Page 3 of The Hockey Stud

“I guess you don’t want me to quote some of the other signs then, huh?”

I grunt in response, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Go on, let’s have it.”

"The ones I remember are kind of dirty. Rhodes told me about the one that said, "Dover, I want to ride your stick." And, "I want to slide down your stick.” The last one before I park the car: "I want your stick sliding between my boobs.” I sent security to remove some of the signs. I mean, there are kids in the arena as well." Shaking her head, Rosie says, "They do make me laugh, but I'm also embarrassed for him and the girls."

“Does he say anything about them?” I frown, staring out of the window as we approach our parking bay.

“He ignores it the best he can.” She shrugs and switches off the car. “He has a lot of attention on him now that he’s become a star player. Everyone wants a piece of him, and I think he’s overwhelmed. He hides it well. But I don’t know. Maybe you can talk to him about it.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Levi, I’m serious. I don’t think he’s handling it all that well.”

I eye her to make sure she isn’t trying to set me up with him and realize she is serious. “I’m not sure what help I can be. He needs to speak with someone who has experienced what he’s going through now.”

“You’re right. But who would that be?”

“Rosie,” I say exasperatedly. “He’s on a team of men who have all been through it.”

“Oh! I’ll ask Rhodes.”

As I make my way toward the gym, a subtle but unmistakable sensation creeps up the back of my neck, a tingling prickle that signals I am being observed. The feeling grows stronger with each step, sharpening my senses and making me acutely aware of my surroundings. I can’t ignore the instinct, so I pause and slowly swivel my head to the right, scanning the area for the source of this attention. That’s when I spot Levi Dodge, casually leaning against a nearby wall as if he had all the time in the world. In his hand, he holds a takeout coffee cup, fingers wrapped around it in a familiar gesture that speaks to his well-known fondness for caffeine. The man truly loves his coffee. It’s almost a defining trait at this point. My gaze lingers on him for a moment, taking in the details of his posture and expression. I study him carefully, searching for any visual signs that he might be in pain from his injury—perhaps a subtle clue that something isn’t one-hundred percent.

He clears his throat, the sound low and deliberate, as if announcing his presence before taking any further action. With measured steps, he slowly makes his way towards me, each movement purposeful and controlled. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, now lock onto mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that is impossible to ignore. There is no doubt that this man is accustomed to being in command; his posture exudes confidence and authority, and it is clear from the slight furrow of his brow that he is not particularly pleased to find me watching him so openly. But that’s his problem, not mine. He can deal with a little scrutiny for once. Despite the undeniable pull I feel towards him—the way my heart seems to skip whenever he’s near—I am growing increasingly frustrated with his constant game of hot and cold. The tension between us is always charged, but he keeps pulling away, letting the difference in our ages become a barrier. I’ve had enough of it at this point.

“You shouldn’t be back at work yet?” I blurt out the moment he comes within earshot, unable to hide the concern in my voice. As he approaches, I notice a slight but unmistakable falter in his step—a brief misstep that betrays how much my words actually affect him, even if he tries to appear unfazed. “A gunshot isn’t something to take lightly,” I add, my tone more insistent, emphasizing the seriousness of his injury and the need for proper recovery.

He regards me with a steady gaze, his expression hardening as his eyes narrow, a subtle sign of both irritation and resilience. “It’s not my first rodeo,” he drawls, his voice carrying a note of weary defiance, as if to remind me that he’s been through situations like this before and knows how to handle himself. After a brief pause, he continues, shifting the focus away from his own condition. “Rosie mentioned you’re having a hard time getting used to the new attention—the press, the fans, all of it. She said it’s not necessarily the same for everyone, and you’re dealing with it in your own way.” His words are measured, suggesting both understanding and a hint of concern for how I’m coping with the sudden change in my life.

I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of it in my chest. “Yeah, it’s really not easy,” I admit, my voice tinged with frustration. “Every now and then, there’s a fan holding up some weird sign during a game, and honestly, it’s just embarrassing. It’s awkward having all those eyes on me for reasons that have nothing to do with how I play. Then there are those so-called fans who only care about getting my autograph on some piece of memorabilia, not because they appreciate what I do, but just so they can turn around and sell it online for a profit. I can usually deal with that by just ignoring them, or sometimes by being a bit of a jerk, but that approach can definitely backfire and make things worse.”

I pause for a moment, feeling the exhaustion settle in. “But what’s really getting to me now is the press. They’re constantly in my face, always wanting a quote or a reaction, never giving me a moment’s peace. I absolutely hate that side of things. It feels like I can’t go anywhere or do anything without someone snapping a picture or recording a video, and then it’s all over social media before I even have a chance to process what happened. There’s just no privacy anymore.” I run a hand through my hair, the gesture betraying how tired and overwhelmed I am by the whole situation.

“Rosie is planning to ask Rhodes to help you and provide guidance as you work through the process. To be honest, I really believe that the publicity team for the Vikings organization should be taking responsibility for supporting you with all of this. It seems they have abandoned you and left you to handle everything on your own, which is unfair.”

His gaze drifts over me, taking in my appearance. His head tilts to the side and he asks, “Are you heading somewhere else?” As though he’s trying to read my expression.

“Golf,” I reply curtly, a frown creasing my forehead, not particularly pleased about Levi’s question. Of course I’m heading out to golf. It’s not every day I wear chinos and a polo shirt. Just thinking about what I’m wearing makes me cringe. I never thought I’d be dressing like my dad.

“I didn’t know you played.”

My eyes narrow intently as I focus on his face, scrutinizing every line and expression for any hint of what he might be thinking. I take a deliberate step closer, closing the distance between us, making my presence impossible to ignore. Despite my approach, Levi remains steadfast, refusing to back down or show any sign of intimidation. He stands his ground with a stubborn resolve.

“If you stopped being an asshole about things, then you might have known that about me,” I retort, my voice edged with frustration and a trace of hurt that I try to mask with bravado. For a moment, I avert my gaze, feeling the tension between us grow heavier. I take a step back, then another, putting some space between us as I try to regain my composure.

“See you around,” I murmur quietly, almost to myself, but loud enough for him to hear.

I know he watches me as I walk away.

I twirl the handle of a golf club between my fingers, feeling the smooth grip as the clubhead rests gently on the immaculate, prestigious green. The sun is shining brightly, casting a warm glow over the course, and a gentle breeze stirs the neatly trimmed grass. I watch as Dario and Madden stand a few feet away, locked in a heated debate about which club would be best suited for this particular shot. Their voices rise and fall, each insisting that their choice is the superior one, referencing things like loft, distance, and wind direction—terms that are still foreign to me.

As someone completely new to golf, I have absolutely no idea what difference any of it would make, so I decide it’s best to keep my mouth shut and simply observe. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling a bit out of place, but trying to look as though I belong. Suddenly, Bradford catches my eye from across the green. He shakes his head with exaggerated exasperation, but there’s a wide, infectious grin on his face that makes it clear he’s enjoying the spectacle. I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, thinking to myself, What the hell am I doing here?

Determined not to let the moment slip away, I step forward and place a golf ball carefully on a bright orange tee, the color standing out vividly against the lush green grass. I clear my throat loudly, hoping to cut through the ongoing argument. “You’re wasting the day…and the good weather,” I call out, my voice carrying across to them and drawing their attention.

Without giving myself time to overthink it, I take a deep breath, line up my shot, and swing the club with as much confidence as I can muster. The club connects with the ball, and I watch, almost in slow motion, as it soars through the air in a perfect arc. My eyes widen in disbelief as the ball lands with a soft thud—right in the hole it was meant for. Or at least, that’s what it looks like from where I’m standing.

Unsure if I can trust my eyes, I quickly snatch the binoculars out of Dario’s hands, bringing them up to my face and focusing on the distant hole. A surge of adrenaline rushes through me as I search for the ball. Of course I can’t see into the hole, but I do spot a guy peering into the hole. He gives me a thumbs up. So the ball is nestled at the bottom of the cup. I can hardly believe it. “Holy shit!” I exclaim, unable to contain my excitement. “I got a hole in one!”