33. Not the Bad Kind
NOT THE BAD KIND
brETT
“Sills.”
I turn at the sound of my name. Not gonna lie, Liam Yarrow is the last guy I expect to see skating toward me. I glance across the ice at Gray. Well, maybe not dead last. Bottom three, for sure.
“You got a second?”
Stopping in front of the bench, I grab the closest water bottle and squeeze some on the back of my neck.
“Your best buddy know you’re talking to me? Wouldn’t want to make him jealous.”
Liam huffs. “He’s twenty-two, man. Cut him some slack. We’ve been paired up from the start. Coach splits us up, puts you in with him, and suddenly he’s gotta prove something again.”
“He’s not the only one.” I set the water bottle down.
The guy shoots me a look that I don’t expect from him—a what the hell are you talking about look. “You are proving something.”
He even sounds genuine, as he drops a glove on the boards.
“Look, I know Gray has been giving you a rough time about me getting scratched. I talked to him but…” Liam trails off, wiping his face with the hem of his jersey, then sighs. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”
“Sure as hell doesn’t act like it.”
“He respects you. That’s part of the problem.”
I frown.
“You walked in here, took my spot in the pairing, and didn’t miss a beat. You read plays faster than he does, anticipate things he doesn’t. He’s got to adjust to keep up.”
I scoff. “That’s hockey.”
“It is. But for Mason? Hockey’s the one place he doesn’t have to second-guess himself. His game’s all instinct. Always has been. Did you know he didn’t start skating until he was ten?”
That I did not know. It’s a late start. Most guys out here had a hockey stick in their hands by three.
“And with me, he didn’t have to think. He just went. And I was there to back him up.”
And they have the plus/minus stats to prove it’s not working. But I’m not a complete asshole, so I don’t say it. Instead, I just stand there, because pieces are clicking into place.
“It’s not you he’s mad at. Not really.” Yarrow leans closer. “In the four years we’ve been linemates, I’ve never seen anyone come to watch him play. Not even when he was first drafted. I worry the game is all he has. And if he can’t keep up—”
“He’s replaceable,” I finish quietly. Because I know that feeling. I’ve been there. Hell, that’s basically my greatest fear, on and off the ice.
“Yeah. And the fact that you’re good?” Liam tilts his head. “Makes that fear a hell of a lot louder. I don’t think he’s realized that he’s already improved by playing with you.”
“Yarrow—”
“C’mon, man. You’re better than me. We both know it.” He grabs the water bottle and takes a swig. “Gray’s good. A natural. And he has the potential to be great. I’m not saying let him walk all over you. But maybe don’t write him off yet.”
I lift an eyebrow.
He puts his gloves back on. “And don’t get too comfortable. If you think I’m staying on the sidelines, you’d better think again.” The warning comes with a grin, and he heads off to check in with the assistant coach.
I look to the far side of the rink, where Gray’s got three pucks set up in a triangle and is deftly stickhandling a fourth puck in and around them. I gotta give it to the kid. He’s never standing idly by between drills.
Always practicing. Always improving. I respect the work ethic. I respect it even more now that I know he got such a late start in hockey. I know what it’s like to need to prove yourself.
He notices I’m staring. Doesn’t even break momentum with the puck as he sneers at me.
Fucking prick.
The coach blows his whistle letting us know the break’s over.
With a sigh, I snag a loose puck as I skate by it and head back to the center line to join my teammates.
I understand that Gray and I need to come to some sort of an understanding, especially now that we’re Coach Freeson’s top pair, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be easy.
The doorman greets us, holding the smoked glass door open wide as my dinner companions and I spill into the lobby. We’re all in that post-food haze, stomachs full, ready for a good night’s sleep before we take on Nashville tomorrow.
Decker’s still laughing about something the captain said—Fletcher Ryan has a sense of humor.
Who knew? Nik’s trailing behind with Yevgeni, the alternate captains deep in conversation about who knows what, and Kane Carter is walking in step beside me.
He’s a lot of fun. I get why Decker likes him so much.
The group splits up. Fletcher, Nik, and Yevgeni have some captains’ business to discuss, while Kane, Jace, and I make our way toward the elevators. I hang back, though, when I spot Gray at the concierge desk.
He’s decked out in sweats, so he must have opted for a quiet night in and some room service.
Decker notices. “You coming?”
“In a sec.”
His eyebrows rise, but he follows Carter into the elevator.
Gray does a double take when he turns and finds me waiting for him.
“You got a minute?”
Suspicion settles over his face and he shoves his phone in the pocket of his sweatpants. “Why?”
“Because you’re a good defenseman.”
The compliment catches him off guard enough to stem one of his usual snarky retorts, and I capitalize on his surprise.
“I’m a good defenseman, too.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw flexing.
“But good’s not going to cut it anymore,” I warn. “And we could be great out there, you and me. But not if we can’t even be in the same room together.”
Gray cocks a brow. “Is this the part where you ask me to be your protege? Mold me into a legacy of your greatness?”
Seriously. The attitude on this kid is unreal. But it’ll take more than being an asshole to get under my skin.
“I’m not trying to change you. The team doesn’t need two of me. It needs you to play your game and trust me enough to back you up.”
His expression hardens. “That was Liam’s job.”
He looks young to me right now. Scared. But I don’t temper the truth.
“And maybe it will be again. But right now, it’s mine.” I let that sink in for a moment. “Liam knows how the game works. At least that’s what he said when we talked earlier.”
Something shifts in Gray’s expression—quick and fleeting, like he didn’t expect Yarrow and I might talk to each other and the betrayal of it stings.
“You just…” He trails off. Shakes his head. Opens his mouth, then closes it again.
The fight drains from his big shoulders.
“You don’t get it,” he mutters.
“What don’t I get?”
There’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, and I feel for the kid. “You walk in here, like you’ve got it figured out. You didn’t just change the lines. You changed everything.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
He kicks the toe of his sneaker against the gleaming lobby tile.
“It was working fine before.”
“Was it?” I fold my arms, mirroring his stance. Because from what I’ve seen, this team has a hell of a lot of potential, but it’s just not clicking. Fletcher knows it. The coaches know it. Either Gray’s too green to see it, or he just doesn’t want to admit it.
I watch him grapple with it for a minute, his eyes looking everywhere but at me.
“We don’t have to be friends to play together, but we do need to figure our shit out. We’re teammates. We all want the same thing here.”
A playoff spot. A chance at a Stanley Cup ring of his own. I know he wants it bad. We all do.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. But he doesn’t fire back. Doesn’t step in for another round.
“That wild card slot is in reach for us,” I remind him. “We have a chance to clinch the postseason tomorrow night. And us avoiding each other isn’t going to help the team do that. So are you with me?”
My words hang there for a long time before Gray gives me a terse nod. “Just don’t slow me down out there.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He turns and heads for the elevator.
It’s a start, at least.
Not enough of one to ride up four floors with the prick, though, so I stay where I am.
Footsteps echo behind me, and I turn to find Fletcher strolling toward me, a bottle of water in one hand, his phone in the other. He follows my gaze to where the silver door slides shut, swallowing Gray from sight.
“You two done marking territory?” he asks.
“Trying something new,” I tell him, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Communication.”
His nod verges on approval.
“‘Bout time,” he mutters. “I don’t want you two embarrassing me at the game tomorrow.”
Then he walks away.
Now that Gray’s gone, I meander over to the elevator bank and hit the button for myself.
I’ve stayed in this hotel a hundred times. It’s NHL-sanctioned, which means it's the same one the Storm uses in Denver, and the routine of getting ready for bed somewhere familiar is kind of nice. Especially after the day I’ve had.
By the time I crawl into bed though, I know there’s one more thing I have to do if I’m going to get some sleep.
I stare at my phone for a long minute before I hit her contact.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft and a little subdued. She doesn’t quite sound like herself.
“Hey. Rough day?”
She exhales when I call her out, like she’s relieved she doesn’t have to fake it with me anymore. “Yeah. It was. You?”
Her question lets me know that I’m not fooling her, either.
I drag a palm down my face, wondering how things between Mason and me are going to play out. “Yeah. Not the best.”
There’s a pause.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Not really.”
My shoulders relax. “Me neither.”
Silence again. But not the bad kind.
The kind where just being there is enough.
“Brett?” she asks after a minute, making sure I’m still there. There’s a rustling sound on the other end of the line, like she’s doing that thing where she nestles down in her pillows and pulls her comforter up to her chin.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called.”