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“Yes, Mom. I trust my gut and my gut says she’s the one. Plus, Bree actually liked her. Bree hasn’t liked any of the other potential nannies. That’s a sign.”
“I hope it works out for you.”
No more talking happens during warmups. Not by me, at least. Soon, I’m standing on the ice and some chick belts out the national anthem. We’re playing the Portland Vikings tonight. For the briefest of moments, I think about Deanna and wish I had time to ask her how things went. She planned to stop by her father’s after work today, but I didn’t get the chance to text her and check in. I mentally berate myself for thinking of her right now. The puck is about to drop and I’m thinking about a woman?
What the hell?
Somehow, I manage to snag the puck and send it backward toward Sergey Orlovsky. Game on. My head is stuffed with the occasional distracting thought of Deanna. There’s a frustration within me from the very beginning that is unhelpful on all accounts. I turnover the puck, which lands on the stick of Hudson King. He battles his way down the ice and scores on Liam Irving.
Down one-zero.
The game continues to fall apart. Passes don’t make it to their intended target. Penalties are taken too often, though I must say I don’t find myself in the penalty box once. The usual chemistry between the Kessy twins is missing completely. People are out of position far too many times than what’s good for us.
At the end of the second, we’re down six to zero. I almost wonder if I’ve cursed the team because I thought about Deanna just before the game. That’s the only change. My hands clasp together and I squeeze, my knuckles crunching together. Coach Mike talks, but it all goes in one ear and floats out the other.
My eyes scan the room, full of tired players from chasing the puck so often tonight. Collin Kessy hunches over, his head between his knees, and he rocks. Cal’s worried eyes flick back and forth between Collin and Coach. Is Collin experiencing another panic attack? In the middle of a game? Is that normal for him?
I’m shit on the ice tonight, but that doesn’t mean I need to be shit off the ice. I stand, walk over to Collin, and tap his shoulder. He glances up at me with wide, panicked eyes.
Keeping my voice low, I say, “Let’s go.” To Cal, I add, “If Coach asks, I’m calming him down.”
They both surprise me. Last time, they didn’t want my help at all. Now, Cal nods and Collin doesn’t hesitate to stand and follow me out of the locker room. We step just outside. I find the soccer ball from earlier. I toss it to him and he tosses it back, but with much more force than I tossed it to him. We go back and forth in silence.
“Is it helping?”
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, thanks.”
He doesn’t ask to go back in, so I assume he isn’t quite ready.
“This is embarrassing,” he mutters.
“Why?”
“They don’t usually happen during a game. The guys probably know.”
“I doubt that. Even if they did, it doesn’t matter.”
The ball returns to me extra hard. “Why are you being so nice?”
“Am I not usually?”
He shrugs. “Not so talkative and friendly, I guess.”
And doesn’t that make me feel even more like shit. Why am I captain again? Am I the most self-centered hockey player in the league? How’d this happen?
Coach peeks his head out and looks at Collin. “You good, son?”
“Yeah.”
“You two get back in here for a few minutes then.”
The third period struggles on, Collin’s words also stuck in my head now. Savage seems to be the only one working his ass off and it’s paying off. Miraculously, no more goals are scored against us. I’m in a grouchy mood when the game ends. All I want is to go home, climb into bed, and sleep it off.
Deanna’s car is in my driveway. I’m tired and moody as hell; not sure if I can, or want to, deal with her. Getting our asses handed to us will do that. Otis greets me at the door with his entire body wiggling with excitement. I rub his head, wondering where Deanna is.
I find her asleep on the couch with a spiral notebook on her chest and a stack of them on my coffee table. I pick up the notebook on her chest. The handwriting is girly, but easy to read. Fuck, no wonder she came over. It looks like her mother’s diary or something. My blood boils because ninety percent of it is full of complaints about Deanna. I sit on the floor and read with Otis’s head on my leg.
I still don’t understand why Mom left it to her. It should have been mine. Deanna has never been responsible enough to take care of anything. Thank goodness she hasn’t given me any grandkids. I’d probably be raising them.
