Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DIEGO
Even though it’s only a scrimmage game today, my body is still coursing with all the adrenaline and excitement of the real thing as I pull on my pads and skates and re-tape my stick just the way I like it.
Every hockey player I’ve met is at least a little superstitious.
Most of us won’t shave during a hot streak or the playoffs, some guys have lucky socks or underwear they have to wear to every game, and I have a specific ritual of taping my blade in the same way and with the same brand of tape before every game.
Even though it’s still only practice this morning, the ritual is calming.
Knowing Callan is out there in the stands is only making me more eager to get out there and show off a little bit. I know he was a fan long before we met and he’s seen me in action plenty of times, but it’s different now. I want to impress him.
“Look at you all smiley and shit,” Moreau teases.
“Just another day in paradise, man,” I quip, but honestly, it’s true.
It doesn’t get much better than this. I guess a real game would top it, but there’s something nice about the low pressure of a practice scrimmage.
It feels more like the games of street hockey we used to play as kids, doing what we love because we love it and not for a paycheck and hopefully a trophy at the end.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to win, but it takes some of the joy.
Not that I’ll ever admit that to Callan.
He’d probably have a stroke if he thought anyone could like anything better than winning.
We all file out of the locker room and head onto the ice.
I immediately scan the arena, looking for Callan.
I had to walk him in since it’s a closed practice, so I know he’s here.
There are only a handful of people in the stands, mostly press, so it’s not hard to spot Callan sitting near the penalty box. My smile stretches even wider.
“Who’s that?” I hear Coach Gregors bark at one of his assistants. “All press has to be cleared first. Do we know this guy?”
I skate over and glide to a perfectly controlled stop right in front of Coach.
“He’s not press,” I say. “He’s with me.”
Coach stares at me blankly for a few seconds and my pulse speeds up.
Is he going to want to know who Callan actually is?
I probably should have planned a good answer to that, but for some reason I didn’t think it would come up.
Saying he’s my personal trainer or my dog sitter doesn’t sound all that convincing now that I’m imagining saying it out loud to someone else.
“Make sure he knows he can’t take any pictures or videos,” Coach says.
I sag with relief and nod. “He knows,” I assure him.
I glance over and meet Callan’s gaze, holding it for a few seconds and letting all of the warm, fuzzy things he makes me feel wash over me and erase that momentary anxiety.
Coach didn’t press, but someone else will eventually unless I keep Callan completely separate from my hockey life.
I can’t imagine that. I want him at games, I want him to come on the road sometimes when it fits into his schedule, I want to be able to invite him out for awards ceremonies and team celebrations.
I try to imagine lifting the Championship Cup over my head and then looking into the stands and not seeing Callan there. It feels fucking hollow.
I swallow hard and Pinsky slams into my shoulder, jogging me out of my thoughts.
I’ll worry about all of that later; right now we’ve got a scrimmage to focus on.
Coach barks out names, pointing to one side of the ice or the other as he says each one, creating two teams with a mix of first line and second line players on each.
I’m with Dimitrov, Pinsky, and Brody, along with Reyes, the new defensemen we signed at the end of last season, and Cooper, who’s a solid left forward who will probably never make it to first line as long as he’s sitting in Moreau’s shadow.
I don’t think it’s an accident that I ended up on Brody’s team.
Coach is testing me. He’s making sure that any beef we might still have won’t affect us on the ice.
I up-nod Brody to let him know that I’m ready to treat this like any other game-time situation and have his back.
His face barely twitches behind his mask before he pivots on his skates and flies into the crease, where he starts up his usual warm-up routine of shuffling his skates on the ice right in front of the goal and stretching.
The rest of us line up for the face-off.
I take my place behind Dimitrov, Pinsky, and Cooper, right at the blue line, ready to defend our crease and Brody if necessary.
I spare one last glance at Callan, my chest swelling with pride and happiness and… love. Shit, I think I love him.
The puck drops and Pinsky is fast as always, slapping it across the ice.
I hold my position behind the blue line, but I’m fully alert, tracking the puck intently as Dimitrov takes possession, passes it to Cooper, then loses it to Cardno, one of our scratch players who has a hell of a lot of talent playing both offense and defense, but consistently gets into too much trouble off the ice to be brought up to first line.
Cardno is on the warpath today, it seems. He sprints down the ice, shouldering Cooper and Dimitrov out of the way.
I’m ready for him though, not waiting for him to make it all the way to me before I rush forward in an attempt to regain control of the puck for our team.
I get it back briefly, winding up to slap it down the ice to where Dimitrov is open and waiting for it, but Cardno checks me hard and takes it again.
Reyes swoops in with another attempt to block, but Cooper shakes him off easily too and keeps charging for the goal.
He’s not slowing down though, not lining up a shot.
Shit, it looks like he’s planning to fly right into Brody.
I don’t have time to wonder what the fuck Cardno’s problem is or even consider whether it might be a little bit satisfying to see Brody get laid out on his ass—my defensive instincts kick in and I put myself right into his path again, taking the full brunt of the attack.
His body slams into mine, sending me flying.
My back hits the ice, my helmet making a loud cracking sound as it slams into the ground and the wind is knocked out of my lungs.
The bright overhead lights swim in my vision for a few seconds, and I try to drag a full breath into my spasming lungs.
I’m vaguely aware of the commotion still going on around me—shouting, the unmistakable wet sound of a fist connecting with flesh, and when my eyes focus again, Callan is hovering over me.
“Talk to me, Fergie. Where does it hurt? Can you move?” He sounds calm and collected, but there’s a slight tremor underneath his words that gives him away.
“Hey, get the hell off the ice,” Coach Gregors barks.
Callan scowls at him, and if I could breathe, I would laugh. “He could have a concussion from getting hit that hard, not to mention reinjuring his labrum. I wasn’t about to wait around for you to break up the fight before making sure he was okay.”
I can’t see Coach from this angle, but I would bet my entire paycheck that his face is turning purple right now. No one talks to him like that.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Yup, Coach sounds pissed.
“I’m—” Callan starts to say, and I don’t have a clue how he’s planning to end that sentence. My personal trainer? My friend? A concerned citizen? The din of the fight has died down, and I get the sense that everyone has gathered around to watch.
My lungs finally relax enough for me to pull in a full breath, and even with my head still spinning, I sit up.
My hip feels fine, but Callan’s probably right, I’m sure I have a minor concussion, and here he is, kneeling on the ice next to me, worrying about me before anyone else even noticed how hard that hit was.
Why the fuck should anyone else’s feelings matter to me but his?
“He’s my boyfriend,” I wheeze, finishing the sentence for him before clambering slowly to my feet. Callan reaches out to steady me, and the team medic finally rushes over.
For a long, tense second no one says anything, and then Pinsky breaks the silence.
“Damn, I wish my girlfriend liked hockey enough to come watch practice.”
I sputter a laugh and shoot him a grateful look.
“Probably better that she doesn’t. Brody might fuck her,” Lavoie quips.
Cardno scowls and spits on the ice. I notice him for the first time again with his gloves off and his knuckles raw. Brody is sitting on the bench with his helmet off and a bloodied towel pressed against his nose. It’s not hard to put the pieces together.
“Alright, everybody who isn’t injured, in deep shit, or a spectator—” Coach shoots a look at Callan with that last one. “—I want you doing drills until I say stop. Ferguson, let the med team check you out, but since we suspect a concussion, you’re done for the day either way.”
Callan glances at me, and I nod for him to go ahead and sit back down, then I follow the medic off the ice.
CALLAN
Who knew hockey practice was more drama than daytime TV?
Watching Diego put himself between Cardno and Brody was like watching a train crash in slow motion.
When he didn’t get right back up, that’s when I got scared.
Maybe I shouldn’t have run out onto the ice, but I couldn’t think straight.
I couldn’t think at all. All I knew in that moment was that I had to get to him.
Everyone else was more interested in Cardno pulling off Brody’s helmet and breaking his nose, but Diego was the only thing I could focus on. My heart is still pounding, even now.
The locker room door swings open and I rush forward to meet him, automatically scanning his gait and the way he’s holding his body as he steps out so I can get a sense of what’s hurt. He’s moving a little slow, but doesn’t seem to be favoring his injured hip, so that’s something at least.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, stopping an inch in front of him.
He sets his equipment bag down and gives me a curious smile, still looking a little bit dazed and unfocused.
“You okay?” I shove my hands into my pockets to keep myself from reaching for him the way I want to. I know there’s no one around, and I know he just came out to his whole team, but that doesn’t mean he wants me pawing at him in public where anyone could see.
“Yeah, they gave me some muscle relaxers because my back started to spasm,” he explains. “And they said I have a mild concussion, so I need to take it easy the rest of the day and get re-assessed before Monday to be cleared for practice.”
The muscle relaxers explain the sloppy grin on his face and the way he’s swaying just a little. I’m definitely glad I’m here now, otherwise he’d have a hell of a time getting himself home in this state.
Diego reaches out and grabs a handful of the front of my shirt, tugging me towards him until there’s less than an inch of space left between us.
“Why are you sorry? You saved me.”
I snort a laugh. “I didn’t save you. I panicked and ran onto the ice, which forced you to out yourself.”
“You didn’t force anything.” He slurs just a little as he says it, then looks down at where he’s still clinging to my shirt with a slight frown. “You should have worn your other shirt, the one with my number on it.”
“I was trying not to draw too much attention.”
“Wear my jersey to the first home game,” he says, swaying slightly again.
I chuckle and let my guard down a little, resting my forehead against his.
“If you want.” Honestly, I doubt there’s anything Diego could ask me to do that I would say no to.
“I love you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine.
My heart jolts and my whole body suddenly feels like it’s been struck by lightning.
“You’re stoned on pain pills right now, Fergie,” I remind him, my voice more choked than I would like and a laugh punctuating my words.
“I loved you before they gave me the pills,” he says, and my heart rate spikes again.
“I love that you worry about me and that you care about what happens to me. I love that you make me braver and more myself than I’ve ever been.
I love how stupidly competitive you are and how sweet you are to Slaps—”
I cut him off with a rough kiss, my hands trembling as I slide them gently around to his back, careful not to press too hard where he landed.
My head spins and my heart thunders, and for a minute I can’t believe this conversation is really happening.
I couldn’t stop myself from falling in love with him, but I was so sure that sooner or later he would get tired of leading a double life.
I thought eventually he’d realize how much easier it would be to pick a woman instead.
I thought I’d be his dirty secret like I’d always been before.
“I love you so fucking much, Fergie,” I murmur against his lips.
He smiles into the kiss and sways against me again. “Good. Can we go home now? These pills are making me kind of dizzy.”
Home. To our apartment, with our snorty pug, where all of our stuff is mixed together in the drawers because neither of us could be bothered to clean out specific drawers just for me.
Home, where we’ll fall into bed together on all the nights that he’s home, and I’ll sit and watch his games when he’s not.
Home, where we can be ourselves, together, always.
“Yeah, baby, let’s go home.”