6. Nathan
NATHAN
“Berty,” Kerri, the head of the team’s social media, called, using the same nickname as his teammates. “I need you to be on your game when you see that sign, bud.” She joined Nathan as he was walking out of the dressing room for practice.
“What sign?” he asked, looking down at her, already dreading what was going to be through the next set of doors.
“I can’t tell you, your answer needs to be authentic and in the moment. I need you to answer it so the other guys do too.”
Nathan rolled his eyes. As a veteran he was always expected to lead by example.
Which was fine when it came to game stuff, he didn’t always love the fluff shit they were expected to do now.
When he started in the league fifteen years before, all he ever had to do was talk to a few reporters now and then.
Now they had to learn dances and be up on every goddamn trend whatever generation was in charge of the algorithm decided was hot that week.
Kerri’s assistant, Morgan, stood ten feet away from the main door to the rink holding a sign, and the new intern stood next to him holding a phone, already recording.
Nathan stopped in front of the sign and read it out loud, knowing that’s what they wanted. “Is a hot dog a sandwich?” Well fuck a duck.
“You know, I was just having a conversation about this with a friend.” He set the blade of his stick on the ground, leaning thoughtfully on the butt end. “No, a hot dog is a hot dog.”
“Are you sure?” Kerri asked.
“It’s a sandwich for sure,” the rookie Theo Langdon said as he walked up next to him. “Anything in a bun is a sandwich.” He continued by Nathan, jumping onto the ice and hollering back, “Come on old man, don’t think too hard!”
“As I was saying,” Nathan said, rolling his eyes and avoiding looking right at the phone. “A hot dog is the meat, the bun is called a hot dog bun so, a hot dog is a hot dog and not a sandwich.” He nodded once at them and continued on his way.
“He’s dropping too fast,” Nathan observed as their veteran goalie let in another shot from the face-off circle, rising to his feet slowly. “Something’s off.”
“Maybe he didn’t sleep well.” Trevor Smith shrugged before the whistle blew for his turn at the breakaway.
Sure enough, Dmitri Pavlovic was down on his knees before Smith had even shot the puck, which allowed him to recalculate and go high. Six top shelf goals in a row and a worried looking goalie coach, something was definitely off.
“Okay, so you were probably right,” Trevor admitted, coming to a stop beside Nathan and watching as their next two teammates pulled the exact same moves, beating Pavlovic glove side.
“Connors is going to be in the next game if he keeps this up.” Trevor looked over his shoulder to the end where the backup goalie Connors was in net.
“Cocky asshole,” he grumbled into his glove.
“Hey, how did you answer the question from earlier?”
Nathan told him Octavia’s theory and watched the guy try to follow along. “What did you say?”
“That whatever they are, they’re delicious.” He grinned as their coach blew the whistle, signalling the end of practice.
As Nathan headed off he watched as Pavlovic sat in his crease, staring at his skates and shaking his head slowly.
Dmitri had been their number one for the last two seasons, but this season he’d been different.
He seemed fine physically, but he had the Yips or something.
Whatever it was, he better figure it out fast or he was going to lose his starting position to the young guy who was indeed a cocky asshole.
“Pav’s wife asked for a divorce last night,” Sami Pettersson leaned in and whispered. “She found out about the girlfriend.”
Nathan’s eyes slid across the room to where Pavlovic sat in front of his locker, still in his goalie pads and skates.
He’d heard rumours about a girlfriend. Some of the guys were open about their infidelities, treating each dalliance like a point of pride.
He’d never understood why money and fame made some guys act that way.
It probably didn’t help that hockey players, specifically in Canada, grew up in an environment that didn’t punish bad behaviour as long as you showed up on the ice.
“Poor guy,” he said, letting the words drip with sarcasm.
He thought of Scottie, still in the hospital, out of the coma but struggling with communication.
After Octavia left, his sister had called to let him know that Scottie was out of the coma and he’d gone straight back to the hospital to sit with him.
Normally he’d tell him about the woman he met.
How she was brilliant and probably the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
But he wasn’t going to go on about meeting someone when that’s what Scottie should be telling him.
So instead, he told him about the game and relayed all the stats he could remember.
His brother loved stats and numbers, it was what he’d built his business on, what the professional teams all paid the big bucks for.
“The doctor suggested we get him into a rehab facility that specializes in stroke survivors,” Emma informed him when they went down to the cafeteria two days later.
“The damage shouldn’t be permanent, apparently his scans look good considering everything, but he needs to rehab his brain and his left arm. ”
Nathan swallowed back the rage he felt. Scottie had gotten the big brain but not the social skills that Nathan and Emma had.
Meeting people had always been harder for his brother, and knowing he’d met someone online and had taken steps to meet her in person only to have the chance snuffed out made his blood boil.
Meanwhile, he’d shown up at a random hotel bar and the perfect woman had literally fallen into him.
They’d laugh about this one day, he had to keep telling himself that.
Scottie would remember his password and explain to the mystery woman what had happened and she’d agree to start again.
Nathan wasn’t even above bribing her to give him another chance.
“We’ll do whatever they think is best. If I need to take a leave from the team, I’ll do that too,” Nathan said, pushing away the shitty bowl of chicken noodle soup he’d purchased.
“I know you will,” Emma said, resting her hand on top of his. “But you know he’d hate that. You need to play and give him months’ worth of ridiculous analytics to dig through when he’s ready. Your stats are always his favourite.”
Nathan scoffed. They were Scottie’s favourite because it was the one area he could confidently tell Nathan where he sucked and back it up with facts.
Scottie was asleep when they got back to the room, so he decided to take off, bringing up Octavia’s number as he waited for the Uber to arrive.
Can I interest you in dinner?
He tried and failed to push down the bubble of excitement that began when he saw the three bouncing dots.
Is that code for sex?
No, although that’s on the table too, if you want it to be.
His blood raced south as he thought about fucking her again. He’d come three mornings in a row while he showered, unable to unsee her bent over taking him with her knuckles white from pressing on the wall so hard, her moans echoing against the glass.
You know this is just sex right?
His heart sank, reading the words.
Still waiting on Blaze?
I just… I’m confused right now. All I can offer is something physical.
If physical was all he was going to get, then that’s what he’d give her. He’d get over it when she didn’t need that anymore either.
Dinner then I’ll fuck you over the back of my couch.
Sandro’s on Front at seven?
I’ll book a table, see you there.
Nathan called the restaurant and requested a table, as private as possible.
Why? Why bother making sure it was a quiet table when getting to know each other wasn’t the purpose of any of this?
They already knew the sex was good, they didn’t need a private dinner for that.
He ended up convincing himself it was for her, not him.
People knew him in this city, he didn’t want her to have to deal with her picture being out there.
Octavia walked into the restaurant five minutes before seven, her blue pantsuit making her legs look twice as long as they actually were. Legs he couldn’t wait to have wrapped around his hips or head later.
He stood—resisting the overwhelming urge to pull her in for a kiss—and waited for her to slide into the booth before sitting across from her.
“Thanks for coming.”
“Girl’s gotta eat,” she teased, picking up her menu.
“Am I allowed to ask how your day was?”
She nodded, her green eyes finding him over the top of the menu.
“How was your day, Octavia?” He didn’t take his eyes off her, noting the way her cheeks pinked.
She met his gaze full on, unnerving him in the best way.
He knew what those eyes looked like just before she came.
How they looked through her thick eyelashes.
The way they glistened because she was choking on his cock, begging for more.
Great, he thought, now he was fully hard, in the middle of a restaurant.
All he’d done was fucking ask how her day was.
“It was uneventful,” she replied slowly, her eyes narrowing at him. “Are you okay, Nathan?”
Nathan nodded and reached down to adjust himself as discreetly as possible. “Is uneventful good for a lawyer?”
“It is.” She leaned forward, her lips parting as her eyes trailed down his body to where his hand pressed against his cock. She couldn’t see anything of course, the table blocked her view, but everything about his body language gave him away. “Nathan?”
“Mmmhmm?” He gritted out.
“How was your day? Did you see your brother?”
Nathan took a deep breath and nodded at the memory of his brother staring up at the ceiling while everyone talked around him, immediately taking care of his situation. “I did, he’s—”
Octavia held up her hands and shook her head. “Don’t tell me any more, I don’t want to care.”
“Right, just sex—” The waiter walked up to the table then, ending his latest attempt at selling her on more, which was just as well as he had nothing good planned.
“Would you like to order now?”
Nathan looked across at Octavia. “And the occasional dinner,” he said quietly, earning a tiny smirk.
After they’d ordered water for both of them, the funghi pizza for her and the salmon for him, they sat in silence for a few minutes. Family was clearly off the table and Nathan’s mind was desperately grasping for topics she’d deem acceptable.
“So, have you seen any good movies lately?” he asked, hoping entertainment was a safe route.
“Finally saw Barbie.”
“Great film.” He beamed.
She looked back in surprise. “You’ve seen it?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I saw it in the theatre with a few teammates and my sister?” Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Obviously Margot was a big draw,” she said dismissively.
“For at least one of the guys yeah. Pretty sure Gosling was a draw for one of the guys too, though.” He grinned back, remembering how Thomas hadn’t shut up about how funny Ken had been without mentioning a single other thing about the film.
He should stop talking but he opened his mouth again.
“My sister too, she was a draw for one of the guys.”
Octavia’s head tilted in interest and he could see the question there. But she straightened and cleared her throat before it came out. “Did you like it?”
“I thought it was excellent.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What was your favourite part?” she challenged as if she still didn’t believe that he’d seen it.
He stared back, looking forward to seeing that skeptical arched eyebrow lower. “When Alan and Barbie were in the car together. Although her speech was pretty epic too. I felt compelled to apologize to my mom and sister immediately after the credits.”
Octavia smiled back demurely. “If you weren’t a hockey player, what would you want to be?”
“A teacher,” he answered immediately, catching Octavia off guard. “What? You look like you don’t believe me.”
“I just didn’t expect you to say that.” Pride bloomed in his chest as another one of her expectations about him crumbled. “What grade?”
He thought for a minute, assuming she was prepared for him to say twelfth or maybe college.
She had such a low opinion of hockey players he probably gave off slept-with-his-students vibes.
And fuck, now he was picturing her in a slutty little kilt bent over his desk or pressed against the classroom door while he went to town on her with his mouth.
She looked away and he wondered if she could tell what he was thinking.
When her eyes found him again, they dipped to his lips, silently admitting her imagination was nowhere appropriate.
“Probably grade five to seven,” he drawled, the grin still there, his eyes boring into her as if he could see through her clothes. “What about you? What would you be if you weren’t a lawyer, Autumn?”