Feeling raw, I lead Indie to my bedroom. Neither of us speaks as I peel our clothes off and toss them in a pile on the floor. Silence cocoons us as I tug her to the bed and guide her under the covers. Her eyes run over every inch of my face and body in the softest caress, but she keeps her hands to herself, waiting for me to make the first move and set the tone.
I could lose myself in her body. Let go of tonight’s failures and find release in the woman I’ve loved for half of my life. But that’s not what I’ll miss most when we’re in Florida. So I pull her warm body flush against mine and hold her.
She sighs when I run my fingers through her hair for the first time. It doesn’t take long for her to melt in my arms, boneless and soft against me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice is a whisper, the warm puffs of her breath tickling my neck and collarbone. I harden but ignore it.
Do I want to talk about it?I consider that for a moment. Would it do any good to talk about it? It won’t change the outcome of the game. Won’t magically erase the three goals I let slip past me.
She sighs again. This one is more loaded. “You don’t have t?—”
“I can’t let them down.” The words are out before I’ve made a conscious decision to say them. “My mom and dad sacrificed everything to pay for me and my brothers to play. Time, money, friendships. I was thinking about it the other day, and I remembered my mom wearing the same pair of shoes for three years straight. By the time she threw them out, they were practically falling apart. She claimed they were her favorites, and the company had stopped making them. I believed her then because I was a kid, so why wouldn’t I? But now I realize she probably couldn’t afford new shoes because she prioritized hockey for me.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I picture those shoes. They weren’t anything special—not outwardly—only sneakers. But at their core, they were so much more. A symbol of the quiet sacrifices they both made regularly without a second thought. Without complaining. And I know if I asked her about it, my mom would tell me it was no big deal.
But it was.
Hockey isn’t a cheap sport. Especially if your kid is a goalie. The equipment alone is crazy expensive. Then you add in ice time, fees, memberships, camps…
“She always made sure I had gear that was in good shape and that fit perfectly, even if it wasn’t brand-new, but she walked around in shoes that were falling apart.”
“She loves you,” Indie whispers. The pads of her fingers draw shapes across my chest.
I smile when I realize she’s drawing hearts.
“I know she does. But I… I need to make sure her sacrifices weren’t in vain.”
“Oh, Bash.” Indie props herself up on one elbow, the fingers of her other hand still drawing hearts on my chest. Hair spills over her shoulder like a waterfall painted pink by a vibrant sunset. She looks down at me with the kind of affection and familiarity I could only have hoped for even a few months ago. “She’d never, ever think that.”
“Maybe not, but I would.” I’ve watched guys come and go in this league. Talented men taken out by a torn ligament or the effects of constant strain on aging bodies. I’ve been playing a lot longer than most last in the pros, and so much of that is dumb luck. Just like it’s dumb luck that I didn’t spend my childhood in a cancer ward like Tristan, Declan, and Savvy. Dumb luck and my parents’ support.
What kind of man would I be if I didn’t take that sacrifice and luck seriously?
“Hey.” The soft brush of Indie’s fingertips across my furrowed brow brings me back to her. There’s a tension in her expression. Like she’s trying to decide what she should or shouldn’t say. After a beat or two, she nods her head, so slightly I would have missed it if I wasn’t staring intently at her.
“Your parents wouldn’t want you to live your life for them in some bid to repay what any good parent does. Every parent wants the best for their kids. They sacrifice. They wear shoes with holes or skip red-carpet events they’re excited about when their kids catch a cold.” She smiles wistfully, and I’m struck again by how different our upbringings were. Yet how similar in so many ways.
“I know,” I tell her. But knowing doesn’t erase the weight I’ve carried around for decades.
“You put too much pressure on yourself. You’re not a one-man show. There are like twenty other guys on the team with you.” She gives me a wry look that I respond to by tugging her face down to mine so I can kiss the hell out of her.
“And you’re not defined by the shit your parents say or do. Nor are you defined by their careers and who you are in relation to them.”
She chuckles when I arch an eyebrow at her. “Yeah. I know. I’m working on that.”
“Good. Have you spoken with your publisher?”
“Yeah. We have a plan.” There’s a confidence in her tone and expression when she says it that has my chest swelling with pride. Watching her embrace her success and own it is sexy as fuck. It’s what I’ve always wanted for her. Because I’ve always believed in Indigo Bloom. I’ve always seen her talent and strength, and I’m excited she’s finally giving everyone else the chance to see it too.
“Let me know if there’s anything the guys or I can do to help.” I’d do anything for her. Anything.
“Thanks, babe.” She kisses me softly before curling back into my side, her head on my chest. We settle into silence again, both of us lost in our own heads, but at least we’re lost together.
The warmth of her body against mine chases away the chill of tonight’s loss, the icy grip of the team’s expectations, as well as my own, and soon my breathing is evening out, matching hers, and everything else fades away.
“Areyou sure you don’t want to stay here while I’m on the road?” I ask Indie for the third time in as many minutes. “There’s plenty of room for you and Lola.”
I don’t know why I’m so nervous to leave her, but my stomach is a tangled mess of knots as I throw my bag in the trunk and prepare to drive her back to her rental.
