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“Really?” He arches a skeptical brow.
“No. I’m speechless because I just now realized I’ve spent years setting the wrong example. And because that’s the most words I’ve heard you string together without saying dick.” I bite the corner of my lip to temper my grin, hoping that gesture will lighten things up since I know serious Tripp is prone to getting skittish, and I don’t want him to go anywhere.
He grabs a throw pillow and hucks it at me. “Dick.”
“Uh, you ruined it.”
“Not possible. Everything is so much better when dicks are involved.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
He drops to the floor and crawls between my legs, careful not to nudge the one propped on the coffee table, smiling up at me with wicked intent as he reaches for the waistband of my shorts. “Dessert.”
***
“Watch the fast break. Come out of the crease, not too far. He’s gonna fake right. He’s gonna fake right. Nice stop.” I punch the air.
We’re tied in the last period of the first game I’m missing—everyone is stepping up to help give Gauthier the best chance of success—and while he’s let one get past him, he’s holding his own. It helps that our forward line is one of the best in the league, keeping the pressure on the other end of the rink. It’s a small comfort under the circumstances, especially since I’m not on the bench with them.
I get why coach wants me to lay low—speculation about my injury is just that—whereas confirmation could put a target on what people perceive as my weak side. But the inability to talk to Gauthier during the game puts us at a disadvantage. Even though it’s still early in the season, losses can add up. And though I meant what I said about Gauthier being capable, if we end up falling behind that will be on me.
“Ice.” Tripp hovers over me with the pack, and I reluctantly lift my ankle off the cushion on the coffee table so he can wrap the cold pack around it. It’s the fourth time he’s issued this order today, and while I want to appreciate it, I find myself being bothered.
“I thought you said you were a horrible caregiver?”
He flicks his head, clearing the emerald strands of hair from his eyes in a way that’s both casual and sexy as he reaches for his phone. “Turns out it’s not so hard when you program reminders in the calendar.”
“You actually put reminders in there to take care of me?”
“Seemed like the best way to make sure I didn’t fuck up.” He taps away at the screen and sets his phone by my foot so I can see the numbers tick down before joining me on the couch. “Twenty minutes.”
I grunt, not because the ice is cold, but because everything feels wrong. Being here while my team is gone. Being confined to the couch. Being taken care of. I guess if anyone has to do it, I’m glad it’s Tripp, because he’s got a way of putting me at ease when I’m mentally or emotionally uncomfortable. But right now, even though he’s going out of his way to help me, I’m finding it hard to feel grateful. Or calm.
“He’s going around back. He’s shooting. Watch the ricochet.”
“You know he can’t hear you, right?” Tripp says as Gauthier clears the puck.
I lift my shoulder, keeping my eyes glued to the TV as Niko takes the puck across center ice, passing it to Justus, who skates behind the net and fires off a rapid pass to Luca. The tiny opening Luca had closes as soon as the puck hits his stick, so he passes it off and skates around two defensemen, trying to put himself in position to receive another pass and take a clean shot.
One of the defenders gets a lucky break—the puck hits his skate so the pass to Luca goes off course—rocketing back towards our goal. Bodies scramble to chase it down, and unfortunately the two closest ones belong to the forwards on the opposing team. They pass it back and forth as they drive toward Gauthier, leaving him in a situation where he can’t challenge one without giving the other what amounts to a free shot. All he can do is lurk in the goal and hope his reflexes are fast enough to stop the shot that eventually comes.
They aren’t.
Lights flash above the goal as the puck hits the back of the net, and I try to talk him down from hundreds of miles away. “Shake it off. You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”
“Why not?” Tripp asks. “The last time he moved out of the circle thingy and blocked the shot. Why didn’t he do it again?”
I take the ice pack off and toss it on the floor with ten minutes left on the timer. “Last time was a one-on-one. This time if he came out of the circle to take on the guy with the puck, he’d be leaving the other guy wide open. That’s a guaranteed goal. By staying close to the net, he had a fifty-fifty chance of being in the right spot to stop whoever ultimately took the shot.”
“That’s not what the TV’s saying.”
I turn the volume up so I can hear the commentators. “You’re right John. Two on one is hard to defend, but if Gauthier had drifted slightly left to take on Dubois, he could’ve blocked the pass to Saunders, which would’ve bought time for his defense to get back in position. Tremblay would’ve made that play.”
“Blowhards,” I mumble under my breath. “Neither of those two played goalie. They have no idea what they’re talking about. Just stirring up shit.”
“The Bulldogs could really be in a tight spot without Tremblay,” the commentator says. “We still don’t know what’s keeping him off the ice, and if the team falls too far out of the lead before his return, they won’t make the playoffs.”
I grab the remote and hit the mute button, tossing it on the table in disgust and reaching for my phone.
