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“You’re not still moping over that actress, are you?” Jackson Moon booms as he approaches me and Easy.
I smile and do my best to return his bear hug despite the empty plate and nearly-full plate I’m holding. Jackson’s a retired Blaze enforcer. I’ve always liked and respected him—he’s old school, with a crooked nose and a full front set of veneers. But that’s why he’s beloved by every Blaze player and fan—he spent his career putting his body on the line to protect his team.
“I ain’t moping over shit, you old asshole,” I say warmly.
“Good. Plenty more where she came from, right?”
“Hell yeah.”
“You boys going out after this?” Jackson looks between me and Easy.
“You buying?”
I can only maintain my serious expression for a second. Jackson punches me in the shoulder, and while it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t not hurt. Retired or not, this guy’s a bear who could probably still take me down—6’4” and burly as a lumberjack.
“Of course I’ll buy,” Jackson offers.
I shake my head. “I was joking, Moon. Yeah, we’ll go out with you.”
“I can’t, actually,” Easy says. “I have to do a thing for the front office.”
“Next time,” Jackson says to Easy. He looks at me. “You and me, then, kid.”
I smile and hold my beer up in a gesture of approval, but really, I just want to go home after this. I feel like being alone in my apartment, maybe ordering some takeout and watching some baseball.
Easy’s ‘thing for the front office’ is most likely dinner with the team owner and his family. I used to get invited to all those things. But with the way I’ve been playing lately, I guess I’m no longer a favorite. Easy’s a second line forward. My spot on the first line has never been in jeopardy until now.
“Jackson Moon.” A guy in a well-cut suit approaches us, his eyes lit up as he shakes hands with the Blaze legend. “It’s an honor. I’m Cain McMillan. I remember watching you play with my dad and grandpa.”
“Great to meet you, Cain,” Jackson says.
“We were actually at the game in ’98 when you and Trainor had that epic fight. The one where your head was injured. Man, all that blood on the ice…and you got back up! I’ll never forget it.”
“Yeah, that one hurt a little,” Jackson says wryly.
“Hurt Trainor a lot more than you, though.”
Jackson nods as Cain grabs a beer from the tray of a passing server, and Jackson does the same. Kevin Trainor wasn’t just hurt in that fight—he was never the same. After the doctors thought he had recovered, he rejoined his team, but he’d lost so much ground that he couldn’t contribute. He got injured again and ended up retiring young.
That’s one of my fears these days—getting hurt so badly that I’m forced to retire, and on a downward spiral at that—with my numbers in the toilet and my job on the line.
No one would guess I’m thinking these things, though. I mingle like usual, talking hockey with the guys, meeting hospital patients who were able to attend the event since the foundation is raising money for a Chicago children’s hospital; I sign jerseys and pucks, smile for pictures and represent my team well. Even though I feel like an imposter, I don’t let it show.
When people start heading out, I see that Easy is leaving with our team owner and his wife. I don’t begrudge him that; Easy’s a good guy. But it does burn to see Anton and Luca going with them.
So that’s what this is. A test run of sorts to warm Anton and Luca to the idea of having Easy on the first line instead of me. I exhale deeply, frustrated by this turn of events even though I brought it on myself with my shitty play.
“Hey, man.” Jackson claps me on the shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.”
I nod.
“Let’s go blow off some steam,” he says, chugging the last of his beer.
I take out my phone to check the time, my pulse racing when I see the waiting text.
We need to meet tonight. You have one hour to call or text back.Fuck. It’s been a few months since I got one of these messages, so I can’t say I’m surprised. Tonight of all nights, though. I’m already feeling like shit, and now I have to deal with this.
“Hey, Jackson, I’m sorry, but something just came up that I have to take care of.”
“You’re blowing me off?” He grins. “It better be a booty call, Vic.”
My single note of laughter holds no amusement. “I wish. It’s nothing fun.”
“Okay. No worries, bro.”
“Can we do it tomorrow night instead? Dinner and drinks?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” he replies.
“Great. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
Jackson’s expression turns serious. “You okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
We say our goodbyes, and as I exit through the stairwell rather than take the elevator to avoid the crowd, I loosen my tie and sigh, glad the social part of my night is over. Now I have to meet up with the only person in this world I hate. But at least there won’t be any false smiles, or pretending like everything’s great.
