Chapter 2 #2
I wonder if he'd be a pretty crier.
The thought hits me before I can stop it. My brain immediately supplies an image. Hayes looking up through wet lashes. Gray eyes glassy. Flushed cheeks. I shut the thought down so fast I practically get whiplash.
Jesus Christ. Get a grip.
The guy is standing here looking like he's one bad day away from a breakdown and my brain is thinking about the many different ways I could elicit such a reaction from him.
I clear my throat. “You okay?”
Hayes gives me a tired look. “Yeah.”
I wait. The silence stretches.
Eventually, he sighs. “Why does nobody believe me when I answer that?”
The question catches me off guard. Mostly because it sounds genuine, like he really wants to know.
I lean against a nearby locker. “Because you look like you haven't slept in about six months.”
To my surprise, Hayes laughs. The sound is small. Brief but real.
His hand rubs his eyes. “Three hours.”
I blink. “Last night?”
“Every night.”
That explains a lot. I study him for a moment.
The dark circles beneath his eyes bruise into his tanned skin. The way his shoulders seem permanently tense. The slight hollowness in his face. The guy looks exhausted.
Neither of us says anything for a few moments. The silence isn't uncomfortable.
Hayes just isn't much of a talker. He moves out of the showers into the main locker room. I follow behind like a lost duckling.
He pulls on his underwear underneath the towel so I can't see anything. My mouth quirks at the action.
Most guys aren't bothered by nudity, especially in a locker room. But from what I've gathered about Hayes is that he's always been a little shy.
It's kind of endearing. Especially since he's not shy about giving me an eyeful every day.
I sit on the bench in front of my stall, watching as he throws his towel into the laundry basket. He misses.
He clicks his tongue in annoyance as he strides to go pick it up and put it in its proper place.
I've always thought Hayes looks different than most hockey players.
Most NHL forwards are thick through the shoulders and chest from years of contact and power training.
Hayes isn't. He's lean. Long muscles instead of bulky ones.
The kind of frame that makes sense for a skilled winger.
Fast. Agile. Hard to catch in open ice. The guy practically glides when he's skating.
Eventually I nod toward the arena. “Nervous?”
His expression changes immediately. The humor disappears. The walls go back up.
Interesting. Because that reaction answers the question better than words ever could.
He's terrified.
Hayes rubs a hand through his damp hair. For a while, he doesn't respond. Just starts pulling on his clothes. Then he nods.
The movement almost makes my chest hurt. “I think you'll be fine.”
Hayes huffs out a laugh. “Sure.”
“You don't?”
That earns another laugh. “The crowd is going to love me.”
The sarcasm lands hard. I can't really blame him. Some fans are cruel.
“The team has your back.” The second the words leave my mouth, I know they're wrong.
Not completely wrong. Just incomplete. Because I've seen the way the locker room works around him. I've seen the distance.
Hayes smiles. The expression is so sad it physically hurts to look at.
“Yeah?” The disbelief behind the word is impossible to miss.
I think about this morning. Hacker Hayes. About the way Hayes never defends himself.
Then I correct my statement. “Okay.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“The team is complicated.”
That earns a real laugh. “That's one way to put it.”
I shrug. “Fine.” Then I look him directly in the eyes. “But I have your back.”
For a second, the room goes completely still. Hayes stares at me, like he's trying to determine whether I'm joking.
I don't joke about things that matter.
Eventually his gaze drops. A faint flush appears along his neck. “Thanks.”
The answer is quiet. Honest. And for some reason, hearing it feels surprisingly good. The kind of good that makes me suspicious of myself.
I stand before I can examine that feeling too closely.
“Try to take a nap or something. You look dead.”
Hayes laughs. “Great advice.”
“I know.” I head toward the door. “I'm basically a therapist.”
“That's terrifying.”
“There are definitely lawsuits involved.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. It's the closest thing I've seen to a smile all day. I leave before I can say something stupid.
A few minutes later I'm stretched across the couch in Coach's office, trying to squeeze in a nap before game time. But every time I close my eyes, I find myself thinking about Hayes.
About the way he looked standing under that shower.
About the sadness in his eyes.
About how surprised he seemed when someone told him they had his back.
The thought follows me all the way into sleep.
The locker room feels different before a regular-season game.
There is always energy. Always noise. But opening night carries something extra.
The excitement sits just beneath everyone's skin.
Even veterans who've played a thousand games can't completely hide it.
Equipment clatters against the floor. Music blasts from a speaker somewhere near the back of the room.
Guys move between stalls, taping sticks and lacing skates while trainers weave through the chaos.
Dante drops into the stall beside mine and immediately starts talking.
“She's coming tonight.”
I grunt, trying to focus.
Dante continues anyway. “The girl I told you about.”
I pull on my shoulder pads. “What girl?”
“The fact that you don't listen to me is honestly insulting.”
“Maybe say more interesting things.”
Dante throws a roll of tape at my head. I catch it before it knocks me in the temple.
“The brunette.”
Still nothing.
“The nurse.”
Nope.
“The one I've been seeing for three weeks.”
That finally sounds vaguely familiar. “Oh.”
Dante points triumphantly. “See? You remember.”
“Barely.”
He sighs dramatically. “I hate you.”
Dante continues talking anyway, which is impressive considering I've contributed almost nothing to this conversation. My attention keeps drifting across the room towards Hayes. His stall sits a few rows away.
Most of his gear is already on. His skates are laced. His gloves rest beside him. The only thing missing is his helmet, which sits on the floor near his feet.
Another one of those radioactive energy drinks is in his hand. The second one today. Maybe third. At this point, I honestly don't know how his heart hasn't exploded.