Page 20 of Defensive Zone

“Wanna go, Reid?” Eklund taunts, shoving me with his shoulder. “When you gonna fight me?”

“You know I don’t fight,” I mutter without tearing my eyes off the puck.

“Shame. You are a big guy, it would be fun, no? Your brother always likes to fight me.”

I ignore him. This isn’t the first time someone tries to provoke me. Eklund is a big bruiser of a D-man. He’s known for his taunts, and he’s been trying to get me to fight with him since we first played against each other years ago. But he’s shit out ofluck because, despite my size, I’m not one who drops the gloves. That’s more my brother Brody’s specialty.

I tune out the Swede’s taunts and focus on helping Elliot, who’s currently trying to protect the net with everything he’s got, dashing from side to side, creating rebounds that Vancouver snaps up easily. There are players surrounding him, limiting his ability to move with ease. The puck lands on their left winger’s stick, and I have to make a split-second decision. I dive in front of the net, blocking the shot, and the puck bounces off my shin pad.

Fuck, I’m going to feel that later, but it’s the price to pay to stop them from scoring a goal.

Thankfully, the rebound lands on Jackson’s stick, and he skates off into the offensive zone.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Elliot shouts as I jump back onto my skates with a wince.

“You good?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He nods, his eyes hyperfocused on the action further down the ice. “That was crazy busy. I was like, ahh, get away from me!”

Heading toward the blue line, I groan under my breath at the dull pain rushing up my leg. It’s not the first time I’ve jumped in front of the puck, and it definitely won’t be the last. As a defenseman, it’s my job to do everything I can to defend the net, and that means using my body as a shield when necessary.

I motion with my glove for a line change. There’s only three minutes left; the boys can cope without me.

“Great job.” Coach Harris slaps me on the shoulder, and I thank him with a quick nod as I squirt water into my mouth.

The third period goes scoreless, so when the buzzer sounds, we win the game 3-1.

After we have our mini post-game celebration in the locker room, we shower, do press, and head back to the hotel. Aswe’re not traveling to Edmonton until the morning, it gives us the night to relax and enjoy our win. There’s a sports bar not far from our hotel where we planned to get food, so once we’ve changed out of our suits, we make the short walk.

“I am starving,” Jonathan Peyton announces as we take over one side of the restaurant.

“You’re always starving,” Kendrick replies with a chuckle.

“What can I say?” Peyton lifts his T-shirt to show off his abs. “It’s a hungry job to look this good.”

Elliot lifts up his own T-shirt to his chin, flashing his bare chest. “Mine are better.”

“Elliot, put your nipples away and sit down,” Ethan grumbles, sounding like a tired dad. He spent the entire walk from the hotel stopping Elliot from stepping out into the road because he was too busy talking to pay attention to where he was going.

With an exasperated sigh, Elliot does as he’s told and the noise in the restaurant increases as we all sit down and start talking. We order, and soon the table is filled with food. I chat with Jackson on my left and Ethan on my right as we dig in.

“Didn’t Carter play today?” Ethan asks, motioning to the TV mounted on the top of the bar showing highlights from Carter’s game earlier today against New York.

My eyes are glued to the screen as Carter gets into position, and when the ball is in play, he gets past the blockers easily, but as he goes to tackle New York’s quarterback, he dodges Carter so gracefully, like he’s a fucking ballerina. Carter falls to the ground, and before he can get up, the quarterback throws the ball down the field to his receiver. Denver’s defense is scattered all over the place, pretty much handing New York the touchdown.

I can’t do anything except watch as my best friend makes his way off the field, his head dropping in defeat. Subtitlesappear on the screen, catching my attention, as one of the commentators says, “I think we can all agree that Carter Lockwood won’t be receiving the award for Defensive Player of the Year again this year. What a terrible season he’s having.”

My stomach drops. Terrible is the understatement of the year. It’s his worst season to date.

No matter how much it feels like being punched in the gut repeatedly with an iron fist, I need to stay strong.

He’ll overcome this. He’s an incredible player. This season is just a fluke. When August comes around, this poor performance season will be a distant memory, and he’ll go back to owning the gridiron.

My attention snags to my phone as it vibrates against the wooden table, Carter’s name flashing on the screen. A few months ago, I would have answered the second it started ringing without hesitation, regardless of being out with the guys. We would text nonstop, morning, noon, and night, but since I left Denver at the end of July, I’ve kept my promise to myself.

It’s hard. Really fucking hard. But with time, I know I’ll be able to be the friend he deserves without my feelings getting involved and fucking everything up.

I’m sure he’s noticed the distance between us, too. Our text thread has become almost one-sided. Our daily phone calls have become weekly, and I can’t remember the last time we spoke on FaceTime. I’m running out of excuses, though, and I know I’m going to have to face the music soon enough, especially when Carter’s season ends next month and he makes his way to Chicago, like he’s always done.

---