Chapter Two
Jesse
The voicemail I get right before practice fuels the pit of anger that’s always bubbling just under the surface and vying to get out.
I’ve been able to keep a careful handle on it over the years, only releasing small amounts on the ice when it benefits me.
There’s a reason why people call me the Silent Aggressor when I play, and it’s fitting.
I wish today was game day against one of our Eastern Conference competitors so I can really get it out of my system.
I’ve learned one too many times that if I can’t slam someone into the boards or outskate a rival to steal the puck, the people in my personal life get an unpleasant version of me.
Hockey is my outlet. It has been since I was thirteen and full of hormones that I didn’t know what to do with.
It always will be, even all these years later.
The preteen version of myself who always wanted to go pro probably wouldn’t believe I’d be standing here at almost thirty-five.
At the time, I’d been new to the school’s hockey team and being coached on the side by my father’s best friend who was a gold medal Olympian.
Dennis played professional hockey for the NHL for two decades, winning the Stanley Cup three times, and a gold medal for Team USA in his prime.
He knew what I wanted to accomplish and helped me work on my weaknesses so I could be a better player.
Inevitably, it worked. I may not have been a first-round draft pick, but I was damn close.
All that mattered was being chosen and proving myself, and dammit I fucking did.
I used to think everything would fall into place as soon as I had a name for myself.
The money was good, the sponsorships poured in, and the fans sold out my jersey in the first week of the season no matter which team I played for.
But none of that fame got rid of the feelings that simmered every single day inside of me.
It wasn’t just anger. If it were, at least it was easy to get rid of. Unfortunately, it was a cocktail of rawness that not even my own brain could quite sort out enough to solve. Some days I was pissed, some days I was numb, some days I was perfectly content.
I’d learned quickly after getting my biggest contract with the Fairbanks Fireflies that it didn’t matter how much money a person has, or how many fans cheer them on every week.
It can’t buy happiness, just like it can’t fill any voids.
I’d spoken to the team therapist about it once and she said it sounded like I had imposter syndrome and then asked if I’d ever felt depressed.
I didn’t go back to her again because I didn’t want to think about the possibility of her being right.
I’m startled back to reality when someone smacks me upside the head. “The hell did you go?” Thomas Moskins asks, skating around me and pulling his helmet off.
The right winger scrapes a hand through his sweaty hair and tucks his helmet under his armpit. He looks flushed from the drills we’ve been running all morning.
“Nowhere,” I tell him, feigning ignorance. I look around as the rest of our team mills about the ice. A few of the guys are laughing at God knows what, while others are speaking to the coach.
Unfortunately for me, Moskins doesn’t leave me alone. “You’ve been spaced out alone over here for like three minutes. Looked like you were in a trance. It’s fucking weird, dude.”
I deadpan. “What are you doing staring at me? Coach wanted you to show the fake out backhand maneuver to Richie until he’s comfortable with it.”
He snorts at the deflection, seeing right through it.
Moskins has always had the ability to smell bullshit a mile away.
Probably because the art of bullshitting is like a second language to him, so he’s fluent.
“Maybe I can’t help staring at that pretty boy face of yours,” he muses with a sly grin. “It’s the scar. Really does it for me.”
The reference of the faded scar that extends from my left jaw all the way up my cheek and stopping at the corner of my eyebrow makes me glare at him.
The injury happened back in my Blackhawk days, when I took a blade to the face during a game.
There had been a lot of blood, a lot of stitches, and talks of plastic surgery to lessen the visibility of the scar.
But I’d turned that down because vanity isn’t one of my many faults and it seemed more trouble than it was worth to fix.
“Fuck off, Moskins,” I tell him, searching the rink for Richie Head. If he’s not going to practice with him, I will.
Moskins nudges me with his elbow, his grin slipping a fraction. “Seriously, though. Are you good? Because you’ve seemed out of it a lot lately.”
I have, and I hate that he’s right. Swiping at the back of my neck, I roll my tense shoulders. “I got a call about something that put me in a shitty mood, that’s all.”
“Is it Belle?”
The fact he immediately assumes it’s about her shouldn’t irritate me as much as it does, but I blame the pent-up frustration building higher and higher inside of me. I really need to lock myself in the gym tonight at home and work whatever this is out of my system.
“Not everything is about her,” I state coolly, looking away.
Problem is that the call was about her. Well, not her personally, but about her future.
I know she’s been stressed about the sale of her club, so I was hoping to help her out by settling in better here.
But the storefront she’d fallen in love with at first sight was just yanked out from under me.
Not even the number I offered the landlord who owned the building could change her mind from choosing the other leaser.
I wasn’t planning on telling Belle that I’d leased it until she officially sold Belle’s Place.
I know she’d make a fuss about doing this on her own and not needing me to invest, but I want to.
She’s the only person in my life who hasn’t expected anything from my success.
As much as I love my father, and even my stepmother, they’ve always asked for tickets for friends and family, or money to help with smaller projects around their house.
And because they helped me get where I am today, I’ve given it to them every time they ask.
But Belle is different. She’s always wanted to do things on her own.
Every time I’ve helped, it’s because I’ve about begged her to so she wouldn’t run herself ragged the way she used to.
I respect her independence—her need to work for everything she has.
But damn if it doesn’t piss me off when she brushes off my helping hand when it’s there for the taking.
Moskins holds his hands up, clearly not willing to fight me on this. “Fine, be grumpy. I was just asking because the guys were wondering what crawled up your ass and died but were too scared to ask.”
I’m not surprised at all that he volunteered to pry into my business. He’s never cared much for anyone else’s boundaries besides his own. Now that I know the reason behind his secrecy after all the events of his personal life unfolded last season, it makes a lot more sense.
So, I give him the bare minimum. “I was trying to make a business investment, and it didn’t work out. It isn’t the end of the world, but I thought it was a sure thing.”
He nods in understanding, as if he’s been there before himself.
And he probably has. Most athletes supplement their income through various investments.
A few people I used to play with back in Chicago had rentals, some diversified their money in bonds and stocks, while other players had a tendency just to spend it outright.
“That sucks, man,” he sympathizes. “But I think this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that things happen for a reason and better things will come your way.”
I can’t help but crack the smallest smile hearing the cliché response.
He’s not wrong, I guess. And it isn’t like I have to share the news with Belle, though I’m sure she’ll find out that the space isn’t available anymore eventually.
It’s better to come from me than passing by it on her own and realizing her new dream is still an arm’s length away.
She’s had too many things in her life fall apart, and I don’t want that for her.
“There you go again,” Moskins muses, staring me down. “Spacing out on me. Look, since this conversation obviously isn’t going anywhere, I’ll go back to help Head. The rooks mentioned going out tonight together as a team. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to get your mind off this.”
One of my brows pops up. Moskins hates going out with us. Ninety percent of the time, he doesn’t even answer the group texts when we invite him places. The asshole keeps his read receipts on so we know he can see it, then doesn’t reply. “Are you okay? You hate hanging out with us.”
He rolls his eyes. “Hate is a strong word. I prefer staying in. That’s all.”
Fair.
“Plus,” he adds, grinning again, “the less I go out, the less you have to deal with my drunk ass.”
That’s true too. Not that I’ve seen him drink that much lately. “Hoffman would kill you if you showed up with a hangover tomorrow.”
He snickers at the mention of our coach. “He would. Then I’d probably have to do an hour of conditioning until I can’t feel my legs. Not sure if that’s worth it.”
We both know it isn’t. Bodhi Hoffman doesn’t let us off easy if we fuck up, even if we’ve known him for years on the ice before he traded his hockey stick for a playbook. “I’ll talk to Head and see what the plans are. But no drinking.”
He gives me a look. The one that says I’m an idiot for thinking that will be an enforced rule.
Him and I may be smart enough not to get plastered for the good season we’ve had so far, but some of the others are young and still enjoy the perks of being signed a professional hockey team.
They recover faster than us older fucks.
I roll my eyes. “Just text me the details, Moskins. I’ll be there.”