Page 105 of Body Check

“Not a chance.” She smooths my swollen knuckles with her thumb. “But I willabsolutelycome with you later, if you know what I mean.”

My cock stiffens in my slacks. “Tease.”

“Took your mind off the talk, didn’t it?”

She’s right, it did. At least, momentarily, until the lights in the theater dim and my face quite literally makes it on the big screen. It’s jarring to see myself as everyone else does, and not for the first time do I think about the fact that Ilooknormal. And, for the most part, I feel normal, too.

“Tell me your name,” I hear Holly say over the surround-sound speakers, “and two facts about you that fans wouldn’t know.” She’s not visible to the viewers, purposely seated behind the camera, so as to allow me to remain the sole focus of the episode.

Getting Pucked’s season-one finale.

I watch as I fidget in the frame, this big-ass dude constantly fiddling with his Blades ball cap until hethwacksit against his thigh and leaves it dangling from his knee. “I’m Jackson Carter, and I love belting out Celine Dion lyrics with my wife, generally loud enough for our neighbors to come banging on our door at all hours of the night. I, uh, also love hockey.”

It was Holly’s idea to approach Mark Fillmore about the final interview. I’d been hesitant at first, unwilling to even consider the level of vulnerability necessary to do something like this—open my heart and my fears to the public.

I wouldn’t have done it, either, except that my wife had one very good point: “You have a voice, Jackson. Fans adore you and players admire you, and I swear, you have enough trophies under your belt to fill an entire room. Lend that voice to someone who might not have it.”

In the clip, Holly poses the next question: “Why do you love hockey?”

I smooth real-life Holly’s hand flat on my thigh, playing with the same wedding ring I put on her finger almost twelve years ago now. We wed on a different day for the second time around but decided to keep our rings. To the utter surprise of no one, neither of us had thrown them out or sold them to a pawn shop.

It was fate, obviously.

A shooting star that took pity on me and made my wish happen.

“Hockey feeds my soul,” I hear myself respond huskily, “it’s my high. I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs, but for years, hockey has satisfied the adrenaline junkie in me. It was the thing that I did with my dad, who was a military intelligence officer in the Army. He deployed a lot, while I was growing up, but he’d come back home and ask how my skating was doing. The ice allowed me to thrive, it allowed me to grow up and discover the man I was meant to be.”

There’s a small pause in our interview and though the public will never know, thanks to the miracle that is video editing, it was in that moment where Holly held me while I broke. I didn’t shed a single tear, but I broke all the same.

The very next morning, we dressed in the same clothes we’d worn the day before and continued filming like we’d never stopped.

Slowly but surely, the interview continues. Holly’s questions grow more targeted until I’m admitting to what I now realize were the early signs of an addiction to painkillers: “You think you’re invincible on the ice. Every injury can be reset, every lost game can be overturned by one that you win. But when the enemy is what you love, and it’s slowly chipping away at your health, it’s a battle not everyone will win.”

“You won,” Holly says on the screen.

“I only won because someone paved the way before me. She showed me what mattered, what I could lose if I kept going. You don’t mess with my wife when she’s trying to make a point.”

Beside me, Holly squeezes my hand. Almost two years ago, I saw Dr. Mebowitz and it took me an entire year to go back. It took me seeing a future again with Holly, knowing what was at stake, to lead me back to his office.

“Before we cut to a break, I want to ask . . . what are your plans going forward? Do you have any?”

Without TV-me answering, the massive screen goes dark and I heave out a big breath.

Here’s to my five minutes of fame—I much prefer it while wearing hockey gear.

DaSilva comes back on the stage a moment later. He’s ditched his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt. I don’t think it’s my imagination when I hear feminine sighs throughout the room.

He doesn’t pay any of it any attention when he says, “Sorry for cutting that clip short. Looks like you’re just going to have to tune in next week when it airs on Sports 24/7! Shameless advertising? One-hundred-percent, folks. Anyway, we’re going to welcome Jackson Carter to the stage now.”

Just before I stand—and try not to vomit—Holly kisses my cheek. “Knock ’em dead, tiger. I love you.”

I steal a deeper kiss from her mouth. “Love you, too.”

The crowd roars with enthusiasm as I pick my way to the side stairwell and then up onto the stage. A microphone is waiting for me, and I pick it up on the way to meet DaSilva in the middle of the stage, as we rehearsed earlier today.

“Jackson Carter is a legend in the NHL,” DaSilva starts, ambling across the stage as he speaks to the audience. “With one Stanley Cup under his belt from his time with the Boston Bruins, he’s also been the recipient of the Art-Ross and Conn-Smythe awards. He’s played with the Dallas Stars, the Bruins, and the Boston Blades. He comes in ameaslyfourth place in terms of most goals scored during a career with 745 to his name. Don’t worry, no one would dare knock Wayne Gretsky out of the number one seed.” DaSilva chuckles low, and a girl in the front actually presses her hand to her heart.

“Let’s welcome the Badass of Hockey, shall we?”

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