“And that’s going okay still? Are they treating you right?”
She snorts. “You say that like you’re going to barge in there like some jealous boyfriend and beat them up if they aren’t.”
Her eyes widen as if she realizes what she said, then she shakes her head.
“Sorry. Forget I said that,” she mutters.
“I would.”
“What?”
“I would barge in there like some jealous boyfriend. I’d do anything to make sure you’re treated right because that’s what you deserve.”
She stares into the camera, mouth agape, eyes shining with… Well, honestly, I’m not even sure what. Surprise? Appreciation? Who knows, but it still annoys me all the same. Wanting to protect her shouldn’t be an unusual thing. It should just be standard. Makes me want to track down her ex for the hundredth time and get rid of the bastard who made her feel like she’s not worthy of that. It’s clear his cheating did a number on her, and I wish she could see it wasn’t her fault.
“It must be late there,” she says after a while. I want to point out that we’re on the same coast, therefore in the same time zone, but I don’t. She knows. This is just her excuse to go, and I let her use it.
“Right, and I have practice in the morning.”
“Right,” she echoes. “Well, good night, Gavin.”
“Good night, Nessa.”
We both stay on the phone for a few more seconds, and she’s the first to hang up. I miss her the second the screen goes black, and I try not to think about that too much.
Eventually, I flip off the bedside lamp and get under the covers. I lie there far longer than I should, tossing and turning, sleep evading me. When I finally do succumb, I dream of her…and what would have happened if she hadn’t run.
This crowd is electric, far more than Anaheim during our last game.
I’m not surprised. San Jose finished at the bottom of the league last year and picked up a damn good draft pick who everyone is excited about. I’ll admit the kid has some sick hands and can skate like nobody’s business, which is probably why he’s made the opening roster tonight.
The rambunctious crowd just makes everything that much sweeter. We’re up 4–0 in the second, keeping not only the rookie off the scoreboard, but their veteran guys too.
“What a beauty, Locke!” Hutch says as he settles onto the bench next to me.
I nod at him, the guilty feeling I’ve had since his sister came to town settling into my gut. I’ve talked to Nessa every night of the road trip. Every night, we’ve found one reason or another to talk. Sometimes it’s on video, and sometimes it’s not. Either way, it’s become like a routine, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t just feel like the old guy on the team—I’m like everyone else with someone to call at the end of the night.
Sometimes our conversations last only five minutes, and I sit with a grin on my face as she tells me about her day. Other times, they last an hour or more, talking about our childhoods and telling random anecdotes. No matter what, they always fill me with something I didn’t know I needed so damn badly—joy.
The only problem? Her brother. If Hutch has noticed I’ve been avoiding him, he hasn’t said anything. I even skipped out on dinner with the main crew last night, feigning the need for extra sleep. Lawson took a few shots at me for being old, Hayes joining in on the fun, but it was the way Keller looked at me withthose knowing eyes and how even Fox raised his brows that got me. They were looking at me like I was guilty, and they were right.
“Can we get a little more enthusiasm?” Hutch pushes on my shoulder. “Three goals in three games, baby! Our old man is rocking it out there!”
I shoot him a grin, and to my surprise, it’s genuine. I am feeling pretty damn good so far. We might only be three games into the season, but I’ll take it. I can’t remember the last time I started so hot, and that includes the season I ended up being a Norris Trophy finalist. Now, I just need to keep it going.
It does make me wonder…does it have anything to do with a certain blonde? My dad is right that she’s a distraction, but maybe that’s a better thing than I realized. Perhaps it’s what I needed to loosen up. Who knows. What I do know is that I’m going to keep doing everything I can to continue playing this way and proving to our GM that I’m worthy of being kept around, despite my age.
Keller rams a San Jose player into the boards right in front of me, and I scoot back out of the way just in time to miss a stick to the face.
“Fuck yes, Kells! Way to play hard!” our assistant coach says to him.
He grins up at the guy, then skates off after the player he just hit, probably already looking to do it again. I shake my head at him and focus back in on the game. When I finally get my feet back on the ice again, I’m flying. Feeling so damn good, better than I have in a long time.
I could do this forever, I think to myself.
It happens so fast—one minute the puck is on the ice and the next it’s smashing into my face. I drop in an instant, cradling my cheek.
“Motherfucker! Shit, fuck!” I scream, and I have no doubt the live feeds pick it up with how silent the arena is now.
