Page 207 of Pucking Around

“Yeah?”

“You deserve every good thing in life. Don’t wait for it to come to you. Go out and get it.”

Tears sting my eyes again. “I’m buying you a ticket. You’re coming home.”

“I’m too busy.”

“You’re always too busy. You’re coming anyway.”

“If I come home, I may never leave again,” she admits, her own voice catching now.

“Good,” I say on a breath. “Bye, Amy.”

“Bye, Jake. Skate well tonight. And stay safe.”

Stay safe.

Easier said than done when you play professional hockey. There’s a risk of injury with every practice, every game. As a D-man, I make the hits more than I take them, but either way involves potential harm. And with Brett Marchand on the ice tonight, no one is safe.

90

The puck drops in thirty minutes, and it’s all I can do to keep my shit together. My palms feel clammy as my pulse hums erratically. The sound echoes in my ears as I stand in this empty hallway.

Technically, I’m not the problem. It’s fucking Jake. I can’t stand watching him play Toronto. In years past, I just skipped those games. Pretending it’s not happening isn’t an option tonight, because now I’m his damn equipment manager. I have to be here. I have to do my job.

I’ve already arranged it with Jerry that he’s taking point on the bench tonight. I may have to be in the barn, but I can’t be down on that ice. No, I’ll be the runner tonight. I’ll just stay busy in the locker room and avoid looking at the TVs.

“Yo, Caleb! Need some black two-inch, man. Can you help me out?” The new guy Nate comes jogging over. He’s a good kid with a clear love of hockey, but he’s only just learning the ropes of a busy game day routine.

My knee twinges as I crouch down, digging in the box at my feet. Cursing, I snatch up a handful of black two-inch stick tape rolls, handing them off to Nate.

“Cool. Thanks, man.”

“Tell Jerry I’m coming up with the blade box in ten!” I call after him.

I step around the corner to where the blade sharpening machine sits alone. Flipping the switch, the machine whirrs to life. I put on my safety goggles and take a deep breath.

“Hey,” a voice calls behind me.

I jump, flipping the off switch and glancing over my shoulder. Rachel is standing there in her matching Rays uniform. She’s got her glasses on tonight, minimal makeup, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. I love to see that she’s over her aversion to wearing the septum ring. Now she pretty much never takes it off.

Glancing up and down the hallway, a mischievous smile on her face, she tips up on her toes and kisses me. Just a peck, quick like its a habit.

“What was that for?” I mutter, soaking in the feel of her closeness.

“Because I love you,” she replies. “Do I need another reason?”

I let out a breath, shaking my head. Her presence helps. Having her this close is calming me down. Damn it, I’m as bad as Jake. I’m within an inch of asking her for a damn hug.

“You about ready? Puck drops soon,” she says, still smiling. She doesn’t know anything is wrong. We haven’t told her. I don’t want her to know.

“Almost done,” I say, turning my attention to the blade box.

The pregame show has started, the pulsing beat of the music making the walls vibrate. I feel it in my chest, like the pounding of a hundred hammers against my bones.

“You benching tonight?” she says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“No,” I mutter. “You?”

---