I tucked her head under my hairy chin. I’d yet to shave my red playoff beard. I tended to cling to things for far too long. My marriage, for example. My beard. My old running shoes. My ten-speed. My skates and sticks from my days at Bowling Green. My ragtag collection of Timmy Horton hockey cards. Several pairs of boxer shorts.
“Not sure I’d say handsome,” I mumbled as we hugged it out. My nose was off-center from being broken in a game against Pittsburgh five years ago, then again against the Raptors two years ago. I had surgery scars on my left shoulder, a knee that swelled when the atmospheric pressure dropped, and a jaggedwhite line on my jawline from an errant stick to the kisser that had resulted in ten stitches just this year. Hockey was a tough game.
“See, that right there is your ex talking.” She gave my side a pinch then tilted her head up to gaze at me. “You’re very handsome. Some would say rugged. Beefy, tough as nails, sweet as a honey roll?—”
“Do not say that honey roll crap anywhere near the barn or the Railers locker room. The kids like Gunny and Trick need to know that I’ll grind them into paste if they don’t play up to their potential.”
She smiled up at me. “I think they know that you’re a goober belly.” She jabbed my gut, which was not goober-bellied at all but nice and tight. I worked out every day. I even had abs under the thick pelt of reddish-blond hair on my belly. “But I’ll be sure to extoll your pasting abilities when I see them next.”
Which wouldn’t be until September. The season was over, our lockers cleared out, our hopes dashed. Sure, we’d made it to the first round, but then we’d tanked. I’d told the press I was sorry for letting the team and the city down. I’d been so into my own personal shit that I’d not given the team my full one hundred percent on the ice. Our failure was on me. I was the captain. It was down to me to talk the guys up, keep the locker room pumped, and ensure the team stayed mentally on track. I’d failed at that. Just like I’d failed to keep my wife happy and?—
“Ow!” I winced at the nail flick.
“You had that I-suck-and-want-to-wallow-in-my-suckiness look on your face.” She reached up to rub my brow. “Sorry, but you need someone to keep you from sliding into that pit of self-loathing that your ex kicked you into with her infidelity. And since we only have each other now, that person is me.”
“I love that you’re my pit person,” I confessed. She nuzzled in for another hug. “I’ll think about a vacation.” I couldn’t see it asher nose was smushed into my chest, but I knew she was smiling her smug smile of success. “I said I’ll think about it. Donotmake reservations.”
A week later,I was rolling my boxer shorts that didn’t have elastic showing into tight little logs because Fiona had made reservations and lined up a round-trip flight to Belize. Caye Caulker to be exact. She listened about as well as the Yorkie Paula toted around in oversized bags and called Bapsi-Boodles.
After hurriedly shoving my clothes into my suitcase, I sat on it and shouted at it because I was in a bad mood and couldn’t bring myself to yell at Fiona. Deep down, I knew she was only trying to pull me out of my funk. She loved me and thought a couple of weeks on a Caribbean island would help me feel better. Which, sure, it probably would to some extent, but if she thought I was going to go wild and jump into bed with the first man or woman who looked at me, she was very wrong. Yes, it had been over eighteen months since I’d been with someone intimately. My hand didn’t count, although even using that had started to decline.
I just wasn’t interested. Mom used to say that I loved with my whole being. I guess that was true because ever since Paula and I split, my sex drive has been pretty low. I’ve never been the type to go for one-night stands. I prefer some emotion, or at least for the person I was with to know my name, as silly as that sounds. I’ve had two girlfriends, and I married one. In college, I also dated a man for a few months, but the pressure from school and hockey was just too much. Plus, it was much easier to ask out girls. Not that I did that much. That first girlfriend was my steady from junior year through graduation. Then she movedwest, and I got drafted by the New York team, where I met Paula. I fell pretty hard.
We’d gotten married, and she had packed up to move several times before we settled in Pennsylvania when the Railers picked me out of the reduced-for-quick-sale bin. Turned out to be the best thing for me, and the Railers, as I thrived on the ice and was named captain in my third year. The move to the Keystone State did not do my marriage any good. Paula was dour by then, complaining steadily about the dullness of this state, how she longed to return to Manhattan, and how I was unable to meet her emotional needs when I was away so much. Obviously, I wasn’t satisfying a few other of her needs. And if that wasn’t a kick in the balls to a man’s ego, I don’t know what was.
The alarm on my phone rang out, pulling me from the memories of the past. I latched my suitcase, grabbed the handle, and made my way out of the bedroom to the living room. Over the past week, Fiona had flown to Paris with a wealthy businessman in a private jet and had been tipped five grand for her exemplary service. Seemed she knew how to make a dry martini just the way the rich dude’s mistress liked them. Guess no one really cared about vows or fidelity anymore. Anyway, the tip had been blown on my condo. I now had furnishings, plates, pots, a few plants that I would kill sure as hell before the snow flew, and a TV set with a PlayStation. Among all the things delivered here, I used the TV and game console the most. And the bed. The new sheets and duvet were nice; I had to give my sister that.
A text arrived while I was shoving my wallet into my back pocket. Fiona reminded me not to miss my flight, or she would hire a boat to float me to Belize. I hit her back with a kind and loving reply.
I’m 37 yrs old. I know where the airplanes are. – J
I got a row of big eyeballs as a reply. Yeah, yeah, she was always watching me. Shouldn’t I be the one keeping an eye onher?I was the oldest after all. Not sure how our dynamic had changed so drastically. I made a last check of the condo, patted my ass for a wallet check, stuck my cell into the front pocket of my jeans, and grabbed my suitcase. Down the elevator I went to the lobby to find the ride Fiona had arranged—she wasn’t taking any chances that I would not get to the airport—waiting outside the tall tower I now called home. No one waved goodbye, no one kissed my cheek, no one wished me a safe flight at the door.
Being single sucked.
The ride to Harrisburg International was pleasant enough. I’d left my beard on my face, just neatened it a bit, so fans would be thrown off if they spied me at the airport. Not that I didn’t love our fans, I did, but man they could be rough. If one more dude bro came up to me to inform me we’d shit the bed last month I just might run out onto the I-83 and be done with it all. My driver was pleasant but not overly chatty. I arrived with two hours until boarding, checked my bag, went to the bathroom, and bought a soda that I downed. I took my time, no rushing, and made my way with ease through the TSA checkpoint. On the other side I found a seat facing the runway, my sight locked on the planes being readied for their flights. I’d flown a lot in my years. I mean alot. I had no idea how many miles a hockey player logs in his life, but it was enormous. I’d flown into snowstorms, thunderheads, and the tip of a hurricane. I’d landed on ice strips where the plane went sideways after landing. Once we were blown off-course on a takeoff from Chicago-O’Hare. One time we lost an engine and had to turn around over the Canadian wilderness.
As my group was called to board I ambled forward, carry-on resting on my shoulder, without a care in the world. While some others around me were chatting nervously. I was plottingout my nap. When you’ve flown into a flock of birds and lived to tell the tale there was little that was going to make this flight to paradise anything other than mundane. Since Fiona had booked me in first class—on her—I settled into the large seat in the middle with a seat on my right and one across the aisle. I loved it. Seriously, a guy of my size did not do well in coach. Knowing I could stretch out without getting dirty glances from the people in front of me was everything.
The plane filled quickly. I texted Fiona a selfie of me all tucked into my fancy nook. The doors were closed then, and I found myself scanning the cover of the book I’d picked up in the airport when there was a commotion up front. The door was reopened. Glancing up from my phone, I watched as a man hurried onto the plane, his dark hair windblown as if he had raced through the airport. When the guy glanced my way, my stomach dropped. His dark brown gaze locked with mine for a second. He nodded at the flight attendant and then made his way to his seat. On my right. The smell of citrus and sweat curled around me as he rushed to stow his carry-on down by his feet. I stared. I couldn’t help it. He was perhaps the handsomest man I’d ever seen.
He flashed me a smile that made that turbulent feeling reappear. I hurried to buckle my belt before I did something stupid like gasp and tumble into the aisle. Team captains didn’t gasp at sexy men.
TWO
Tian
“I’m gonna blame the limo,”I’d said to no one at all. “Who knew even a private limo could be late?” I practiced as I skidded the final few steps to the plane.
Being late hadnothingto do with the fact that I’d spent way too long editing a video in the first-class lounge and had lost track of time.
All the private limo driver’s fault.
Obviously.
By the time I’d taken off my headphones and heard thefinal callblasted over the speakers, I had to sprint from the lounge all the way to the gate. My lungs burned, my shirt clung damp to my back, and I practically parkoured over rolling suitcases to get there.
I made it just as they were closing the door, sliding through with a disarming grin that only half-softened the flight attendant’s pissy glare. Hot, sweaty, heart racing, I hurried down the aisle—and then froze when I saw where I was sitting. Not because it’s first class, because I’d earned this sweet deal, and my sponsors loved me, but because there, in seat 2A, sat the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Jack freaking-hard-as-nailsO’Leary. Hockey god. Railers captain. Legendary defenseman. And the eternal thorn in the side of my beloved New York team.
