My Only Goal (The Centre Ice #3)

Chapter 1

“Of course,” I grumbled to myself. Of fucking course our locker room was locked. The rest of my team was out on the ice—where I should’ve been—but I stupidly got a game misconduct.

Pulling off my helmet, I leaned my head against the cool door and squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to stop burning.

I shouldn't have cared what those assholes on the other team said to me. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that.

But they somehow found the one thing they knew would make me mad and then they kept pushing me on it.

I should’ve been marching back out to the rink to watch the rest of the game from the boards, but I couldn't stomach it. If we lost, Coach would blame the whole game on me—stupid, but true—and then we’d slip in the rankings.

We were currently just barely hanging on to ninth place in the league, and if we fell out of the top ten, we’d have to fight like hell to get a spot at Nationals.

So, no, I would not watch. I’d stay right here, leaning against the locked locker room door.

“Are you okay?” someone asked, making me drop my helmet to the ground.

Fuck. I did not want company.

“M’fine,” I mumbled, hoping whoever it was would just move on. Admittedly, I did probably look a little weird standing in the hallway with my head against the door like a toddler put in time-out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said, my annoyance growing by the second.

“Okay, but…you don’t look okay.”

I finally opened my eyes, ready to argue, but as soon as I saw her, the words died in my throat.

Because it was a girl. A small girl. Based on her tights and dress and the way her blonde hair was pulled back in a low bun, she had to be a figure skater.

She was definitely a year or two younger than me.

She had a curious little birthmark between her nose and the corner of her mouth.

Altogether she was cute. Really fucking cute.

So cute that I couldn’t talk. As a freshman at an all-guys school, I hadn’t talked to a girl in what felt like years, and it suddenly felt like I forgot how.

Rolling her lips together, she squinted up at me. “You look like you’re crying.”

I shook my head.

“You're sure? Your eyes are all red. Right”—she reached toward my face, making my whole body jolt as she traced her delicate finger under my eye—“there.”

“I’m not.” I pushed her hand back to herself as gently as I could. Who was this girl? And why was she so touchy?

“Okay.” She shrugged. “Then why are you not crying?

Shifting uncomfortably, I said, “People say shit, and I let it get to me. It doesn't matter.” I craned my neck to look out to the East side ice where this girl should’ve been practicing. “Aren’t you supposed to be out there?”

“Ahh.” Her brown eyes lit up like I just gave her the inside scoop. “So they’re chirping you? Don’t hockey players all chirp each other? Did you say something mean back to the other guy?”

“No, I didn’t say anything, I punched him—a lot, which is why I got kicked out.”

A giggle bubbled out of her, and I couldn’t help it, the corner of my lips tipped up.

“How do you know about chirping?” I asked her.

“My dad’s a hockey coach,” she explained. “So, what did they say to you?”

I stared at her. Did she really think I was going to just say it?

“Well?” she pushed.

My eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Well, I’m not gonna repeat it.”

“Why not?” Her curious brown eyes were so large that she resembled a cartoon character.

“It was offensive,” I said, which was true, and I really didn’t feel like cursing in front of her. She seemed too young, too nice.

She shrugged. “Well, what they said is clearly bugging you, so maybe you should talk about it. Talk it out, ya know?”

I shifted again. “Why aren’t you on the ice?” I repeated.

“Hmm.” She twisted her lips. “You answer me first.”

I blinked at her.

“C’mon let me in the foxhole with you.” She grinned.

“Then we can fight off the world together. Or, more specifically…” She trailed off and squinted through the tiny hallway window to see the West side rink where my team was still playing.

“We can fight off the Chicagoans.” She wagged her eyebrows in a conspiratorial way.

I arched an eyebrow. “How do you know we’re playing Chicago?”

“Duh, they have the ugliest jerseys in the league.”

I snorted a laugh. Chicago did have pretty loud neon green jerseys.

“C’mon, what did they say? Out with it.” She nudged my shoulder and wrapped her arm around my forearm to hold it.

My eyes locked on her hand. “You’re a touchy little thing, aren’t you?”

A laugh bubbled out of her, and this stupid little feeling bloomed in my chest. I was kind of proud I could make her laugh.

Wait.

What the fuck? I was proud? I needed to get a life.

Pulling away a little, I cleared my throat and stood straighter.

“You’re funny,” she said with a little smile on her face. “Okay, now tell me what they said to make you so mad.”

Letting out a sigh, I cracked my neck. I had a feeling she wouldn’t leave me alone until I told her—not that I necessarily wanted her to leave me alone.

“It was about my mom,” I settled on saying. “I don’t have one.”

She tilted her head, looking a little confused.

“She left when I was really small,” I supplied.

“Oh.” She nodded, taking it in. “Why’d she leave?”

“What’s with the thousand questions?” I snapped, turning away from her to pick up my helmet.

When I faced her again, she looked taken aback, and dammit all to hell, I felt bad for snapping.

“No fucking clue why she left,” I grumbled, shaking off my hockey glove to rub my forehead.

“Hmm.” She nodded professionally like she was some kind of therapist listening to me. “Well, maybe she needed to.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she needed to do,” I said, heaving a breath. “It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed quickly. “Not at all. I’m not saying you should forgive her or anything like that, but maybe you can try to understand her. Haven't you ever felt like…” She paused and looked around the rink.

My eyes narrowed. “Like?” I asked. I couldn't help it, now I was curious what she was going to say.

She stared at the rubber ground. “Like you can’t take it here anymore and you need to just leave and be around complete strangers?”

I slowly shook my head. I liked my life. I had my buddies, hockey, my dog, and pretty soon I’d have the old truck my dad and I were fixing up.

“Oh.” Her cheeks heated. “Then you’re lucky, I guess.” She shrugged.

“I will never understand her,” I swore.

“Then pity her.”

My eyes snapped to hers.

“Because she missed out on knowing you.” She gave me a soft smile, and the next thing she did really blew me away: she interlaced her fingers with mine to hold my hand.

My mouth gaped open as I stared at our joined hands. Her hand was warm and soft in mine.

“Uh…my hand probably smells bad.” I cleared my throat and looked away. “From my glove.” It was only right to warn her. I sometimes struggled to clear the smell away after games.

She laughed again but didn’t let go.

I swallowed hard. The only time I was ever really touched was on the other side of a punch when roughhousing with my buddies or fighting on the ice. My dad and I weren’t touchy people at all—the last time we hugged was probably when I was in the fifth grade.

I knew my buddies would roast me if I ever admitted it, but I liked holding her hand.

“Dude, wake the fuck up,” she said.

I stared at her.

“Wake up!” she shouted, but she had a guy's voice. “C’mon!”

Shock rocked into me, jolting me from my sleep.

“Wake the fuck up!” Richard Kappers, one of my best friends, yelled at me.

“Oh, fuck off, Kappy,” I groaned. “I never should’ve given you a key,” I grumbled at him.

“No, no more sleeping. C’mon, let’s go, let’s get hype!” Kappy ripped open the blackout window shades right beside my bed and the harsh bright light assaulted my fucking eyes. I flopped over on my stomach, hoping he’d leave me alone.

“No, let’s not get hype. What have we talked about, Richard?” his girlfriend, Piper, said, trying to calm him down.

“I know, baby, but I can’t always be demure,” he complained.

“Demure?” I snickered with my eyes still closed, then felt a pillow hit the back of my head—surely Kappy’s doing.

“He gets upset when I tell him to calm down, so we’re trying out different words,” Piper told me.

Ah, that made sense. Kappy was diagnosed with ARVC, a genetic heart disease, just a couple months ago.

If it were up to him, he’d completely ignore his health and continue living off fast food and playing in the NHL, but his girlfriend, Piper, was determined to make him live a healthy lifestyle, one compatible with his condition.

“Let’s go,” Kappy said. “We told Colt and Mer that we’d drive you to the party, and I wanna get there already.”

“What time is it?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to wipe away my sleep, but my dream still haunted me. Why would my brain betray me like that? Why dream about Ali when I hadn’t seen her in years?

Maybe because she was now my only dream, my only goal, left unaccomplished. I made it to the NHL with my buddies, and my team, the Windy City Whalers, finally won the Stanley Cup Championship game last night. But me and Ali…that never happened, and it never would.

It was just too bad my brain wouldn’t let me forget that one last failure. Each and every time I got close to another woman, my memories of her would slam into my mind, making me ditch out.

I wondered if she ever dreamed about me. I wondered if she ever moved on with anyone else, or if she—

“It’s 11 a.m., too late to be in bed.” Kappy yanked my blanket off me. “Come on, it’s time to party, dude.”

“We were up until 3 a.m.,” I complained, rubbing my temples. “How the hell do you have so much energy?”

“Uh, maybe because while you and Colt have been playing the last couple weeks, I’ve been stuck going in and out of the hospital, getting poked and prodded to within an inch of my life. I finally get a free pass this weekend, so let’s go.”