Right now, there was nothing in that space except forabout a dozen sticks leaning against it beneath the nameplate that readLeif Erlandsson.
One by one, guys clomped away toward the sheet so training camp could get started. I didn’t even have to look to know if someone leaving was a new guy or a returning member of the Whiskey Rebels. The new guys all had the same heavy, purposeful gait.
The returning members…
Jesus. It was like I could feel their grief in their slow, halfhearted steps.
I didn’t envy them. Teams were extremely tight knit, and I didn’t know how I’d come back to the ice after a teammate’s death. It had been crushing enough when, during my second season, a teammate in Detroit had spiraled, his drinking problem turning into a painkiller addiction that had ultimately ended his career. We’d all been devastated, especially when we’d lost contact with him. To this day, I had no idea where he was.
That had been a long, awful thing for everyone on the team, even those of us who hadn’t been especially close to him. It had been hard to come back from. I couldn’t begin to imagine having a teammate’s death just come out of nowhere like Erlandsson’s had.
As I got up to head for the ice myself, I let my gaze drift to one of the few remaining stragglers, and my chest tightened beneath my gear.
Everyone in the hockey world knew Avery Caldwell and Leif Erlandsson were as tight as brothers. They were legendary as linemates, and so joined at the hip that there’d been more than a few rumors they were a couple. Especially since Caldwell was out and proud just like I was; even after he was best man at Erlandsson’s wedding, the theoriespersisted that the bride was just a beard, or they weren’t monogamous, or… something.
Whatever they did or didn’t do in private, no one could deny they had a special bond both on and off the ice.
Now Caldwell was sitting in front of his locker stall, geared up except for his jersey, and he just looked… lost. He had one sock taped and the roll of tape still in his hand, and he stared blankly at the logo in the center of the floor. Long strands of dark hair fell over his forehead and in front of his unfocused eyes. I didn’t even think he noticed.
Goddamn. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through, never mind trying to play hockey through it.
Before I could pull my gaze away and pretend I hadn’t been watching him, he turned his head and caught me staring. Nothing really registered on his face. No recognition. No irritation or offense. Just… nothing.
I didn’t know what to say or what to do. WhatcouldI say to someone I’d spoken to maybe three times in my entire career?
I cleared my throat and tilted my head toward the ice. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you out on…”
God, was that the best I could do?
Yeah, it kind of was, because I had no clue about shit like this.
Caldwell pushed out a heavy breath and brushed his hair out of his face. “I’m right behind you.” The words came out flat and hollow. Like a recited line. Something automatic.
I just gave a nod and headed out into the hall. Once I was out of his sight, I paused to take a deep breath.
I’d watched dozens of interviews with Avery Caldwell since he’d come onto the scene three seasons before I wasdrafted. He was one of the few openly gay players, so I’d followed him and his career closely.
And also, I mean, who was I kidding? He was gorgeous. Like me, he was white, and I thought he was an inch or so shorter than me. He had dark hair that tickled the collar of his sweater and the most stunning hazel eyes I’d ever seen. That smile? Oh, God. In a game against Pittsburgh last year, I’d blown a tire, which had been embarrassing enough, but fortunately, no one knew it had happened because I’d caught a glimpse of him laughing at something.
In all his interviews, he was so funny and charismatic, with the kind of smile that did ridiculous things to my pulse. Reporters sought him out just to get a few sound bites because he always had a joke or something. He was the kind of person I not only had a crush on, I wished I could just sit down and have a beer with him because it would be so goddamned entertaining.
And now… my God.
That lifeless look in his eyes had been heartbreaking.
The sound of his voice? Devoid of all the humor and playfulness that seemed to define him? Holy shit.
I shook myself and continued toward the ice. I’d seen grieving players before. Those who’d lost grandparents, parents, friends, and even a sibling. The teams would always rally around them and keep them upright through their grief. Hockey teams were families, and we always looked after our own when they lost someone.
So what did we do when that family lost one of its own? How did those of us who were new to the Whiskey Rebels hold up the men who’d just two weeks ago flown to Sweden to bury their teammate?
It had already been announced that Erlandsson’s number would be retired at the home opener. Thefirst time these men took to the ice after his death, it would be right after watching his jersey raised into the rafters. How the hell did someone play through that?
And how the hell did those of us who hadn’t been close to Erlandsson support them?
CHAPTER 3
AVERY
