Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
MATT
I think I just got compared to a serial killer.
In my own bar.
By a really pretty girl.
“Dude,” Nate laughs, “cute as hell and didn’t even know she was talking to Matt Anderson. You should see your face. What a goner.”
I swallow and try to wipe whatever expression he’s referring to off my face. “Like you weren’t trying to flirt when you asked if she was visiting from out of town,” I scoff at him.
“Hey that was for you, man,” he huffs and points at me, but I catch his face getting a little red before he turns and grabs her empty shot glass.
Thirty years as friends means shit like that doesn’t go unnoticed. In either direction.
Nate finishes putting the shot glass in the bin and turns back to me. “Too bad she seemed to be having a rough time. Wonder what happened today,” he muses with a frown, grabbing a rag to wipe the bar top.
“Yeah,” I mumble and glance at the door where she walked out a few minutes ago.
Why was she sad? I don’t even know her, and the grief that took over her face during our minimal conversation set me on edge.
Nate’s wrong though; no way it was just something that happened today.
That look did not scream bad hair day or flat tire.
Or “it’s too cold.” I cringe at the reminder of my stupid comment.
Her rambling response was pretty cute though.
Maybe she’s lonely? She did say she was new to town. Shit, I didn’t even get her name. Those honey-brown eyes and freckles are going to haunt my dreams. She seemed young, though, maybe even too young for me.
The reminder of my age is not what I want to be thinking about.
It doesn’t carry quite the grief I felt on Pretty Girl’s face, but thinking of my inevitable decision regarding retiring puts a heavy weight on my shoulders I could live without.
Hockey is a brutal sport and I feel every single one of my thirty-six years these days.
But it’s also my whole life, so how am I supposed to decide when to give that up?
That’s not even an exaggeration. I’ve been playing since I was five years old and was getting scouted early in high school.
By the time I was fourteen I had my own agent, and by seventeen I knew I was likely to be an early round pick for the draft.
Over thirty years I’ve played and loved this sport.
It’s pretty much all I know. Thinking about being done sends a sharp pain through my chest—both at the idea of not playing professionally for the team I’ve been on my whole career, and at the unknown of what to do next.
One could argue that now’s the time to retire.
I’m still putting up big numbers and living up to the hype that’s surrounded my career since the beginning.
Going out while still on top certainly has some appeal.
But what if I have more to give? What if I can continue to lead this team and, selfishly, set some more records?
I could definitely go for another Cup too.
There’s also the chance I wait too long and get to witness the decline of my career in real time.
God, I think that might kill me—to lose my edge and watch my reputation shift.
It wouldn’t be seen as a voluntary retirement then, no.
It would be seen as my only option. The old guy finally showing his age.
Get off the ice before you drag the team down.
Yeesh, that shit gives me nightmares. Literally.
I love hockey so much I don’t know who I am without it.
It’s been my focus for as long as I can remember.
So how do I live the rest—and hopefully the majority—of my life without this pillar that defines who I am?
Fuck, I don’t want to think about this. Half the season left, I remind myself.
No pressure to make a decision until after it’s over, anyway.
Shaking my head and trying to think of literally anything else, I turn to the TV to catch the last of the soccer game that’s been on for the past hour.
I don’t think Pretty Girl looked at the TV once.
Not a fan of sports, maybe? That would further confirm she wouldn’t have recognized the captain of the Bears.
We don’t often get people coming here to seek me out, but some regulars certainly know I’m here a fair amount.
Some even know that I co-own the bar with Nate—information I’m sure gets shared.
Thankfully, locals are generally respectful of my privacy and don’t make a thing out of my presence.
Being a small, bare-bones place means we don’t attract tourists either, so luckily we aren’t seeing a ton of new people.
And when we do it’s usually pretty obvious if they recognize me: the shifty eyes, the sly selfies, the double takes and whispering.
I don’t think Pretty Girl even noticed I was here until I interrupted her conversation with Nate. Refreshing and yet oddly frustrating.
I wonder how much she paid attention to the bar itself? It’s not exactly a nice bar, but it’s got character and that old-school charm you can only really acquire over time.
Not that I should care what a stranger thinks about it. Even one as cute as her.
My eyes catch on the dust on the TV and the liquor shelves next to it.
Maybe in the offseason I can do a little work to spruce the place up, focus on projects Nate can’t get to while running the day-to-day.
I scan the room and take in the cracked paneling on the frame gallery wall and the permanently sticky wood floors under me.
Okay, more like a lot of work. Maybe this should be my retirement plan…
I can figure it out later, I remind myself again.
“Did you happen to catch her name when you closed her tab?” I try to sound casual, turning back to the TV.
“Stalker much?”
I turn to a grinning Nate and wonder if he’s going to fuck with me. He laughs at whatever he sees on my face. He relents. “Eleanor Ford.”
Eleanor.
My legs burn and sweat drips down my face as we rerun a play for the fourth time.
One of my favorite parts of hockey is watching a maneuver we’ve practiced over and over get executed flawlessly in a game.
Just imagining the buzzer going off as I slide out on one knee sends a little hum through my veins. That shit never gets old.
I push back up to both skates as the whistle blows and give Alex a friendly shoulder bump before heading over to the bench for some water.
He’s been putting in the work and it shows.
Since he got traded to the Bears last week, he’s been playing first line with me and has really impressed everyone with his handful of goals and assists.
Hockey takes a lot of natural talent and learned skills, but the drive to be better and master the game can’t really be taught or bought.
It’s just something you have to want badly enough.
It doesn’t happen often, but I see a lot of myself in Alex. If he can keep his head down and not get distracted by the hoopla around being a pro athlete, I think he could really make a name for himself.
“Killer no-look, man. That release was perfect,” I tell him as he leans against the boards to grab his water.
“I just hope we can do that tomorrow. Would really like to fucking bury Boston,” he says. “Maybe even lay out that fucker McCormic.”
I smile at the fervor in his voice—something hilariously on-brand for the younger players. Maybe a few more years in the league will temper that a bit.
“We’re ready for ’em,” I promise him with a slap on the back as I get up and head toward the locker room. I won’t admit to him that Bryan McCormic getting friendly with the boards sounds fun to watch. No need to encourage him.
I remember when the passion for winning felt more like an angry emotion than a happy one, when I felt like I had something to prove and the other team was the enemy.
I still have that passion for wins, sure, but these days it’s more about perfecting our playing, working to read the other team like a fucking book, and improving our record one game at a time.
Getting to the Cup is a heck of a marathon, and treating every game like a methodical battle has long since been my viewpoint.
Getting angry doesn’t work for me and only serves to detract from my game.
It’s also why you won’t find me in the penalty box too much.
Focusing on my game instead of defending baseless aggression has served me well.
Not everyone has that approach though.
“So how many power plays are you gonna give them tomorrow?” I ask Niko with a smirk as I sit roughly and start to unlace my skates.
Niko’s been on this team almost as long as me.
And, despite the tenure, he always seems to get baited into penalties when playing our rivals.
It’s something I both love and (fondly) hate about him—he’ll defend not just himself, but the whole damn team till his dying day.
Even when it’s pointless. However, that loyalty is one of the main reasons he’s one of my closest friends on and off the ice.
“Whatever, man. Those fuckers always have it coming,” he grunts as he starts ripping his tape.
I guess not all of us lose the fervor with age.
“Fair enough,” I laugh. I get to work on ripping my own tape, thinking about how I’m going to mitigate my teammates’ rage tomorrow against Boston. Some rage is good, but too much interferes with our ability to play well. Cliché as it sounds, balance is key.
“You want to grab a few beers tonight? I was thinking of hitting that new bar near yours over in North Loop. My buddy says it’s not too crazy,” Niko promises, correctly assuming I’d be concerned about that.
Another thing I love about him: he never fails to invite me out even though he knows I’m probably going to say no.
Hockey isn’t the most popular sport in the US and most of us don’t draw too much attention.
But having a household name is a blessing and a curse, and being recognizable falls into both categories.
Major perks and huge downsides. One of which is being hounded at a sports bar by fans and… admirers.
Hard pass.
I’m about to say no when an image pops into my head.
One of light brown eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose.
It’s a Friday night… She could conceivably be out.
She said she was walking home from my bar that day a few weeks ago, which is right around the corner from where Niko’s headed later.
I feel like such a loser. I’m debating doing something I never do—and something that might lead to me getting mobbed—just for the slim chance I might run into her. Slim is even pushing it. There are a million places she could be on a Friday night.
Eleanor is a pretty tempting fucking image though.
I shake my head at my own antics and give Niko the answer he’s expecting. “Thanks, bro, but I gotta pass. Maybe next time. Let me know how the bar is,” I tell him, collecting my pads and skates.
He gives me a nod. “Usual lunch before the game tomorrow?”
I give him a quick “Yessir” before shoving my shit in my bag and heading to the showers, trying to convince myself there is no way Eleanor would be at that bar tonight.
Right?