Page 55 of Puck to the Heart
“I haven’t seen you so messed up since the concussion you got from the Bruins three years ago. They clocked you real good.”
“I’m not sure I ever recovered.” I shook my head, rubbing my jaw.Deflect and redirect like it’s a game. Fake out the goalie so they don’t see someone else with the puck.“I’m okay, Coach. Maybe a little… tired.”
“Hmm.” Contemplative, coffee-brown eyes met mine, and I looked away first.
Coach must have realized something else bothered me but wanted me to speak first. When I didn’t, he carried on. “How is Olivia?”
I had to bite my lip to keep my mouth from turning up into a huge, goofy smile. No matter how weird I felt about the physicality between us, at least we had fun. “She’s good. It’s—we’re a thing now. Officially dating I guess?”
“She seems like a smart girl. Keeps you on your toes I bet.”
“More than you know, Coach.”
Coach chuckled. “I know exactly what it’s like, Wilder. Three daughters,anda wife, remember? I have to fight for my life some days.” But he laughed fondly, and I knew the man couldn’t be happier.
Well, maybe if we won the Stanley Cup.
My mood soured again. “Anything else, Coach?”
“Get your head on straight, son. I’m giving the C to Allen for tonight.”
Inside me, a cacophony of conflict churned as I nodded sharply and exited the office. On one hand, I knew I didn’t deserve to wear the C for the game, but Iwantedit. More than wanted. It was urgent. A need. Then again, not wearing the C took some of the pressure off, not forcing me to be on my best behavior.
But I didn’twantto be on my best behavior. I wanted to bash someone’s head in, preferably fucking Brad’s.
In truly awful timing, a text came through from Olivia, asking for more tickets for fuckingBradand the C-Suite. And fuck,fuck, I hated it. Hated remembering that asshole existed and got to spend more time with her than he deserved, more time than I got with her, and all he did was treat her like shit. And it pissed me the hell off. But I couldn’t say no. Giving her tickets for those corporate fuckwads would probably help her get the face time with them she wouldn’t get otherwise. So, I was frustrated for her and for me, and I was fuckinghelpless. This was the only way to help her, and I fucking wanted to put my fist through a wall.
Instead, I suited up and got ready to play a game where my girlfriend would be in the stands with a pack of dickheads who ignored her.Andthe one who tried to kiss her.
So, yeah, I was fucking pissed.
I sank into my seat,staring forlornly at the beer signs all around me. No beer for me tonight, not with the C-suite in tow. Instead, I purchased a souvenir beer cup and asked the bewildered bartender to fill it with water. They’d call me stuck up if I didn’t drink, but if I had any effects from the alcohol, they’d immediately brand me a problem.
As usual, it was exhausting.
Beside me sat the four Very Important C Men, Brad, and Dr. Hurst. They didn’t thank me for the tickets, just took them and turned back to their conversation. So, I made damn sure to sit right in the fucking middle of them. If they were going to pretend I didn’t exist, I was going to be a fucking inconvenience. And still, they talked around me. Brad even asked me to grab a round for the group, as if I hadn’t been the one to provide the tickets.
Okay,Ashprovided the tickets, and he was weird about it, giving terse answers all day after I asked if I could bring my coworkers.
Maybe he was tense about the game. The internet blew up with talk of the Knights rivalry with the Cavaliers, so maybe he was feeling a lot of pressure.
The Cavaliers were a violent team, particularly when it came to Ash, as a solid percentage of their penalties were against him.
“Wilder’s really been living up to his nickname this season, Bill.”
“He sure has, Ted, and he?—”
I tried to contain a snort at the commentators named Bill and Ted. On the giant screen, the camera zoomed in on two men in suits, one with deep brown skin and short black hair, and one very pale with a greying brown pompadour, but both with bushy mustaches. It amused me how well they matched, and I imagined them as best friends. Or maybe mortal enemies. Either would be perfect. The potential for enemies-to-lovers sportscaster romance kept me distracted until the crowd grew louder as the teams arrived on the ice.
Without either earbuds or earmuffs, I gritted my teeth, absorbing all the sound with my body. With each subsequent team member, the roaring grew. It settled in my bones, heavy and relentless, and the players didn’t help, goading the fans on.
Rationally, I knew sports were supposed to be loud, but this seemed worse than normal. Every scream scraped like a cheese grater over my already raw nerves. All the other fans got on their feet, so I reluctantly joined them. As much as the onslaught of sound hurt, it was so much worse when you didn’t participate. I learned it was best to be part of the noise if you wanted to survive.
Brad, naturally,lovedit. As we sat again, he leaned across the arm of his seat to scream in my ear. “These are the best seats!” he hollered. “Who did you bang to get such good tickets last minute?” Laughing, he slung an arm over my shoulder.
Red-hot electricity burned through my limbs, rendering me speechless and frozen in shock. Our seatmates ignored us, so I’d have no backup from them in confronting him. Which meant they’d call me an emotional woman, which meant they tell me not to cause a scene, which meant— and it was anxious turtles all the way down.
And Brad… stayed there. In my space.
