Page 55 of Brace and Chase

Before the game starts, some fans notice us and shout our names, wave excitedly, and point us out to their companions.

I follow Nikolay’s lead and wave back but don’t encourage any of them.

The first three shifts of the first period go pretty smoothly. Neither team scores, but we hold our own. But fifteen minutes in, disaster strikes.

They get two goals in, taking advantage of the fact that a player fell down on his own, and then winning a battle by the boards against another player. The first was Pool, and the other Wills. Both are playing with different guys tonight because of our stupid asses.

We each fill pages with things to tell the team if we get the chance, and Laney looks like his head is about to explode when we come into the locker room a minute after the first intermission starts, but his face relaxes a fraction when Nikolay holds up the pages.

The head coach simply nods and stands back.

Then it’s him and me, talking to the team, telling them all the ugly truths of what we saw during the first period. We each take a turn talking to one of the displaced groups of defensemen, giving them tips on New York’s players and basically word-vomiting all over them.

There’s no way of knowing if they’ll retain any of it, butas I stand in the middle of the room and watch them walk out to start the next period, I feel just slightly better than I did before.

“They did good,”I say, my voice scratchy.

It’s an understatement. New York scoredagainas soon as the second period started and I feared that might demoralize our guys beyond repair, but they rallied.

With ten seconds left in the game we’re winning five to three, and I’m no longer happy.

Not the way I was when they scored each and every goal. I even high-fived Nikolay and let myself smile at him.

Now though?—

A hand on my thigh stops my thoughts in their tracks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he tells me softly. Tentatively, like I’m made of glass and he’s scared of breaking me into a million pieces.

When it comes to him, I might as well be.

But this . . .

“Oh, really? Then what am I thinking?” I ask without looking at him. If I do then he might see too much of what I’m feeling—’cause there’s a lot going on.

“I know because I’m thinking the same thing,” he drawls, and his hand—which isstill resting on my thigh—squeezes my leg gently.

I don’t know whether he does this with all of histeammates, but if he does then someone needs to talk to him about boundaries.

“They won without us out there with them, which could be interpreted as they don’t really need us. Which means our spots on the team could be in jeopardypermanently.”

Well, he hit the nail on the head.

“I could never play again,” I whisper, my throat closing at the thought.

How is it that less than a year ago I was absolutely certain that retiring was the right thing to do for me, but now that it’s a possibility again, it fills me with terror?

Where’s a world-class therapist when you need one?

“You will, though.” The conviction in his voice has me finally looking over at him.

“How do you know?”

“Because they won because we gave them the confidence. We went into the locker room and showed them everything they did wrong, yes, but we also gave them ways to fix it and beat them back.And they did.” I can only shake my head and look away. He growls and pulls his hand back. I miss it instantly. “You’re letting fear get to you, and I won’t let you do that to yourself. I know Laney better than most, and I know he’s well aware of what we did for the team tonight. You have to believe me, because when you do get back on the ice, I’m going to be right there with you.”

TWENTY

SANTA

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