hard.
I lay there for a couple of seconds, taking an inventory of my body.
Everything seemed fine, except for my hip.
The left hip, the one that had been giving me issues since preseason.
I could feel something in my groin, the inner part of my left thigh where the abductor attached to the pelvis, pulled so tight it felt like it had been stretched further than it wanted to go.
I got up. That was the rule. My cousin had beaten that into me.
You take the hit and you get up; you skate to the bench, and if something is wrong, you deal with it in the tunnel where no one can see your face or read your pain.
The moment the coaching staff uses a word like fragile in a conversation about you, your roster spot shrinks.
I skated over to the bench, each stride sending a pulse of heat through my left groin, which made me adjust my weight to my right side.
Ryan tapped his stick on the ice as I passed the crease. I nodded once, letting him know I was upright and not to worry.
Dr. Reeves, the team doctor, met me in the tunnel.
She was a woman in her mid-forties with cropped gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude that reminded me of my high school principal.
She'd been with the Enforcers for six years and didn't tolerate bullshit from anyone, not from players or from coaches.
She had a reputation for telling guys the truth even when they didn't want to hear it, which made her either the best or the worst person to see after a hit, depending on how much truth you were ready for.
"On the table," she said.
I lay down on the training table, the cold vinyl pressing against my back through my soaked undershirt.
She got right to it, putting me through a series of movements: hip flexion, extension, internal rotation, external rotation, adduction against resistance.
Each test was a measurement of how much time I was going to lose, and judging from what I was feeling, I was going to miss some time.
She straightened up and pulled off her gloves.
"It's a groin strain. Adductor. Grade one possibly a grade two.
I'll want imaging to confirm, but from what I can tell I'd say it's a grade one with some fiber disruption.
I want you off the ice for the rest of the game and resting for a minimum of three days. We'll reassess after that."
I lay there for a few minutes, thinking about what she'd said before sitting up.
"A few days?" I questioned.
"Yes, a minimum of three, possibly five.
" She looked at me over the top of her glasses.
I could tell from her expression she'd had this conversation a thousand times with a thousand players.
"I know it's not the news you want to hear.
I also know that in your position and as a rookie, every day off feels like a day someone else takes your spot. "
"Correct. So, I will be careful and play through it." I said, moving to get off the table.
"Marshall, I'm only going to say this once.
If you play through it, it will get worse.
That grade one injury becomes a grade two, and a grade two will put you out for two to four weeks.
And if you're stubborn, which I've been told you are, and you play through a grade two, it becomes a grade three, and a grade three means surgery and many months off the ice.
So, do yourself a favor and take the days off. "
I knew she was right. I wasn't a stranger to this type of injury.
I'd pulled the same muscle group in college during my junior year, and I'd tried to play through it because my team needed me.
I was also twenty, invincible, and didn't understand the difference between being tough and stupid.
Instead of missing five days, I missed four weeks and spent every one of them in rehab.
"No problem, I'll take your advice." I said, taking the ice pack from her.
I hopped off the table and sat in the tunnel, listening to the crowd roar, while my left thigh throbbed with a dull, persistent pulse.
I pressed the ice pack against it and stared at the concrete wall in front of me, trying to think of what Briggs was thinking and whether he was recalculating his choice, because I was sure that the minus column next to my name was only getting longer.
The guys came through the tunnel, slapping gloves, laughing with that winning energy that was like a drug.
We'd won the game three to one. Briggs came through last, his clipboard under his arm, his expression like granite.
He stopped in front of me, looked down at the ice pack I held in my hand, then looked at me.
"Make sure you listen to Reeves. I need you healthy."
I nodded and watched him walk away.
The mood was high in the locker room. Guys peeled off their gear, talking about the plays and reliving the goals of the night. Jeremy dropped onto the bench next to me and looked at the ice pack strapped to my thigh, thanks to Dr. Reeves.
"How bad?"
"Grade one. A few days off." I shrugged.
"Good. Take the time you need. Now we are going out tonight. It's a team tradition: after three wins in a row, we celebrate. Non-negotiable."
"I'm nursing a groin injury, Jeremy."
Jeremy chuckled. "You, my friend, are nursing a beer at a bar. You don't need your groin for that." He paused and then looked at me. "Well, unless you plan on using your groin after the bar, in which case, you may need those five days off."
"I hate you." I chuckled.
"Everybody does, rookie. Part of my charm." He said, smacking me on the shoulder.
I wanted to argue with him and say I was going to go home and rest, but I wasn't keen on returning to an empty house to sit alone with an ice pack and my thoughts.
Lately, all I could think about was the kiss I'd shared with Lillah, the kiss that had cost me that game in Philly, and adding injury boredom to the mix sounded like a recipe for a spiral I couldn't afford.
Once everyone had showered and changed, we headed over to a place Jeremy liked. An upscale lounge with dim lighting, leather seating, and a ridiculously long cocktail menu.
I ordered a whiskey. Ashford grabbed a gin and tonic, Jeremy ordered something called "smoke and mirrors" which involved mezcal and a charred orange peel. We spread out in a corner booth at the end of the bar, and I was two sips into the whiskey, leaning against the bar when I saw her.
Lillah was across the room, sitting at a small table near the window, and she wasn't alone.
A man sat across from her. He was in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven with a fresh haircut, dressed in a navy blazer and jeans. He was leaning toward her, talking away.
She sat there holding a glass of wine, her head tilted slightly to the left as if she were listening.
She was wearing a dark green fitted dress with thin straps that left her shoulders bare and showed the line of her collarbone and the hollow of her throat.
Her hair was down, falling in dark waves.
As I stood there watching her, I couldn't ignore how stunning she looked.
She was here on a date with someone else, and as that thought floated through my mind, jealousy hit me like a check into the boards.
I had no right to feel that, and I knew it.
I barely knew her, and kissing her once while I was drunk didn't mean she was mine.
She wasn't anything to me except a neighbor who didn't like me.
But watching this guy lean toward her like he had a right to be in her space made my jaw tighten until my teeth hurt.
"Earth to Marshall…" I heard someone yell.
I tore my eyes away from the scene across the room and looked at the guys.
"Who the hell are you staring at?" Jeremy questioned.
"Nobody."
"Bullshit, nobody. Ashford was talking to you and you were completely gone."
"Sorry, what was it you were saying?" I asked Ashford.
The moment he started talking again, my gaze went back to Lillah.
"Wait, a minute. Isn't that your neighbor? The dog shit girl?" Jeremy questioned.
"Don't call her that."
Jeremy watched me as he took a drink.
"Interesting," he muttered.
"There is nothing interesting. She lives next door to me. She is here. Coincidence." I said, drinking down the last of my whiskey.
"Looks like she is on a date." He said, watching her, then turning his attention to me.
"Yes, I can see that."
"And you look like you want to throw your glass at that guy's head."
"No, I don't."
No matter how many times I told myself that, I wanted to do exactly what Jeremy said. Only I wanted to be the one to catch it so I could throw it again.
"Yes, you do. Look at yourself. You look like you're in the middle of third period when someone gets away with a slash. Your jaw is all tight. So, what are you going to do about it?" He questioned, downing the rest of his drink and signaling the bartender for another one along with a whiskey.
I set my glass down on the bar with more force than I'd intended.
"I'm going over there." I said.
"Marshall…" Jeremy put his hand on my arm.
"That is probably a bad idea. You're injured, and she is on a date.
I was razzing you; the smart move is to stay here and drink your feelings like a normal person.
" He said, picking up the glass of whiskey that had arrived and holding it in front of my face.
I ignored him, pushing his hand away. I crossed the bar with purpose, leaving Jeremy and my drink behind. The sight of Lillah Winters sitting across from a man who looked like he organized his spice rack alphabetically pulled me forward.
She glanced up before I got to their table, her eyes going wide, first with surprise and then narrowing. Her hand tightened on her wineglass.
"Hey." I said, stopping at their table. "Fancy seeing you here."
"Marshall, what are you doing here?" She asked, her voice flat.
"Had a game. Guys and I are celebrating the win." I gestured toward the bar where Jeremy, Ashford, and the others were watching the scene unfold.
Her date looked up at me. In two seconds, three expressions washed across his face. Confusion, recognition, then excitement.
"Wait! It can't be. Marshall Hayes? Boston Enforcers?"
"Yep, that's me." I said, turning my gaze back to Lillah.
"Holy shit." I looked over at him as he got up out of his seat and extended his hand.
His grip was firm, but the palm of his hand was soft and dry.
"Hank Whitmore. I am a huge fan. I've been following you since the draft.
Your skating speed is insane. Your stats say you can move at twenty-three miles per hour in a straight sprint.
Pretty impressive, not to mention that one-timer against Tampa in the home opener-top corner, glove side.
I must have watched that replay at least ten times.
What was your time on that breakaway in the second period? "
"Hank!" Lillah's voice rang out. "We are in the middle of dinner."
Hank looked at her, then at me. I could see him thinking.
"You know Marshall Hayes? Like, personally?" He asked her.
"He's my neighbor." Lillah said, letting out a sigh.
"Wow, incredible. I can't believe your neighbor is Marshall Hayes." He whispered as he sat back down. "How long have you…"
"About a month." I answered. "Give or take, I guess. We've had some…interactions."
Lillah looked at me.
"Interactions?" she repeated, her eyes meeting mine. For a second, the entire room went quiet. Her expression could have peeled paint off the wall. There was something else in it besides anger and annoyance, something that matched what I was feeling. An invisible wire pulled tight between us.
Hank didn't notice. He was too busy being a fan.
"Man, the Enforcers are having a hell of a start to this season.
You guys are what, five and two? I can't believe the way the forward line is clicking and the chemistry between you and Thatcher is unreal.
I was telling my buddy, you guys may make the playoffs this year.
What is your take on the Eastern Conference… "
"It's our first date." Lillah said, cutting him off. "And Marshall, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to it."
I looked over at her as she raised her eyes to mine. The electricity between us was the same as it had been that night on the porch. Even though she had told me she wanted me to leave, her eyes were saying something different.
"Of course. Sorry to have interrupted." I said, looking at Hank, "It was nice to meet you, man. Enjoy the rest of your night."
I didn't wait for him to reply. I turned around and made my way back to the bar, my groin pulsing with every step, reminding me that standing at a bar for hours wasn't on Dr. Reeves' approved activity list. I took a seat across from Jeremy, adjusting my weight to take the pressure off my left side and drank the whiskey that was waiting for me.
"How'd that go?" Jeremy chuckled.
"Great."
"Really, because you look like you swallowed a lemon. A whole one, sideways."
Ignoring Jeremy, I turned to my drink, watching Lillah and Hank from across the room.
Hank was talking, his hands moving, animated and enthusiastic.
Lillah was listening, but her posture had changed.
She was stiffer, her shoulders pulled back, her back straight against the chair, and her wineglass sat in front of her like a shield.
She was nodding, but her mind was somewhere else.
Her eyes drifted across the room to where I sat. She glanced at me, the sort of look that could be denied if someone noticed. Only I noticed it every time because I still couldn't take my eyes off her.
So, I lifted my glass to her. A small raise, letting her know I saw her watching me.
She tore her eyes away and took a sip of her wine, now focusing on Hank.
Only I knew she'd been looking, and that was enough for me right now.