Page 70 of Home Ice

"Aside from drinking way too much?" I chuckle.

"I had way too much to drinking."

I nod. "Other than that, I think you're pretty perfect."

He smiles and tries to kiss me. His lips end up on my nose, and thankfully, he keeps his tongue inside his mouth. "You're so good for me, Jams. You're way more perfecter than me." He closes his eyes and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. "Barrie will love you. I need to tell her how sorry I am and that I'm going to love you. No. I mean that she's going to love you. I mean both." Each word is weaker than the one before until the last one comes out as little more than a whisper. His head rolls onto my shoulder, and he pulls in a long, slow breath. He's asleep.

"Change of plans," I tell the driver. "Just drop us both off at the hotel. I need to help him to his room."

CHAPTER 46

THERE'S NO WAY I'M GOING TO A SPICE GIRLS CONCERT

BRANT

I felt like shit when I woke up this morning and only a little of it was from that damn hangover I should have never allowed myself to get. Lily was in my room last night. Door closed and inches away from my bed. Hell, she fucking stripped me down to my boxer briefs while I sat on the edge of the bed. It would have been so easy to put my arms around her and pull her down on to me. My dick was pleading with me to do it. And the way she was looking at me all night at the bar? I could have convinced her to say yes. But I had to fucking bring up holiday plans and ruin whatever could have happened. My drunk brain wanted her to know that she has a place with us if she wants it. What I did was remind her of her dad.

Christ.

Why couldn't I be the kind of drunk who just keeps his mouth shut? Or the kind who takes the opportunity to do all the things he's been fantasizing about doing to his girlfriend? Or at least the kind who wakes up the next day having forgotten all the stupid shit he did the night before?

I slam my blade, hoping the sharp crack through my arm will focus me. Then I rough the ice of my crease before pressing my palm to each of its corners. It’s a tradition I started as a kid. Gently letting the crease know that I’m here now, and I’m going to protect it. And like every game, I scan the bench for her, knowing she's never there. Elijah is the head trainer. That means he's the one who deals with any issues during the game. She's waiting in the back, probably watching on one of the monitors in the dressing room with the other staff. After a couple of breaths and a few more stretches, I'm ready. I watch Kayden skate a slow circle around center ice before he moves into position for the face-off. He wins it, and my mind snaps to the game.

A few minutes into the second period, I realize this is not going to be my day. Everyone has games like this. Every goalie, every defender, every forward. Minnesota only has eight shots on goal and only three scoring chances out of those eight. Our defense is playing well, but I can't say the same for me.

I'm sluggish. Too slow to react. Too slow to find the puck. Minnesota scored on one of their few scoring chances. That will happen. Every goalie can live with that. My problem is that they just scored another goal on a shot that shouldn't have had a chance. But I couldn't move to close out that side of the net in time. The puck slipped right between my glove and the pipe. This is exactly why I don't drink the night before a game. I thought I learned the lesson the hard way when I was playing in juniors. Now, I'm stuck out here for another thirty-five minutes. I just hope our offense can find a way to pick me up.

We dominate the next few minutes of the game, keeping the puck in the offensive zone for almost the entire time. The boys fire shot after shot, some of them great shots. My opposite number turns each one away, but each one drains a little more energy from Minnesota and their fans until it's so quiet I can't hear anything except the sounds from the other end of the ice. And then it comes. Poppy—the last person anyone would expect—fires a one-timer from the point. Kayden is screening the other goalie, so he doesn't see it until it's too late. By the time he gets his glove up, the puck is already in the back of the net.

"Hell yes!" I pump my fist and scream down to them. Poppy turns and points at me, as if he's telling me he's got my back.

The next few minutes are more of the same, and everyone here knows that we're going to tie the game any moment. But then we turn the puck over at the blue line, and Minnesota charges to our zone. Our defenders backcheck them before they can get off a shot, but they still control the puck. They cycle around the zone, keeping the puck along the boards, drawing us in and passing repeatedly until their center gets open at the face-off dot to my right. We all see it at the same time. The center winds up just as the winger slaps the pass to him.

We're fucked if I can't close out this time. I'm on the opposite side of the net, so I press my left blade into the ice and thrust. Hard. My quads burn from the sudden effort, but once his stick hits the puck, I don't think of anything except the shot. I lunge while making myself as large as possible. The puck saucers closer, and everything stops. It's going to be close. I throw my arm out. It's the only thing I can do. The puck slams against the edge of my blocker and drops straight down onto the ice. I hurry to cover it as the Minnesota players slap and push it toward the net. And then one of them falls.

We're playing a game on ice. We've all fallen so often we don't even think about it. Unless something happens. Like the pop I feel in my extended knee. I swear my heart explodes. I try to fight back the scream, but it comes out anyway. More from frustration and fear than from pain. But I still find the puck and cover it with my body.

Princeling is right there. I'm sure he's waiting for me to smile or brag about the stop I just made. I have no doubt it's one of the best of my career. But is it the one that ends it? When I don't move, his grin vanishes, and he waves the trainer onto the ice. Then he clears the players out of the way. He shoves teammates and opponents until they realize what's going on and skate back to give me room.

As I lie on my side and watch Elijah run onto the ice, I try to practice the mindfulness exercises I've learned over the years. I try to make myself aware of what is happening in my knee so I can describe it. But all I can do is wish it was Lily coming to me instead of him.

Elijah has been my trainer since I was traded to the Sting. He probably knows my body better than anyone at this point, better than even me. But I would feel so much better if she were rushing to my side. Wearing my jersey onto the ice. Even now, thinking about it makes my dick stir. "This is not the time," I whisper to it. "This is my career. That's more important than some girl." But it knows—and so do I—that she's not just some girl.

I shake my head as Elijah and the arena medical staff get to me. He tries to crack a joke. But I lose track of it before he gets to the punchline, and I don't even pretend to laugh. I just close my eyes while they carefully take the pad off that leg. I try to convince myself that this is different. The pop wasn't the same. I didn't have the sudden burst of stabbing pain. My knee doesn't feel limp like a marionette without a puppeteer.

But it was a pop. It might not be the same pain, but it's still burning. And there's no way I'm trusting myself to put any weight on this knee right now. What if this is it? I don't get to end my career on home ice. I don't get to go out on my terms. The thought makes me nauseous.

I slip my mask off as the medical staff slides a board under me. In only a few seconds, they have me lifted onto a stretcher. I look toward the bench. Kayden is standing a few feet away from me. The team captain. My friend. As soon as there's space to get close to me, he skates over. He's the only one on the team who truly knows what I went through to get back. The physical and emotional rebuilding I went through. He was there with me through all of it. Even the times when my fear and frustration told me I was broken and should just retire. He knows exactly what's going through my mind right now.

"This isn't it, Branny." I snort, but he shakes his head. "It's not. You're coming back. You're going to be in net again this year, or I'm going to make you sorry."

"You gonna fuck up my other knee?"

"Four words, my friend: Spice Girls Reunion World Tour."

He slaps me on the shoulder, and I shake my head. "That's five, dumbass." I hold up five fingers, and the crowd thinks I'm waving to them. They all erupt in an ovation. The players standing in front of both benches clap their sticks against the ice. I turn it into a wave just so I don't let them all down.

"Spice Girls is a collective noun." The medical staff is wheeling me toward the entrance at the end of the ice now. Kayden is skating beside me, and other teammates are coming to pat my arms. A few Minnesota players do too. This is one of the things I've always loved most about hockey. We can spend sixty minutes on the ice hating each other, but the instant we're off the ice or one of us is injured, we're a family. Well, almost all of us. I can't imagine Asher Sorenson being concerned with anyone except himself. "Collective nouns are considered one word," Kayden continues. "So it's really four words."

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