Page 25 of The Blame Game

Hell, the ache that settled in his lower back standing here told him that.

Matty danced by, doing his usual pre-game routine of shaking his ass to the beat of the music on Nico’s playlist. Dom reached out, reflexively smacking it, then returned to his taping job, glad Matty was here tonight.

It was always weird when Matty was out for games. He’d been pretty healthy and blessed to avoid major injuries so it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it left Dom feeling off-kilter.

Dom already felt like everything in his life was upside down. He didn’t need any more changes right now.

He finished wrapping his sticks, leaning one against the wall near his stall and slotting the extras into the rack in the hall outside of the dressing room ready for Pete—their head equipment manager—to hand over in case he broke one mid-game.

Back at his stall, Dom dressed slowly and carefully, noticing the texture of his gear. The soft, slipperiness of his base layer, the glide of the laces against his fingers, the stiffness of the logo on his jersey when he settled it over his shoulders.

His own version of mindfulness and centering himself in the moment.

After, head bowed, he sat in his stall, eyes closed, visualizing the game ahead. The shick of his blades cutting through the ice, the solid thwack of the puck against his blade, the vibration of the stick traveling up his arms as he let the disc fly.

Dimly, Dom heard someone call out the time and he took a deep breath and then another.

He opened his eyes, rose to his feet, then strode toward the exit where guys were lining up. He tapped his teammates on the shin as they went past, wishing them a good game and getting glove taps to the chest in response.

Matty leaned in, doing their pre-game handshake, but when Dom glanced up, Matty met his gaze, brown eyes worried.

“Hey,” he said in a low tone. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dom replied automatically but when Matty let out a heavy sigh, he winced at the look on his face. Matty had one eyebrow lifted, his expression dubious, clearly disappointed in Dom for not being honest.

“No. That’s not true,” Dom admitted. “Talk after?”

Matty nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

But when Matty went to continue their handshake and walk away, Dom held on.

“Can we start this again?” he asked because he felt off now, out of sync, their flow interrupted.

“Yeah.” Matty gave him a small smile. “’Course we can.”

Matty was a sweetheart. Always willing to give everyone whatever they needed. God, sometimes Dom wondered if he deserved his friendship at all.

Dom’s throat felt a little thick as they started their routine from the beginning, moving through the handshake and chest bump fluidly until the knotted tension inside Dom’s gut eased.

Warmups settled him back into his normal routine and by the time the game started, he felt like himself again.

Dom lost himself in the game’s rhythm. The sounds, the smells, the feel of it all. Despite the lack of sleep and the strange day, he managed an assist in the second period and won enough faceoffs that he felt like he’d contributed.

After the game was over, he knelt on the ice by the door to the tunnel, bending to press his lips to the cold surface.

The routine had started in LA after his third round, game-seven OT goal in the playoffs. It had been one of those highlight worthy goals, a fast breakaway, knifing through their opponents like they weren’t even there, a hard shot into the net through a screen of players, missing the goalie’s shoulder by a centimeter and landing in the back of the net like Dom had hand-delivered it.

He’d kissed the ice after because at that moment he’d burned with his love of the game, loved how high he was flying on the win, loved his team, loved everything about the sport right down to the ice beneath his skates.

He’d knelt and pressed his lips to that ice to give honor to the fickle and capricious hockey gods who’d given him everything he’d ever dreamed of.

And every game after that, win or lose, he’d continued to do it. Because now he risked their wrath if he stopped.

Lately he’d started wondering if the charm had worn off. If he’d lost their favor.

Tonight, Dom’s back still ached as he walked into the dressing room, but he was flushed and pleased about the 3-2 win they’d squeaked in over Colorado tonight. Relieved that he’d been a part of it.

“Nice job, boys!” Dustin grinned as the team stripped out of their gear. “That one was down to the wire but I’m proud of the way you all kept battling tonight. Great goal there in the first, Stokes!”

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