Page 25 of Body Check

It’s what I think about when I roll out of bed.

It’s what I think about when I’m in the gym, pumping iron three times my weight.

It’s what I think about when I’m in the shower, rinsing away the sweat and exhaustion after pushing myself to the brink each and every day, worry always lingering in the back of my head on thosewhat-ifs.

Thosewhat-ifs, more than anything, bring the anxiety swiftly back.

I shove the depressing thought away ruthlessly, but it’s poignant enough to ruin my mood and erase the fake-it-for-TV smile on my face. “Any hockey player will be able to read between the skates—I’m no exception.” It’s a complete brush-off response, but I wave at the camera like I’m the goddamned king of England and back up out of the frame. “You good with all that?” I ask Fillmore, hoping he won’t need more from me. “Don’t have time for Celine Dion chitchat tonight.”

By some twist of fate, he gives me a double thumbs-up and motions me into the locker room as though I’ve been dismissed.

I’ll take the dismissal—it beats letting the darkness drag me under, the way it’s done for the last year. It creeps into my chest, spiraling to my extremities like an infection running through my veins, paralyzing in its toxicity.

Deep breaths, man.

A hand claps down on my shoulder. “Want to grab celebratory wings and beer with the guys?”

I glance back at Harrison. “It’s not really a celebration when the opposing team played it safe and kept their first line off the ice. We both know you let that last snipe in.”

“I felt bad. Their rookies were slow as hell.” His mouth quirks up. “I sure as fuck won’t be lenient the next time we see them. Let’s just say that I did it for rookie encouragement.”

“What a giver,” I drawl, cracking a grin as the pressure eases off my chest.

“My girl tells me the same thing in bed.” With a wink, he steers me toward his stall with a hand to my shoulder, so he can change out of his gear and into street clothes. “I’m hoping she’ll be saying the same thing when I pop the question.”

The question.

I blink. Then blink again. “Holy shit, man, you finally proposing? Only took you what . . . like five years?”

Harrison grunts, flips me the bird, then draws a black sweater over his head. “Somewhere around there. We’ve just been enjoying life.”

It took me less than three to propose and marry Holly. We got married during my first season with the Bruins—a small, intimate wedding with just my mom, her grandmother and younger brother, and a select handful of friends present. We did it here in Boston, near the harbor with the lights from the ships twinkling a stone’s throw away, and a tepid fall breeze teasing the strands of her blond hair.

Our wedding was beautiful. Elegant. Just like her.

Out of habit, I look at my left hand. It’s unadorned, as it’s been for months now, my platinum wedding band tucked away in a safe inside my condo. Balling my hand into a fist, I shake it out. Sometimes, in my weak moments, I can still feel Holly slipping the ring onto my finger. Can still see the way she smiled brightly, and whispered fervently, “Always you, Jackson.”

Fuck me.

I brush aside my suit jacket, then slip my hand back into my pants pocket as I yank my head out of the past. “She’ll say yes. Charlie loves you.”

The goalie laughs. “Of course she’ll say yes. Soulmates, man.” He steps into a pair of black dress shoes, then hauls his big-ass duffel over his shoulder. “Anyway, you coming with us? The guys want wings, and I’m in the mood to play some darts and kick more ass than I already have tonight.”

“If Charlie tells you to screw off when you get on one knee, it’s because your ego is the size of Texas.”

“So’s my dick.”

I roll my eyes. “Fat and squat, then? Lucky lady.”

“What’s fat and squat?” Hunt asks as he approaches us, his duffel—like Harrison’s—hiked over one shoulder.

“Harrison’s dick.”

Hunt grins wickedly. “You in the fat-and-squat-cock club, buddy?” He lifts a hand, palm out. “Give it, here, my man. It’s a party of one—you’re the first to join.”

Harrison throws out a fist and punches our center in the arm. “Asshole.”

The two bicker like an old married couple while we head for the bus parked outside of Bridgestone Arena. We all pile in, one after another, and I choose an empty seat toward the front. Stripping off my jacket, I lay it across my lap and watch as my guys file in past my row.

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