Page 20 of Wrong Score

She might be capable of taking care of herself, but as long as she's traveling with my team, it's my responsibility to make sure that everyone gets back home safe, and that includes getting back to the hotel.

Unknown number: We're going to head down to the media room soon. – Bex

Rowan: I'm already down here. See you in a bit.

My shoulders relax when her text comes through.

She must be okay if she's texting me. That's a good sign.

Whatever this is with Rowan, it needs to end. It's becoming too complicated, and even if I could get past her career choice, collecting dirt on my players, and writing reviews about me as a coach, it would never work.

In the end, I'll do what I always do.

I'll choose hockey, and she'll end up broken-hearted.

Chapter Seven

Rowan

The Hawkeyes just finished up game three tonight, a 4-2 win over North Carolina, and tomorrow morning we get on a plane and head home.

I take a sip of my water, trying to focus on the conversation around me instead of the fact that it seems as if Bex has done everything in his power to avoid me the last few days out on the road. We haven't spoken about the kiss we shared on our first flight out here, and I'm content to pretend it never happened, but the tension between us seems to crackle whenever our eyes meet and it’s hard to ignore.

Sitting next to Coach Ezra on my right, I listen in as he tells a funny story to a small group of players all sitting at one end of a large table at the restaurant after the game, when I noticed a commotion near the restaurant's entrance. A family of five has just walked in. The father steps forward to reserve a table while the mother tries to corral three energetic boys, wearing North Carolina jerseys, all sporting well fitting youth sizes except the youngest who’s sporting a bright blue cast on his right arm and sporting a jersey that looks like his father should be wearing it.

It hangs down almost to his ankles and his mom bends down to roll up the arms for what I imagine she’s done a dozen times already if they came to the game tonight.

As the hostess leads them to their table, the boys' excited chatter grows louder. Suddenly, the youngest lets out a high-pitched squeal. "Mom! Dad! Look! It's Townsend!"

The parents try to shush their son, looking embarrassed, but it's too late. The entire restaurant has turned to watch, including our table. I watch, waiting for Bex to react, unsure if the pint sized opposing team fan is about to fire some insults for crushing their team tonight.

But to my surprise, Bex waves at the little boy. The father tells his family to take a seat in the booth in the corner and then he makes a beeline for our table, stacked full of Hawkeyes players. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, Coach Townsend," he says, his voice low. "It's just... my son Corey, is a big fan," he gestures to the boy with the cast, "He broke his arm trying to make a save on his junior hockey team. It would mean the world to him if you’d sign his cast."

As Cory shifts in the booth talking to his mom with big hand gestures, I see the name on the back of the old North Carolina jersey.

Townsend #14

It’s not a surprise to see Townsend Hawkeyes jerseys at home games. In fact, it’s common to see a dozen or so in the crowd. Sometimes a hundred or more when the stadium is packed. But this is the first time I’ve seen a Townsend jersey for a team he used to play for back in his earlier years.

I hold my breath, waiting for Bex to answer. I have no idea what to expect. I hardly see Bex leave the stadium early enough after a game for fans to still be around to ask for an autograph, and he gets in too early for anyone to be waiting for him to show up to the stadium.

He nods, pushing back his chair. "Sure mate," he says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I'd be happy to."

As Bex stands and makes his way over to the family's table with the father, I can't help but stare. This is a side of him I've never seen before – a side I didn't even know existed.

I hear Bex’s voice as he addresses the three wide eyed boys. "I’ve got nieces and nephews about your age back in England."

The boys' faces light up as Bex approaches Cory, their eyes wide with awe. Cory, the boy with the cast, looks like he might faint from excitement. Bex kneels down beside him, bringing himself to eye level with the child.

"So, you're the one making the saves on your team?" Bex asks, his accent somehow softer, less intimidating. Cory nods vigorously, sliding over to give Bex room to sit down on the booth, four deep-him and the boys with wide cheesy grins and their parents smiling as they watch on from the other side. "Let’s see that cast. I think it needs a proper signature, don't you?"

As Bex signs the cast, the other two boys crowd around, each thrusting various items at him – a napkin, a North Carolina cap, even a ketchup-stained menu. To my continued amazement, Bex doesn't rush or show any signs of impatience. He takes his time with each boy, asking their names, listening to their excited chatter about their favorite players and the junior hockey teams they each play on as he signs anything and everything that they ask him to.

I watch, transfixed, as Bex transforms before my eyes. The hard lines of his face soften, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles – real smiles – at the boys' enthusiasm. He laughs at their jokes, nods seriously at their earnest questions about hockey strategy, and even demonstrates a few stick-handling moves using a breadstick as an impromptu hockey stick.

Time seems to stretch as Bex interacts with the family, and the waiter starts to hand us our checks since we've all finished our meals.

The rest of the team went back to their conversations, but I haven’t moved an inch, watching carefully from my seat a few tables away, dumbfounded by the way Bex is with these kids.

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