Marshall
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My groin injury had healed. Dr. Reeves had cleared me after five days on the condition that I warmed up like an adult before every practice and game.
Those had been her exact words. I was still tender on certain movements, but it wasn't as limiting, and I'd been doing the rehab exercises every morning like I'd been told.
We were on a winning streak and we were all playing well.
The systems that Briggs had put into place were finally looking more like instinct.
Briggs had finally stopped looking like he wanted to murder each one of us after practice, too.
It was Thursday afternoon when Briggs pulled me aside in the tunnel.
"Can I have a word?" He questioned.
"Sure, Coach." I said, moving to the side to let two guys through.
"You've been good, Hayes. Consistent. You've improved on the defensive reads, and you're anticipating plays instead of reacting now, which is exactly what I told you to do in week one.
Your speed is increasing after your injury, and it looks to me as if you are playing like someone who plans to be here for a while. "
I said nothing, stood and listened because I had received a prior warning against interrupting Briggs while he was speaking.
"The organization has been watching, and there is talk of extending your contract. Multi-year. Nothing is finalized of course. The GM wants to see another month of consistency before putting anything on paper, but I wanted you to hear it from me first, not from your agent or a reporter."
"I appreciate that, Coach."
"Keep playing the way you have been, and the contract will take care of itself. The moment your focus shifts to that contract instead of the game, the game will suffer and the contract will disappear." He paused for a minute, and then walked away, his shoes squeaking on the rubber mat.
I called my father from the parking lot, and he answered on the second ring, as if he'd been holding the phone waiting for my call.
"Dad, they are talking about extending my contract." I said, "Multi-year."
He was quiet for a second. "Well, son, you earned it. Don't let up, keep giving it all you've got."
"I won't give up, Dad. Say hi to Mom for me."
"I will. Love you, and we are both so proud."
"Thanks. Love you."
I hung up and sat in my truck for a minute, the engine running and the heater warming the cab. It was getting colder. The trees had fully turned, and red, gold, and orange lit up the landscape, making it look like it were on fire.
Tonight the guys were having a party at Ashfords place.
I'd already decided I would not go, so I texted Jeremy letting him know I was going to rest up instead.
He responded with a thumbs up emoji and nothing else, which meant he understood or he was already well on his way to getting drunk and didn't care.
I went home instead and pulled into my driveway, killing the engine. I climbed out and pulled my bag from the back of my truck and saw something on my front door. I made my way up the steps to find a yellow post-it note stuck there. I peeled it off my door and looked at the neat handwriting.
Congrats on the winning streak. You guys looked amazing out there. L.
I stood there holding the post-it note in my hand, smiling like an idiot. She'd been watching my games enough to know about the streak we were on, and she'd walked over here and left a note on my door to let me know.
I opened the door and threw my bag inside, and then I went over to her place, the note still in my hand, and knocked.
A second later the door opened, and Lillah stood there in her bathrobe.
It was a white, fluffy, terry-cloth robe, cinched at the waist. Underneath it, barely visible at the neckline where the robe gaped, was a red lace edge that made my brain short-circuit for about a second.
Her hair was wet, falling in damp waves around her shoulders.
"Hey." I said, my voice low, trying to keep myself together as my body reacted to the sight of her.
"Hi." she said, looking down at herself and then back at me as a flush crept across her cheeks. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
"I got your note." I said, holding the post-it up between my fingers, leaning against the doorframe.
"Oh, I thought the note spoke for itself, didn't it?" She said, smiling. "You don't come to the note-writer's door; you just read the note, go inside and feel good about it." She said, smiling.
"I wanted to say thank you in person." I said, meeting her eyes.
I could barely take my eyes off her. She looked beautiful, the flush on her skin and the red lace peeking out from under the edge of the white terry-cloth robe.
"You look great."
The flush deepened, and she stood there for a moment, her hand on the door as if she were debating letting me in or sending me home. I could breathe again when she stepped back and held the door open wider.
"Come in. I'll open some wine."
I stepped inside, Cooper meeting me in the hallway, his whole rear end swinging. I crouched down and scratched behind his ears, and he groaned, pressing his head into my hand.
Her house was more beautiful than I'd thought. The colors worked well together, and it felt warm and co-ordinated. The kind of space that made you comfortable and want to stay.
She went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of red wine.
Her back was to me as she reached up into the upper cabinet for the glasses.
Her bathrobe shifted, riding up her thigh, revealing skin that was still pink from her shower.
When she got the glasses down, her robe fell off her shoulder and exposed the red lace strap against her shoulder blade.
I had to look away. My eyes went from her shoulder to Cooper and then to the shelves along the wall.
My body was reacting to her in ways that if I didn't get myself under control, the reaction would be visible through my gray sweats.
She came into the living room and handed me a glass of wine. We sat on the couch about a foot apart, and Cooper settled on the floor at our feet, his chin on his paws, looking between us.
"Like the note said, I've been watching your games." She said. "You're really good, Marshall."
"I'm getting better with each week." I said.
"No, you are already good." She said, tucking one leg under her and turning toward me on the couch.
Her robe fell open at her knee, revealing more skin.
"I also looked up your past games. I saw your goal against Tampa. That was your first NHL goal. The commentators were losing their minds."
"You looked it up and watched it?" I questioned, shifting in my seat, turning toward her.
"Well, I googled it. I don't have any of those sports channels."
"No difference."
She smiled. "Okay, perhaps not."
I looked at her, sitting there sideways on the couch, her bathrobe falling open at the neckline. She held the wineglass in her hands, looking at me as if she had stopped fighting whatever this was between us and decided to let it happen.
"Why don't you come to the next home game? It's on Saturday. I will get you a seat in the team box."
She hesitated. I could see she was trying to decide how to answer and what her answer might mean if she went to the game and sat where the wives and girlfriends sat. Being there would publicly connect her to one player.
"Just so you know, you don't have to. It was an invitation, and it's fine if you wish to sit somewhere else. There is no pressure." I said, trying to reassure her.
"Okay." she whispered.
"Okay as in…"
"I'd like to go." She smiled.
"Great, I will get you a seat." I winked.
We both finished the first glass of wine, and then she poured us another.
"It's really good." I said, taking a sip.
"Thanks. My friend Mila recommended it. It's a Malbec, from Willamette Valley Winery."
"She has good taste."
Our conversation drifted from one topic to another with ease.
First it was hockey, then her business. She told me about the Henderson project and then about the boutique hotel she'd pitched but still hadn't heard from yet.
She then told me all about the curtains in her bedroom she'd finally replaced.
"You should see them, they completed changed the room. The undertones in the fabric match the floor now and the whole space feels warmer."
"I believe you." I answered, taking another sip of my wine.
"You do not know what I'm even talking about." She said.
"Yes, you are right. However, I believe that it really matters to you, and that is enough."
She looked at me with an expression that was soft yet surprised, like the men in her past had dismissed the things she cared about instead of making room for them.
The space between us closed in, and her knee touched mine, but neither of us moved. I set my glass down on the coffee table and turned toward her fully.
"Lillah."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to kiss you again, but this time, don't tell me it will never happen again."
"You know, you're pretty confident for a guy who showed up at my door smelling like dog shit and ripping my head only a month ago." She said, looking at me with her lips parted, and the flush on her cheeks had spread to her throat.
"Ah, I've improved." I winked.
She let out a laugh, and that was when I leaned forward and kissed her.
It was different than our porch kiss. That had been a mixture of alcohol and adrenaline.
This kiss was slow and deliberate. My hand came up to the side of her face, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw, and I pressed my lips to hers and felt her melt.
The tension in her shoulders released, and her body softened against mine.
Her hand came up to my chest, and this time she didn't push me away; she gripped my shirt and pulled me closer.
Our kiss deepened. Her mouth opened beneath mine. She tasted like wine. My other hand found her waist through the bathrobe, feeling the soft terry cloth under my fingers, and I pulled her closer until she pressed against me, her chest against mine, her breath coming faster.