When I open my eyes, he’s there. I sense his presence even before I realize where I am and remember what’s happened. His familiar scent, his strong fingers wrapped around mine, his soothing voice.
“Hey, baby. You did good. You did so unbelievably good. Everything went great.” His voice shivers, just a tad, and I know he’s been worried. For me. Because he cares. About me. Once the haze of grogginess starts to lift, I can make out his individual features, like putting together pieces of your favorite puzzle. Or drawing a map of the most beautiful place on earth. Because he is. He’s my favorite place. From his wild dark hair as it falls into his forehead to his deep chocolate eyes that hold such care and what I now know to be love—for me. His pointy nose and the swell of his cheeks that are now a deep pink because of lack of sleep. The slope of his rounded chin, a light stubble covering it. All in all, he’s just a kid like me. We’re just kids, playing the game we love and falling for each other while doing so.
And as usual, he knows what I need. He takes my mind off what’s coming next; several months without hockey and probably six months before I can pull on my navy jersey with that teal number 8—mynumber—on the back during a game. Because Coach assured me it’s my jersey, my number, and it will be waiting for me until I’m ready. Luke’s chattering away, his hands gesticulating wildly, his face in the cutest frown, as he recounts how the guys are currently annihilating Montreal. It’s the second period and we are ahead 3-1.
“Buckhammer is doing a great job,” he says. I knew he would. Buckhammer is a good goalie and a great guy. They all are. Even Crane, that asshole. And when I start crying, he’s there, halfway on the bed next to me, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s okay,baby,” he says. “I know you wanted to be there. You will be again.” And I believe him. I do. Because Luke doesn’t lie. He’s the one constant in my life that I can always count on.
We watch the rest of the game together on Luke’s phone, the private hospital room quiet and dark around us. As we destroy Montreal with 5-1, he’s got his arm wrapped securely around me, my head resting on his chest as he plants kisses on my head at brief intervals. It’s still unsure if we’ll be making it to the playoffs, only time will tell, butnext year, we agree, smiling against each other’s lips, kissing until we’re breathless or Luke’s phone goes off or whatever.
And then Riley’s goofy grin shows up on Luke’s phone and he’s not alone. The entire team is with him, beside him, behind him, all around him. And they’re hooting and hollering and smiling like they really did make the playoffs. And they’re just kids like us. Boys who love what they do, playing the best game there is.
“Look,” Virtanen yells, pointing at his front teeth. “I was fixed!” And it’s true. He got his tooth fixed.
“What about Greta?” I croak, half from laughter, half from pent-up emotions. Virtanen smirks, licking his lips, residue beads of sweat from the game trickling down his temples.
“I learn new trick,” he winks, and I don’t even want to know, and I tell him exactly just that, “I don’t even wanna know, dude.” Isodon’t. “You’re still an ugly motherfucker, Finland,” I grin at the screen and Virtanen growls before he howls with laughter. And then Caps appears in front of the screen, pushing Virtanen out of the way.
“How you’re doin’, Mitchell?” he drawls, his voice heavy with fatigue.
“I’m okay,” I mumble, swallowing back a whirlwind of emotions. Happiness, gratitude, and remnants of fear. And envy. Yeah, I’m envious, but I know it will pass and turn into something else now that I’ve got Luke and the team in mycorner. Hope. And a relentless stubbornness that will get me through this.
“You take good care of our boy now,” Caps tilts his chin at Luke.Our boy.
And then the tears come again because I miss them all so damn much. I miss the horrid smell of a post-game locker room and the mindless banter. The teasing and the goofing around. I miss it all. I miss Nowak’s awful jokes and Tanner trying to catch Badura’s attention by sneaking up on his lap.
Then Coach appears out of nowhere like he always does and grabs Riley’s phone.
“Mitchell,” he booms, and it’s like the guy is in the room, right beside me. “This one was for you, kid.”And I swear, there are tears in his eyes. Luke did tell me, and I didn’t believe him at first. That I’m Coach’s favorite. But I kind of see it now as the usually stoic giant wipes at his beard awkwardly. “We all agreed before the game,” he mumbles.“That this one was for you, Mitchell.”There’s shouting in the background, a growing rumble of unintelligible voices at first, until I make out the two syllables. “Mitch-ell. Mitch-ell. Mitch-ell.”
Then Buckhammer sticks his face in front of the screen, and he blushes adorably when I congratulate him on the game. And I realize I mean it. I’m not bitter, just sad.
“Just keeping the goal empty for ya,” he grins. I shake my head.
“You’re a good goalie, Texas,” I rasp, wiping at my eyes. And he is. He, too, has grown, becoming a solid goalie by now. And then there’s a lot of commotion in the locker room because Nowak has pulled some kind of stunt involving a Gatorade and some baking soda, and we end the call.
“You okay, baby?” Luke murmurs against my temple as I try to suppress a yawn.
“Just tired,” I mumble. “Just happy for the team,” I murmur. And it’s true. Iamhappy for them. Forus. Because they aremyteam,mymates, and the best one of them has just jumped from my hospital bed and is now trying with all his boyish charm to convince the nurse to let him stay for the night. And as much as she’s shaking her head, repeating, “I’m sorry, sir,” I can’t help laughing because I know eventually he’ll win her over. Because he always does. Just like he did me. He won me over, too, and a world where Luke and I aren’t together, even for one night, is just inconceivable.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Luke
I’m extremely annoyed thatCoach told me to wait outside. It’s been five minutes and thirty-two seconds since he closed the door behind him and Cody with a ‘We’ll just be a minute, Carrington’ thrown in my direction. Cody’s postoperative recovery has been going to plan so far and we got home three nights ago with a ton of instructions, a list ofdosanddon’ts, and a follow-up consultation scheduled for next week. The first out of many. I know the surgical team will be following Cody’s recovery closely, along with a team of dedicated physiotherapists. Everything has been set in motion; there’s an entire game plan ready when an NHL player is injured.
Everyone around us is acting with the utmost level of professionalism, and still, I know that to Cody, I’ve become his anchor in all this. I see it in his wary eyes and hear it in his frailvoice when he calls out for me. And I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. Iwantto be his anchor. The one he can count on and be certain will always be there for him. Iwantto be that person. Cody’s person. I’ve never thought in terms ofalwaysbefore, but I realize that’s just because I didn’t know Cody yet. Now that I do, there’s no way I can ever think of him and not automatically addalwaysto that equation.I willalwaysbe there for you, Cody. I willalwayshave your back. You canalwayscount on me. I willalwayslove you.Fuck. I suck in a breath. I love him so much. It’s ridiculous to think that there was a time when I didn’t know this amazingly beautiful boy.
I check my watch again. Six minutes and forty-two seconds. Wrap it up, Coach. Wrap. It. Up. I’m back on the ice tonight, playing my first game post-op and post-suspension. I can’t wait. I have enough pent-up energy to light up a midsize desert city and I’m just ready to get out there and help the team finish off a season that has been turbulent, to say the least. We started out playing like a group of dilettantes and then Cody came along, and everything changed. I know it’s not just him because the team played well against Montreal. Still, in my mind, it seems like he’s the cause of everything good coming my way lately. Everything has changed for the better because of him. Even with this small bump in the road, my life feels complete with Cody in it.
As much as I try to make out individual words or phrases through the closed door, it’s impossible. Their voices are muffled, which must be a good sign, I guess. Or maybe it’s a bad sign. Maybe Cody is speechless because Coach has just told him they’re dropping him. Shit, what if he’s crying? What if he needs me? My hands grab the sides of the plastic chair and as much as I try to contain myself, I already know it’s a lost cause. In a matter of seconds, I leap from the chair and throw the door to Coach’s office open. Storming in like a madman, I shout, “If youtrade him, you might as well trade me, too. Wherever he goes, I go!” Cody looks up at me in horror, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes red-rimmed. I knew it! I fucking knew it. Coach made him cry. “Why’s Cody crying?” I pant, pointing at Coach, my hand trembling.
“Luke,” Cody starts, a weak smile spreading along his lips, and I guess it can’t be all bad if he’s smiling. It’s not the broad, carefree smile that I’ve gotten used to over the past few months. The one that can light up an entire rink and then some. The one that sends sparks flying through my body. But it’s better than Cody crying. Anything is better than Cody crying. Unless it’s a smile of resignation. Though it doesn’t look like that kind of smile.
“Hold on to your panties, kid. No one is being traded, and no one is going anywhere,” Coach brushes a hand through his black beard while he throws me anow sit your ass downlook. I scramble toward the chair next to Cody and my fingers itch to grab his hand. I feel myself deflate, my inner warrior crawling back into his cave as Coach continues, his voice steady. “This meeting is to set up a recovery plan for Cody that focuses on his mental well-being and how to communicate with the press. And to make sure that Cody is involved every step of the way in decision-making.” Coach looks between the both of us, a fond look in his eyes. “Even if management were set on dropping or trading Mitchell—”
“They wanna tra—” I blurt, but Coach holds up his hand between us.
“Jesus Christ, Carrington! Will you just listen for a second?”
