14. Game On
GAME ON
brETT
Goal light. Buzzer. Roar of the crowd.
So far, my first game with the Wolfpack is going pretty well.
“Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!”
Decker skates up and slings his arm around my neck, punching me in the chest with his stick hand. A moment later, the rest of my linemates swarm me.
I accept the knocks on the helmet and stick slaps on my shin pads as congratulations on the booming slap shot from the point that beat Wyoming’s goalie glove-side, making it 4-3 for the Wolfpack. For us, I guess I mean.
I haven’t scored a goal all season. Almost forgot how damn good it feels. And I thought my earlier assist on Ehrhoff’s goal had been a rush.
Skating back to the bench, I bump gloves with most of my teammates before joining them on the bench.
The two notable exceptions are Gray, who’s pretending that cleaning the snow off his tape takes immense concentration, and Yarrow, who’s messing with his skate lace with an intensity that leaves no room for high-fives.
Grabbing a water bottle, I take a swig, looking up when the assistant coach slaps me on the shoulder.
“Nice work tonight. Rest quick. I want you out there again when Pavelec’s line takes the ice. Keep him off the scoreboard.”
I accept the praise and the match-up with a quick nod, before glancing up at the Jumbotron to watch the replay of my goal.
“Montana’s fourth goal, and his first as a member of the Wolfpack, scored by number 59, Brett Sillllllingerrrrr! Time of the goal, 3:23.”
The announcer leans hard on my last name, drawing it out, and the home crowd goes wild.
Not a bad way to christen my new number. 42 is sentimental, sure, but maybe 59 has a little magic in it after all.
With the clock ticking down, the Wyoming Stallions make a good press to tie the game back up.
They pull their goalie for the extra attacker, and the pressure is high.
So are the tempers. After a messy scrum in front of our net, Lincoln Kennedy finally gets a glove on the puck, covering it up for a whistle, and the Stallions’ douchebag winger, Jeff Leclerc, accidentally-on-purpose knocks him in the helmet with the butt end of his stick.
I give the guy a warning shove. Nobody messes with my goalie.
Leclerc doesn’t take it well, judging by how quickly he drops his gloves, and I have just enough time to do the same before the bastard comes at me.
We’ve tangled before. He’s big, but the guy lacks finesse. Leclerc launches right in with a big body swing, which I barely feel between the roar of the crowd in my ears and the pump of adrenaline and testosterone in my blood.
I take the opportunity to get inside, grab Leclerc by the neck of his jersey, and yank him forward and down.
I wince when I slice the side of my finger on the guy’s helmet with my first punch, but it pops off like it’s supposed to, and I land two more solid hits, while Leclerc is still grabbing at my wrist, trying to dislodge my grip.
Rearing back, Leclerc overbalances and crashes to the ice, dragging me down on top of him. We both manage a couple jabs before the officials are on us, pulling us apart.
Leclerc’s still chirping, swearing at me and calling me washed-up, but I know who won the fight. So does the crowd. I shoot the bastard a smirk designed to piss him off and adjust my helmet over sweaty hair.
Linc gives me a tap on the shin pad with the thick blade of his goal stick, a thank you for having his back, and the linesman shoves my gloves and stick against my chest.
“Let’s go, tough guy.”
I take them, obediently following my escort toward the Wolfpack bench.
One of the trainers hands me a towel and an ice pack for my battered, bloody knuckles as I head for the dressing room with a minute on the clock—not enough time left in the game to bother with the penalty box.
I can’t hold back my grin, flexing my hand a few times, reveling in the ache that marks my first Gordie Howe hat trick. An assist, a goal, and a fight.
What a great fucking night.
By the time I’ve been interviewed, hit the showers, changed into my suit, done a couple more interviews, and finally crawled into the Lincoln Navigator I rented, it’s a little past midnight. I sit there for a moment, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
I glance at my phone, deleting three texts from Janelle without reading them, and smiling like a doofus at the messages from Portland.
Lainey: About time you started playing hockey again. Next time, tell the press I taught you everything you know.
Coop: Good fight.
My brother-in-law has a pretty severe case of dyslexia, so the fact he took the time to write anything means a lot.
I don’t let it bother me that Chelsea and I haven’t texted since I asked for her number and she hearted the quick “It’s me” text I fired off so she’d have my number, too.
It doesn’t matter if she watched.
I had a good game. A great game.
And she’s definitely not the reason that the prospect of heading back to the hotel by myself to watch some TV sounds... unfulfilling.
I’m amped up from the game. And the fight.
Horny, too.
It’s been a long time since I walked off the ice feeling invincible. I’d forgotten how awesome it is to be dialed into the play, in sync with my teammates, part of the win.
I tap my sore hand against my thigh.
Some long dormant part of my brain is telling me not to do what I’m thinking about doing. True to form, I ignore it and open a new message.
Don’t. Don’t type that. You’re being an idiot.
I stare at the words on the screen.
Me: U still up?
Shit. I can’t send her that. It sounds like a booty text. Which isn’t how I mean it. Well, it’s exactly how I mean it, but I should be cooler about it. Ease into it a little. Maybe if I—
My phone buzzes, and I almost fumble it.
Chelsea: Yay local sports team.
My doofus smile is back in full force. I update the message.
Me: U watched?
Chelsea: Highlight reel. Does that count?
I can deal with that.
I like that she checked up on me.
I like it even more since we haven’t talked in three days.
My interaction with Craig London at the silent auction has been messing with my head since Saturday night. Not that I didn’t think about texting her a thousand times between then and now, because I did. This entire situation is complicated as fu—
A message buzzes and I glance down.
Chelsea: ?
Crap.
Me: It counts.
Chelsea: Took you a long time to decide.
Yeah. But it shouldn’t have, because the truth is, it’s not a tough decision.
The girl, or the game? No contest, really.
After all, London only has leverage if he finds out.
I take a deep breath and go for it.
Me: Sorry. All this texting is hell on my sore hand.
There. Booty text complete. She’ll either tell me to go to hell, or she’ll—
My phone buzzes again, and my grin is full on. I don’t even care that my knuckles sting like a bitch as I plug the address she’d pinned into the GPS and back out of my parking spot.
CHELSEA
My first booty text.
The bag of popcorn I shoved in the microwave starts to pop, an auditory representation of the nerves dancing in my stomach. It won’t take long to get here from the arena.
Crap. I need to change.
I rush down the hallway to my room. Shedding my sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, I paw through my underwear drawer and exchange my ratty ones for a matching black bra and panty set.
I inspect myself in the mirror. Too much? Maybe a little too blatant…
“Geez, Chelsea. Could you be any more blatant? You can’t flounce around the house in your underwear! What if I’d brought home a colleague instead of Indian food?”
“I thought maybe we could spice things up a little.”
“Were you reading Cosmo at the grocery store or something? What brought this on?”
“I just... miss you. I miss how we used to be. I miss your body, and your—”
“I’ve got a ton of essays to mark tonight. We can have sex this weekend, like usual. Now go get dressed. The food’s getting cold.”
The memory blindsides me. Dustin’s voice is so clear in my head. The shame of his rejection is a tangible thing. Over time, those dismissals had made me shrink. Made me retreat. Made me hide.
No. This isn’t the same.
This is Brett. He looks at me with more warmth and passion when I’m fully clothed than Dustin did when I was naked.
But I’m definitely not wearing the lingerie. Why the hell I kept it after that debacle, I have no clue. But it’s unexpectedly freeing to toss the ensemble in the trash.
Except now I’m officially out of sexy underthings.
I pull on some red cotton panties, hoping the color offsets the sensible fabric choice and rifle through my drawer for one of the two-dozen Montana Wolfpack T-shirts I’ve accumulated from various charity events over the last three years.
Choosing a black one I’d cut the neck out of one day when I’d fallen into a DIY Pinterest hole, I yank it on and adjust it so my right shoulder is bare before stepping back in front of the mirror.
“Oh hey, Brett. I was just casually lounging around in my T-shirt and panties when you texted.”
Ugh.
I can’t answer the door without pants, so I pull my sweats back on.
Do I have time for makeup? Or will it look like I’m trying too hard? I dash to the living room for my strawberry lip balm. Oh, and Brett said he likes my hair down, I remember, just as headlights illuminate the street.
I freeze in the act of Chapsticking.
An SUV glides to a stop at the curb, and I know it’s him.
Oh, God. I’m really doing this.