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The next ninety seconds are agony as we fight off the Grizzlies, a man down, laying our bodies on the line, blocking shots, and cutting off shooting lanes. Finally, the buzzer sounds and we win the game two-one. I look into the crowd of Boston fans and see one kid, maybe about ten years old, crying his eyes out because his team lost.
I must be a terrible person because seeing Boston fans—kids or not—in tears makes me deliriously happy.
Back in the dressing room, the guys are euphoric. We can enjoy this win, but it's back to business tomorrow, planning our attack for game six. In a best of seven series, the fourth win is always the hardest to get. But we just have to win one out of the next two games to do it, and move on to the next round.
I stay in the shower longer than I should, hoping to miss the reporters and locker room scrums. The hot water cascades down my back, melting away some stress I've been carrying. I'm happy we won, but a part of me is still fucked up about Em.
I'm worried about her.
Randy is a psycho. He still hasn't been caught. The police may not have proven it yet, but I know he is responsible for the break-in and that fucked up flower delivery. Every time I think about that sick fuck on the loose, creeping around like a cockroach, it makes my blood run cold. If anything ever happened to Em—I can't even fathom it.
My phone pings as I'm leaving the shower.
Em: Holy crap, superstar, you take long-ass showers. Are you rubbing one out?
Em: Reporters are gone. The team is out getting food while everything is getting packed up for our flight. Take your time. I'll be with Holly and Luke.
I chuckle at Em's text and send her a quick one back. Then I dress quickly, gather up all my shit, and head out to meet everyone before we fly home.
??????
Game six starts with a boom. Luke scores the first goal to get the team fired up. We want this win so bad we can taste it.
But—and there is always a but—Boston ties things up on a powerplay and then takes the lead on another. After the third goal, all the air is sucked out of our bench.
We make a push in the third period to crawl back within one goal, but six seconds after we pull LaRoux for the extra man, March steals the puck in the neutral zone and ices the game.
We are going to game seven.
We need to have short memories and forget about the opportunity we just squandered on home ice. It's win or go home in Boston, and this group of guys wants to win. We just need to get our shit together. Our entire season rests on the outcome of one game.
Holly and Em go home before Luke and me. The media stayed late to dissect the game and ask their usual stupid questions. I try my best not to snap when a reporter asks if I thought the game was a wasted opportunity.
"Get real," I cut the reporter off. "We knew we had an opportunity to win the series tonight. We did our best, and it wasn't good enough. We'll make sure our best is better for game seven."
I know my answers are short and somewhat rude, but I just want to go home and start preparing for the biggest game of my career.
I want to be with Em.
By the time I reach the condo, I'm exhausted, and instead of taking the elevator up to Luke's, I head straight to Holly and Em's. I'm annoyed when I turn the knob and find it unlocked. There is a fucking psycho trying to break into Em's apartment, and she is leaving the door open for him to come right in?
Peels of female laughter greet me when I walk into the room. Em and Tyra are on the couch, glasses of wine in hand.
"Hey, big guy," Tyra smiles, jumping up from the couch to hug me. "Sorry about the game. You'll get 'em in Boston."
"Damn straight, we will," Em growls. I love it when she gets into the game. It's hot.
"What brings you here? I thought you were filming tonight,” I say.
"I was," Tyra answers. "We finished early, and I wanted to update you guys. Avery told me about the attempted break-in, and I agree. I think it was Randy."
This isn't new information, so I nod, waiting for Tyra to continue.
"Randy is still trying to contact me. He doesn't seem to realize that he's going to jail. He thinks he can smooth things over with me and still work in Hollywood. Or at least continue on as my agent. He's delusional." Tyra's worried glance moves between Em and me.
"I've hired private investigators to try and locate him. His calls are definitely coming from the city, but we can't narrow it down enough to locate him." Tyra mentions something about cell towers and tracking, but I don't understand how that shit works. It's her next words that grab my attention. "Yesterday, he sent me a package with nude pictures of me with my ex and a note asking for money."
"What?" I choke in outrage. This guy is literally the scum of the earth. If I knew where he was, I'd go to prison because I'd murder him with my bare hands. Or decapitate him with my hockey stick. "How much did he ask for?"
