Chapter Thirteen New Guy
JULIAN
“It’s just a bunch of nonsense on the news anyway,” Mrs. Clay’s voice crackles through my truck’s Bluetooth speakers, accompanied by the distinct, rhythmic clink of ceramic mugs being stacked in her dish rack. “I don’t even like to watch it anymore.”
I let out a small chuckle. “Not even the Today show?”
“That’s not news,” she declares with a click of her tone. “That’s just entertainment.”
She sounds more bubbly this morning, even though we’re not really talking about anything substantial.
Just general, casual chitchat. My relief at this is immediately followed by that familiar, bitter sting of guilt.
I should be there. I shouldn't be tracking the health of the woman who raised me through the audio quality of a phone call.
“Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that,” I reply with a sigh. “It’s a lot less stressful. Better for your mental health, probably.”
The early October air slaps me right in the face through the cracked driver’s side window, a brutal, freezing wake-up call as I navigate the morning traffic toward the stadium.
“You sound tired.” There’s a note of concern in her voice. Ironic, given how worried I’ve been about her lately.
The comment catches me off-guard. My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
My mind scrambles. If she notices it over a hands-free cellular connection, I must look like absolute death.
I didn't even realize how deeply the exhaustion had settled into my bones, but weeks of brutal, high-intensity practices mixed with a completely restless mind will do that to a man.
Mostly, it's the restless mind.
My eyes track toward the passenger seat, where my phone sits. Apart from my phone call with Mrs. Clay, there are no new notifications. No texts from Hadley.
Ever since that morning in her apartment, my brain has been a dangerous, looping mess.
We’ve both been so busy we’ve only traded a few brief, casual messages over the last week, but it’s not enough.
Not even close. Every single morning when I pull my truck into the stadium lot, my chest tightens with a desperate, pathetic hope.
I find myself hoping I’ll find her in the rink again.
“Julian? Are you still there?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just heading to practice.”
“All right,” she replies. She doesn’t sound that sure. “Your Coach isn’t pushing you too hard, is he?”
“Nah,” I chuckle. “It’s just part of the job.”
“Julian.” She uses the tone she always used on me when I was a kid and didn’t want to go into detail about the latest shit my dad had put me through.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, softer this time.
“You’ll tell me if you’re not.” It’s not a question.
Releasing a long, jagged sigh that fogs up the windshield, I murmur, “I will. I promise.”
It’s not entirely a lie, but it feels heavy in my throat. I know I’d tell her if I broke a rib or took a puck to the face, but I’d never tell her about the bone-deep weariness of trying to be the man she needs me to be while my head is spinning over a girl I can't touch.
“And you?” I counter, my voice dropping an octave as I lean my head back against the headrest. I try to catch her off guard, pushing for the same transparency she demands from me.
“You’re going to tell me when the fatigue hits?
No more hiding behind the sound of those dishes, Gram. I need to know you’re okay, too.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the clinking in her kitchen stopping abruptly. For a second, I think I’ve actually cracked through that stubborn shell of hers. I can almost picture her standing there, hand on her hip, weighing how much truth I can handle.
“Don’t you worry about this old bird,” she finally hums, her voice regaining its bubbly tone. “I’m thriving. You just worry about staying upright on that ice.”
I chuckle. She’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as proud, giving me just enough of a non-answer to keep me from catching a flight home this afternoon.
“I’m serious,” I mutter, my grip on the steering wheel tightening. “I’m a phone call away. Always.”
“Alright,” she concedes eventually. “I’ll let you know if anything is wrong, but I promise, I’m fine. Now stop bugging me.”
Always so stubborn. “Okay. I gotta go, Gram. I’m just about to the stadium.”
“All right, dear. Have a good practice.”
I grin. “Talk to you later.”
I hang up as I pull into the stadium parking lot, which is already half-full, headlights cutting through the dim light as more guys pull in. Engines idle, doors slam. A couple of guys shout half-hearted greetings across the rows.
Carson’s leaning against his truck, his oversized gray hoodie pulled up over his ears and a giant, steaming travel mug of coffee in his hand. The second he spots me stepping out of my truck, he lifts the mug in a mock salute, the steam clouding up around his face.
“Jesus, Wilder. You look like you just went five rounds with a Zamboni and lost.”
“And you look like a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little princess,” I shoot back, slamming my truck door shut and slinging my heavy gear bag over my shoulder. “Did you remember to brush your teeth this morning, or are we dealing with the garbage-disposal breath during line rushes again?”
“Fuck you, man,” he mumbles, pushing off the truck with a heavy, dramatic groan that suggests moving his limbs is a medical miracle. “I hate early morning practice. My left knee doesn’t even wake up until eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, poor baby,” I chuckle, falling into step beside him as we trudge toward the player entrance. “Should I call Skyler and see if they can get you a heated blanket and a juice box for the bench?”
“Keep laughing, tough guy,” Carson grunts, taking a massive gulp of his coffee. “But when I deliberately miss you on a breakaway pass later because my fingers are frozen solid, don’t come crying to me.”
“Please. Your passes miss me even when it's eighty degrees out,” I counter, nudging his shoulder with my elbow as we walk toward the entrance. “At least getting on the ice will warm us up. Get the legs burning early.”
“True,” he sighs, his breath hitching in a pale cloud as he yanks open the heavy steel door to the rink, the familiar, freezing blast of chilled air hitting our faces.
We walk in together, the cold clinging for a second before the doors shut behind us.
Inside, it’s warmer, thank God. I can hear the heating system clunking along the vents in the ceiling.
The hallway smells like rubber, stale coffee, and something faintly chemical from the cleaning crew as we make our way to the locker room. It’s familiar and comforting.
“Morning, boys,” one of the equipment guys calls as we pass.
“Morning,” Carson answers.
I lift a hand in acknowledgment.
When we reach the locker room, it’s full and lively as the guys get ready to hit the ice.
Conversations overlap, benches scrape along the floor, and lockers slam open and shut.
Music plays low from someone’s speaker in the corner.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and push back my irritation.
It’s too early for this much stimulation.
Jensen’s already there, sitting on the bench in front of his locker with one skate half-laced, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up when we walk in. “Look who decided to show up.”
“We’re not late,” I grumble, dropping my bag with a dull thud. “You’re just too damn early.”
“Time is a social construct,” Carson mutters, moving to his own locker.
Jensen snorts. “That’s your excuse now?”
“It’s true,” Carson shrugs. “Besides, Jayce, Zander, and Owen aren’t here either.”
“Owen’s already down at PT getting wrapped,” Jensen explains. “Jayce is out on the rink already getting the equipment set up for drills.”
“Ah.” Carson presses his lips together, a devious glint appearing in his eyes. “Getting wrapped, huh? Is that what he and Stacey call it now? Kinky.”
“He’s gotta get his special massage,” I chuckle.
The heavy locker room door swings open. Zander trudges in, looking less like a pro athlete and more like he just lost a fight with a very small, very angry blender. He’s got a fresh, angry red scratch blooming across his forearm, and his expression is one of pure, defeated saltiness.
“Let me guess,” Carson cackles, pointing at the wound. “Gizmo decided you didn't need that top layer of skin?”
“I was just trying to give him a treat,” Zander mutters, slamming his locker shut. “I don’t get it. He loves Ciara as much as he loves Rylee, but I’m pretty sure that cat is a sleeper agent sent to take me out from the inside. He’s got it out for me, man.”
“Maybe stop smelling like old fish,” Jensen suggests with a grin. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, dude, but that new cologne of yours? You smell like the ocean.”
Zander scowls. “Rylee loves that cologne.”
“Well, your girl is delusional,” Carson cackles. “And your cat is homicidal.”
I shake my head, pulling out my gear to get dressed.
“Did you watch the game last night?” Jensen asks, leaning back as he tightens his skate.
“Which one?” Carson calls.
“Tennessee and Kansas. Went into overtime.”
“Nah,” Carson shakes his head. “I was asleep like a normal person.”
“Skyler wore you out, huh?” I smirk. Carson flips me the bird, but the way his cheeks turn bright pink gives him away.
Jensen looks at me. “You catch it, Wilder?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Didn’t catch it.”
“Unbelievable,” he groans. “What do you even do at night?”
I can’t exactly admit that I spend most of my nights thinking about Hadley, wishing we could chat more and that she wasn’t so busy.
It’s been almost a week since the night out at the bar, and she’s been busy getting settled at her new school.
We haven’t been able to see each other in person, but we’ve been talking more than ever.
I know everyone thinks we’re already closer than friends, so I don’t want them getting the wrong idea and putting undue pressure on Hadley.
“I sleep,” I reply. “Don’t have much choice when I have to be here at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Right,” Jensen mutters, arching a brow.
“And how do you have time to watch the game?” I ask. “You and Grace already turned into an old married couple?”
He flips me the bird. “Nothing old about me and Grace, don’t you worry.”
I ignore him, focusing on taping my stick instead. Once that’s done, I pull my jersey on, adjusting it over my shoulders. The rest of the team is starting to file out.
“Hey,” Zander says suddenly, nudging my skate lightly with his. “You good?”
I glance toward him with a frown. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
“You’ve been quiet lately.”
I tense, for a moment afraid he knows what I’ve been thinking about Hadley. Or, God forbid, Chicago. It’s been on the back burner of my mind since Hadley’s arrival, but it’s still there, lingering.
A few seconds later, I realize he can’t know. Coach wouldn’t say anything at this stage, so I hide my surprise with a snort. “I’m always quiet.”
“Quieter than usual,” he clarifies.
Carson looks over, too, interest flickering in his gaze. “You know, he’s got a point.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. My voice comes out sharper than I intend, growing defensive and anxious that they’ll try digging deeper. I don’t want to lie to them, but I don’t need any other opinions floating around in my head right now.
Zander holds up his hands. “Alright. Don’t bite my head off.”
Grinding my teeth, I reply, “Then stop asking dumb questions.”
Carson and Zander exchange a look, Carson’s blue eyes going wide.
Carson shrugs. “Alright, noted. We’ll go back to ignoring you.”
I let out a small chuckle. “Appreciated.”
Jensen grins. “There he is.”
I shake my head, grab my helmet, and move toward the door. I’m not really mad at them, but at myself. It’s not my friends’ fault that my uncertain future and the presence of a little temptress in my life are fucking with my head. “Let’s just get on the ice.”
“Right behind you,” Jensen calls.
We file out together, the noise of the locker room trailing behind us as our focus shifts and we go into full hockey mode.
The cold air hits my face. For a second, my head clears.
We’re already on the ice when Coach skates out. Sticks stop tapping, conversations taper off, and heads turn as we all realize he’s not alone.
I don’t recognize the guy trailing just behind him.
He’s tall, with sandy blonde hair and dark green eyes that sweep over us, taking the whole team in.
He looks young, as if he’s just coming out of college.
He’s got light brown hair and sharp hazel eyes with a crooked nose.
Probably broke it a few times given its odd shape.
“Bring it in,” Coach calls.
We circle up near the boards, forming a loose half-ring. The new guy stands just off Coach’s right shoulder, posture relaxed. He’s in full gear, helmet under one arm, gloves tucked loosely under the other.
“New addition,” Coach announces, voice carrying easily across the ice. He nods toward him. “This is Theo. He’s going to be B string for Right Wing.”
I tense. My position? I didn’t know they were even looking at bringing anyone else in under the right wing.
Yeah, we haven’t maxed out the twenty-three-man roster each NHL team is allowed, but I didn’t think they were really looking to bring anyone specific in right now.
A sense of foreboding trickles up my neck.
Is this because I brought up Chicago to Coach? Is he already prepping my replacement?