13. Blake #2
The parking lot’s already filling. Brody’s just pulling off his helmet next to his Harley, that smug grin already forming. A few feet away, Peters and McAvoy are roughhousing like idiots while Jett stands between them like he’s the substitute teacher trying to keep the peace.
And Bishy. Yeah. He’s there too. Arms folded. Watching me.
I park and kill the engine. Grab my gear bag and swing the door open. The sun hits me square in the face. I take a breath and start walking toward them.
Brody steps away from his bike and comes to meet me halfway. His face says it all: Don’t do anything stupid.
Peters gives a half-assed “Hey.” McAvoy adds a nod. Jett, nice guy but don't really know him yet, strides over with his hand out.
“Morning. Looking forward to drills?”
I take his hand, give it a solid shake. “Kind of.”
My bag hits the asphalt with a dull thud. I don’t break eye contact with Bishy.
The look he gives me could strip paint. “What?” he snaps. “You wanna go again, do you, Mitchell?”
Brody's eyebrow arches like a silent warning. I breathe deep. I don’t want to fight. Not this time.
The others start peeling off toward the entrance, leaving just the three of us and a few staff crossing the lot.
I look at Bishy again. No anger. Just the truth. “No. I was an asshole, Bish. I’m sorry.” I hold out my hand.
He looks at it like I’ve offered him a live grenade. His mouth twitches like he’s not sure whether to break my jaw or hug me.
Slowly, he grabs it and squeezes like he’s testing for fractures. “Yeah. You were. But I guess I was, too.” His voice roughens. “Since Thumper died, man… I’ve been mad at the world. Just wanted to fight anyone. You gave me that. So, I’m… I’m sorry too.”
He pulls me in hard and slaps my back like he’s trying to rattle a lung loose. “And I… no, we, all hope you don’t get fucking transferred, and that you get back on the team.”
I feel his grin against my shoulder.
“Can’t believe you fucking hit McCullum. That was classic.”
We break apart, and he slaps my arm, starts throwing light punches at my ribs, grinning like the bastard he is. I swing back, and next thing I know, we’re shoving each other like idiots.
Brody stands to the side, his arms lifted like some bored referee. “Quite finished, girls?” He nods toward the entrance. “Shall we?” He winks at me.
I grab my bag. And we head in.
The scanner beeps one by one as we swipe our ID cards, the doors click open with that familiar pneumatic hiss, and we step into the pulse of the arena.
It hits me like it always does, the drum of distant music from the gym, the rhythmic thuds of pucks slamming against boards, the sharp scent of liniment and industrial-strength cleaner. Always with the underlying smell of sweat and old tape.
It feels more like home than... well, home.
Staff weave around us. A couple of trainers wheel carts stacked with folded towels.
One of the nutritionists holds a clipboard and calls out macros to a rookie who clearly doesn’t understand half of what she’s saying.
One of the media interns, no idea what his name is, nearly crashes into a utility cart while staring at his phone.
Bishy walks ahead, already halfway down the corridor like he owns it. Brody hangs back beside me.
“So, what happened with Cassy?”
I stop. Turn toward him. “We’re okay. I cooked for her last night.”
Brody’s smirk blooms. “Oh, no.”
We fall into step again, our sneakers squeaking on the polished concrete.
“And what about McCullum?”
Just as we reach the locker room door, I slow down and nod. “I’m going to try and clear up that mess now.”
Brody pushes the door open, muttering as he goes, “Good luck with that one.”
He disappears inside. I don’t follow. Not yet.
Now, how should I play this?
I walk the corridor alone, my steps slowing as I pass the wide glass facade of the Media and Comms department. Floor-to-ceiling transparency. Cassy’s domain.
In my head, I see her sitting at her desk. Bossing people around with that mouth of hers. That brain. That fire.
Her image hits hard. Her with my kid. That thought's been getting louder in my head every damn day. I’ve never seen myself with one before, but now the idea won't shut up. Me. Her. A family.
And it fits. Not forced. Just… right.
I keep walking. I’ve got that grin now, the one that used to come right before I made a game-winning play that no one saw coming. One of those big, dumb lightbulb moments sparking in the back of my brain.
A new idea starts forming. Wild. Reckless. Yeah, that tracks.
McCullum’s office looms up ahead. Frosted door. Big bold letters.
Head Coach: H. McCullum.
I stop. I can hear his voice inside, loud, and tearing through someone like a bone saw.
Just as I raise my hand, the door flies open, nearly smacking me in the face. Danny storms out, his face red, and muttering under his breath. “Jesus. He’s in a bad mood.”
He barely spares me a glance. The door’s swinging shut again, but I catch it with my boot before it closes, rap my knuckles once, then push it open and walk straight in.
McCullum isn’t tapping the keys on his computer, he’s hammering them like he’s trying to break through the desk. Growling at the screen, he doesn’t even look at me until I’m already standing inside.
“Well, you better come in and shut that door. We don’t want everyone knowing our business, do we?”
“Listen, before you say anything—”
“NO. YOU LISTEN TO ME!” He slams his hands on the desk.
I just stand watching.
“I suppose you thought that was funny. That childish prank in the parking lot yesterday, or should I say playground? A fucking airplane? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
He’s red-faced now, his chest rising like he’s mid-drill.
“I thought I made it quite clear about my daughter. You don’t speak to her, you don’t look at her, and you don’t even breathe in her direction. She’s not just some piece of skirt. That’s my daughter!”
I step forward. Steady. Controlled. “Have you quite finished?”
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t say a word.
“Look, I get it. You’d do anything to protect her. I respect that. That’s what any good father would do. But you don’t need to protect her in this case. Not from me.”
His mouth starts to move, but I cut in.
“Yes, I was an ass. I admit that. I’ll wear it. But I’ve fallen in love with her, and there’s nothing on this planet that’s going to change that. The only way I walk away from her is if she asks me to. Not you.”
He doesn’t blink.
“She’s having my baby. Your grandchild. And I’m not here asking for your permission, I’m asking for your blessing. I want to marry Cassy. That way, she has both you and me to look out for her. And I swear to you, on my life, I will.”
McCullum leans forward, his elbows on the desk now, locked on me.
“And as far as that punch goes, you know it was an accident. If I could undo it, I would. Hell, if you want to take a free shot, go for it. I’ll take it. I deserve it.”
I step closer and hold out my hand across the desk. “So, what do you say? Can I have your blessing to marry Cassy? And as I’m sure you’re aware, I also don’t want to be transferred. I am the Aces’ Captain.”
He stares at me for long enough that I start wondering if I miscalculated. Long enough that I’m half-convinced he’s about to lunge over the desk and throttle me.
Then he stands. Exhales. Stares down at my hand and nods.
He grips it. Strong and firm. “Don’t screw this up. Now get changed. You’ve got a big game to play tomorrow.”
***
So, here we are in the locker room. Today’s a big game day, and I’m back on the team. As Captain.
My mind? Firmly on last night after I left the arena. I had one place, and one place only to go. Tiffany’s.
Needless to say, I didn't have a clue what I was doing or what I was going to pick out.
I decided on platinum. A brilliant-cut diamond. No bullshit. No frills.
Hell if I knew what size. So, I just guessed. Pictured her hands. Slender. That one ring on her finger, she fidgeted with. Looked closely.
God. I hope she says yes. God, I hope it fits.
Not sure when or how I will ask her. Maybe I should have done it last night after the killer dinner she made. I just don’t know… Soon, very soon.
Steel blades scrape across concrete, snapping me back. Sticks thud against concrete as I drop onto the bench next to Brody. He’s already halfway geared up, doing his thing where he chews on that mouth guard like it’s made of steak.
I bend over, grab my laces, and start threading. Sharp pulls. Tight where I need it, give where I don’t. It’s a rhythm, this part always is.
There are no words between us. We don’t need any. We’ve done this a thousand times. But the nerves still creep in like smoke under the door. That’s fine. Nerves mean you care. Nerves mean you want to win.
Across the room, Peters gags dramatically and waves his glove in front of his face. “Don’t even try to tell me it wasn't you,” he spits. “I’ve been in the league long enough to know the smell of death, and whatever crawled out of your ass is worse.”
McAvoy leans back, laughing. “You’re kidding yourself, old man. That was you. You eat like a raccoon in a dumpster.”
Jett, taping his wrists, shakes his head. “You both reek. Shut the fuck up before we all suffocate.”
Davis snarls from the other side of the room, through gritted teeth. “Who asked you? Look at you with your New York swagger, stepping in and taking my place.”
Bishy doesn’t even look up. “That wasn’t your place, ass wipe. That was Thumper’s place.”
I stand. Loud enough that the bench creaks and half the room goes quiet.
“Davis, come on. We’re all part of the same team. I think we all know how much Jett’s proven himself. He’s the highest scorer in the Eastern Conference. That’s why he’s here.”
I scan the room, every single one of them is watching now. “But don’t forget, we’re all here for a reason. Including you. All twenty-four players. That’s what the Aces are. And now we’ve got new blood.”