Chapter 6
LIAM
“Wait, you’re telling me a puck fractured your cheekbone?” Garrett gaped at me as we walked down the hall toward the locker room. “Holy shit.”
I nodded and gestured at the left side of my face. “That’s where that scar came from.”
We both halted, and he peered at it. It was about three quarters of an inch long but had mostly faded to a silvery line, so it was hard to see unless I had a tan. A flash of heat went through me—I liked his scrutiny even while it made me nervous.
Then he drew back, shaking his head, and we continued walking.
“That must’ve hurt like hell,” he said.
“Yeah, not my favorite moment from my career highlight reel.”
He laughed. “I bet. How long were you out?”
“Oh, I played in the next game.”
Garrett’s eyebrows flew up. “No shit?”
I shrugged. “We were deep in the playoffs and we were already down like four players. I had to wear a fishbowl, but no way in hell was I missing that game.”
Whistling, he shook his head. “You hockey players really are built different.”
“My mom says we’re insane.” I quirked my lips. “Sometimes I think she might be right.”
“Sometimes?”
“Hey. Don’t make me tell Chris you think he’s insane.”
Garrett scoffed. “I had to fight that kid to not suit up for a game three days after he dislocated his kneecap. Trust me—he knows I think he’s insane.”
“Okay, fair.” I grimaced and shuddered. “Ugh. I did that once in major juniors. No, thank you.”
“Says the guy who keeps getting on ice skates and doing the thing that causes those injuries, not to mention pucks to the face.” He tapped his cheek in the same spot where my scar was.
“Well, yeah,” I said with a shrug. “But those don’t happen all the time.”
“Uh-huh. And that makes all the difference.”
“It kinda does. I definitely wouldn’t have stuck with it if I got hurt every time I played.”
Garrett chuckled. “Well, at least there’s a bar, even if it’s in hell.”
I just laughed as we continued down the hall.
When we got to the locker room, several of the spouses and kids were milling around outside the room.
I pulled open the door and peered inside.
Ah, no wonder they hadn’t gone in—the press was apparently not done with the team yet.
Tonight’s game had been on one of the major sports networks, so there were more reporters than usual.
And Jack Arlen was lurking in the locker room. I had no desire to be in the same room as him, especially when the alternative was lingering out here with Garrett.
“Looks a bit packed in there.” I closed the door and turned to Garrett. “We can probably give them a few more minutes. Let the media clear out.”
He made a face. “I’ve never understood how you guys can handle having them in there with cameras and microphones while you’re getting undressed. Isn’t it, you know, weird?”
Laughing, I shrugged. “By the time we’re at this level, we’ve all lost any sense of modesty. We’ve been changing in front of everyone since we were kids. What’s a few cameras on top of that?”
“Okay, fair. And I assume they know where not to point cameras.”
“If they want to keep their press credentials, they sure do.” I didn’t say it, but sometimes I wondered if Arlen might try to push that envelope one day, or if even he understood that would a red line.
Stepdaddy Warbucks might’ve been able to keep him credentialed despite all his usual bad behavior, but a too-revealing video of a player had to be a bridge too far.
“So the puck that hit you in the face,” Garrett said. “Was it a penalty or anything?”
“No. In fact it was friendly fire.”
His lips parted. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “I was screening the goal during a power play. We were cycling the puck, and one of the guys at the point—I guess he saw an opening and went for a one-timer. It just came up a bit higher than he expected, and I wasn’t ready for it, and…” I gestured at my face.
Garrett grimaced. “Bet he felt like shit after that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, he was helping me off the ice while I was bleeding like a stuck pig, and he’s all, ‘I would’ve scored if you’d gotten out of the way.’”
Garrett snorted. “Oh my God. Seriously?”
“Uh-huh. Asshole even got the equipment managers to save the puck for me.”
The laugh that burst out of Garrett echoed off the cinderblock walls and made my toes curl inside my dress shoes.
“Yeah, that sounds like a hockey player.” Gesturing at the locker room door, he added, “Chris told me he accidentally high-sticked one of his teammates’ faces during his rookie season in the minors.
Gave the guy a bloody nose and split his lip.
” He chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Little shit offered to give the kid his stick as a souvenir.”
I barked a laugh. “Well, did he take the stick?”
“He did, on the condition that Chris write ‘sorry about your face’ and autograph it.”
“Smart,” I said, still laughing. “Could be worth something someday.”
“I know, right?”
We kept shooting the shit. Talking about injuries we’d witnessed or ones Chris or I had experienced.
Or, in some cases, inflicted. Chris had bloodied that one teammate’s lip and nose.
I still felt awful for that one nasty collision in Boston a few years ago; a defenseman and I had slammed into each other, then fallen, and our legs had tangled on the way down.
I’d skated away just fine, but he’d torn his MCL.
Apparently Chris had a similar experience in his youth days; he’d taken a tripping penalty because even accidental tripping counted, but he’d felt terrible because the way the guy had fallen had put him on LTIR for weeks.
What could I say? Hockey was not a gentle sport.
We were so lost in conversation that I barely noticed the various spouses and kids trickling in through the door. I had no idea how much time had passed at all until the locker room door swung open, and we both turned to see Chris stepping out, dressed in his suit with his phone in his hand.
“Oh, there you are,” he said to Garrett before turning a curious look on me.
“We figured we’d wait out here,” I told him. “Let the press and everyone else clear out.”
He cocked his head. “They’ve been gone for a while.” Gesturing over his shoulder, he added, “Everyone’s finishing up eating right now.” To his dad, he said, “Ready to go?”
“When you are.” Garrett smiled. “Great game tonight.”
Chris smiled a bit sheepishly. “Could’ve done without that turnover in the second.”
“Don’t do that to yourself.” I clapped his arm. “We all have turnovers, and sometimes they turn into goals against. Shake it off.”
He studied me, then nodded and rolled his shoulders. “I will. I’ll probably be thinking about it all night tonight, but… I will.”
“I’d be lying if I told you my turnovers and shit didn’t still keep me up at night.”
His eyes widened. “They do?”
“Are you kidding? Every time I turn over the puck, half of hockey media posts about how I’m clearly done and need to retire.” I rolled my eyes.
Chris huffed a laugh. “Right. You lead the team in goals and points every season, but one turnover means it’s over.”
“Exactly. It’ll always be more of a disaster in your head—and on social media—than in reality.”
That seemed to ease some of the tension in his back and shoulders, and he nodded. “Thanks.”
Beside Chris, Garrett relaxed, too, a subtle smile playing at his lips, which made my spine tingle. I’d only been talking Chris down because I was the captain and that was what I was supposed to do, not because it would earn me any points with his smoking hot dad.
But I wouldn’t bitch about that little smile.
As father and son walked toward the parking garage, talking animatedly about the game as their dress shoes clicked on the concrete, I stole a moment to collect myself.
I really was an idiot. I just couldn’t help getting stupid whenever Garrett was in the same room.
Maybe it was just as well he’d be leaving Pittsburgh after tonight. I was heading out for my conditioning loan at the end of the week, and then I’d be reactivated.
I’d been playing hockey my entire life. Playing professionally since I was nineteen.
But when Garrett Kane was in the building, I suddenly wasn’t so sure I could remember how to skate.