Page 16 of Win Big

The best place to take a shot is in the shin pad or the pants, or maybe the outside of the skate where there’s more protection. But you can’t always control that, and tonight the puck hit me right below the shin pad and just to the side of the tongue of my skate. My leg went numb right away, so I kept playing. It didn’t seem bad. Now it’s hurting like a motherfucker. Teddy, our head trainer, drags me, hobbling, into the training room. Fuck, putting weight on my leg kills.

Teddy examines first my shoulder and hip, then my lower leg. It’s swelling up and red, but he pokes, and moves my foot around, and he’s sure nothing’s broken. He slaps an ice pack on it and I lay on an exam table for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, my left leg bent, my right straight out with the ice pack on it.

I don’t mind the pain. I mean, I’m not a masochist. I don’t think I am anyway. I don’tenjoyit. But I do kind of relish it... like I deserve it.

I let my mind wander while I lay there and as often happens lately, it goes to Everly Wynn.

Standing with her in the media room last week, staring at her mouth, breathing in her scent, that spicy, sexy scent I rememberso well from my bed New Year’s Eve... damn. She was pissed that I was trying to get out of the banquet. It’s not that I don’t want to participate (although dressing in a tux and serving food to rich fans isn’t high on my list of fav activities), but I can’t tell her what my conflict is.

I don’t talk about Heather and Owen to my friends. I can’t.

But I wished I could tell Everly, so she’d understand and not think I’m an asshole.

Why the hell do I care what she thinks about me? I’ve only evertriedto be an asshole around her. I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me.

I wanted to put my hands on her. I wanted to press her back against the wall and kiss the breath out of her. Like we did that night. Kissing her was... I don’t even know the words. Intense. Heart-stopping. Breath stealing. Soul burning.

There’s something about her that makes me crazy.

Dave Martin, our coach, walks by. “How you doing, Wyatt?”

“Good.” I lift my head and give him a thumbs-up.

“We’ve talked about blocking shots.”

“Yeah.”

“That was a good one. But we don’t want you hurt.”

“Me either.” I grin. “I’m okay.”

He nods and continues on.

I like playing for Coach. Last year, when I started playing with the Condors, Joe Daneck was our coach. Nice guy, but out of his depth trying to build a team with the mishmash of players we had. No wonder they kept losing. Then Théo took over managing the team and promoted Dave from assistant coach to head coach, and things are way better. I’m developing an intense loyalty to the guy, as are the other players. He’s smart and knowledgeable, tough and fair. He’s passionate about the game and that rubs off on the rest of us.

My leg feels better with the ice on it. Maybe I can go home now. I don’t mind a little pain, but I don’t want to be injured either. I need to be playing. The thought of sitting around doing nothing for weeks or longer scares the shit out of me. I take a deep breath and push that thought aside.

Thinking of Everly Wynn is stupid, but at least it doesn’t give me a panic attack.

“How are you doing?” Teddy returns after giving some attention to our young new star, Rintala, whose hand got slashed in the third. Luckily, nothing’s broken.

“Good. Can I go now?”

He lifts the ice pack. “Okay. Keep icing it. You know the drill. We’ll look at it again tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s an optional skate. Guess I’ll be here, but we’ll see about the skating.

I go shower and change. The room’s pretty much cleared out now. Saturday night, lots of guys are heading out on the town. When I check my phone, I have a couple of texts from Jabber and Bergie telling me what club they’re at.

I just want to go home. Take some Advil, prop my leg up, and maybe drink a beer.

I cruise home along Pacific Avenue, through Venice Beach, which is lively at this hour on a Saturday night, and into Marina del Rey, then turn off the dark side street to my place to park in the tiny garage that barely fits my SUV. I enter up the stairs into a mudroom, where I hang my keys, then the kitchen of my unit. I’d already loosened my tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt on the drive home. I head straight to the fridge and grab a cold beer, then limp over to my balcony.

The ocean’s vast and obscure, the sky above it streaky navy and purple clouds, a lifeguard tower pale against the dark gold sand.

Voices carry on the cool night breeze, female voices laughing, low chatter, then I distinctly hear the word “pegging.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” I speak loudly enough for them to hear me on the terrace below. My main floor balcony isn’t at the same level as Théo’s terrace. “I can’t be overhearing shit like that.”

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