Chapter Thirteen #4
“Quality time is not obvious to a lot of people. Especially busy hockey superstars.” I start counting backward in my head. “Wait a second. You said it was eight years ago. Isn’t that the year you and the Grizzlies won the cup?”
“Yeah. Weirdly, it kind of helped. That was the only year I wasn’t thinking about hockey around the clock.
Nola was so frustrated, trapped in bed even after we got back home, and not herself.
Not the girl we knew.” He trains his gaze on his dad and the cohost on Hockey Talk.
“There were times we worried the accident changed her. She was so young to go through it, only five years old. But she was okay in the end. Her larger-than-life personality returned, and she was able to get back into skating, and eventually hockey. But not everyone in those hospitals has that same outcome. And not all of them have a huge family or support network.”
“So you still volunteer,” I say, propping my chin on my fist, marveling at how much he’s sharing.
I so badly want to understand him. Know him.
The impulse to collect his stories, his secrets, his opinions—it’s overwhelming.
“No wonder you and your siblings are so close. Traumatic experiences tend to make us appreciate people more.”
“From changing their diapers to fearing the worst. I’ll never forget the day I got that call.
” He shudders. “The whole thing changed my perspective. After Nola got out of the hospital, she’d watch my games from the couch, and then from a wheelchair at the arena when her whole leg was casted, and by the end of the season, standing up and cheering in the stands.
I wanted to win for her. Milo and my mom, too, for driving there every time we played at home. ”
The thought of his family in the stands, cheering for him, tugs at something in my chest. “I’ve seen footage from that year. The whole hockey world did. You turned that perspective into something magical.”
“His and hers,” Cleo announces, setting down two drinks. They hit the weathered wood of the bar with a thud. “Sorry for the delay, had to change a keg.”
Leo thanks her, but his gaze stays on me.
It’s not until then that I realize how close we’ve become, both leaning in to compete with the noise of the bar.
“It was a great season. I appreciated the game and my body in a new way.” He pauses, his gaze roaming my face.
“And it helps when you have something worth playing for. Something other than yourself.”
I intend to drop his gaze, but the longer I look at him, the more it feels like I’m tumbling forward into his center of gravity without ever leaving my stool. “Do you still play for them? Is that still your ‘why’?”
He sips his water as he contemplates the question. “The kids are older now and well on their way to their own careers, so I don’t impress them as much as I once did.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
He merely chuckles under his breath. “It is, and that’s okay.
And I don’t play for my parents, especially not my father, who probably thinks I’m the biggest fuck-up to grace the ice the last two years but is nice enough not to harp on it.
Studying the game is his job, and he’ll never stop comparing me to not only the best version of myself, but him, too.
” A stormy intensity darkens his eyes. “I guess I’m not sure what my ‘why’ is anymore. Only that I don’t know how to stop.”
The sentiment echoes in places I try not to touch. I never wanted to stop. “That’s the thing about life as an athlete. You rarely get to choose when you’re done.”
He lifts his glass to his lips, watching me over the rim for a beat before he takes a long sip.
With a rough clearing of his throat, he sheds his vulnerability. “That’s enough about me. For a while, I hope.”
I’m not sure I’ve gotten enough of him for my liking.
In fact, I know I haven’t.
The man seated directly on Leo’s left plants his elbows on the bar to lean past him. “Hey, you’re Leo McLaren! And you look like that lady coach.” He tugs on the collar of his Montreal jersey. “Fury in enemy territory, eh?”
Leo tenses, leaning forward as if to block the guy’s view of me. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He squints an eye as if questioning his own sanity. “You sure? You look just like the guy.”
Cleo rolls her eyes. “Leave ’em be, Harry.”
“I’m just being friendly! It’s not like I’m looking for a fight. The Pioneers and Fury both want the same thing: for the Brawlers to eat shit and die. Isn’t that right, McLaren?”
“I’m not McLaren.”
“But we do want the Brawlers to crash and burn,” I say, glancing past Leo’s giant, muscular body. “Not die, but suffer greatly.”
Leo looks over and down at me, exasperated as ever. He leans in to speak close to my ear, his breath hot on my skin. “Can we not encourage him, please?”
Goose bumps skitter down my neck.
I lean into his space to whisper back. “I’m also ‘just being friendly.’” The smell of cologne hits me like a warm shot, muddying my brain. I bet he sprayed it there, right where his pulse beats. “He’s our neighbor for the night, after all.”
He moves his head just slightly to catch my gaze. I nearly gasp at how close his face is to mine. “Well, I only want to be friendly with you.”
Heat pumps through me hard and fast. We’re being reckless in public. Which is why I shouldn’t bait him.
I bite my lip to try and stop the words from escaping. “Do you treat your friends like you treat me?”
Fingers brush my thigh beneath the bar. “Not unless I want to ruin that friendship.”
My breath catches.
His hand lingers. A shock wave shoots up my leg, settling between my thighs. I can’t think straight when he’s near me, let alone—
“Oy, you two gonna leave me hanging? I said cheers!” Harry sloshes beer over the rim as he extends his pint glass toward us. “To the Pioneers crushing the Brawlers into meaty little pulps.”
I swipe my bottle off the bar, grateful for a chance to catch my breath and recenter my focus. “I’ll drink to that.”
With a sigh, Leo grabs his water glass and lifts it high.