Probably a slip of the fingers, thanks to all the Twitter trauma and beer tits of it all, but I’m still grinning like a goofball as I text—Will do. See you soon, sexy.
“All good?” Blue asks.
I glance down the bench, where he’s retaping his stick.
“Yeah. Char texted to check on me before I could text to check on her. It was…” I trail off with a shrug as Jean-Louis and Grammercy stride past, arguing about something in French. “It was nice,” I finish. “Easy. Easy to comfort her, easy to connect and show I care, just…” I exhale a tight laugh. “That probably sounds basic as fuck, but it’s never been this easy for me before.”
Blue grunts. “It doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds rare.”
My jaw clenches as I nod. “Yeah. It feels rare.”
“That’s the thing you should fight for, then,” he says. “I wish I’d fought harder when I had someone like that in my life.”
“Who was she?”
“My wife,” he says, making me blink in surprise.
Blue had awife?I’ve known him for over a year, and this is the first I’m hearing about the fact that he wasmarried?
“We were young,” he continues. “Too young, but still…I have regrets. It’s the only thing I still regret.”
“I’m sorry, Blue,” I say softly. “That sounds rough, man.”
He nods. Just once. “It was. See you out there.”
“See you.”
As I watch him walk away, joining the rest of the team headed to the tunnel, my gaze lands on the clock on the wall.
Fuck!
I’ve got about three minutes to pull on dry gear and get back out there.
Placing my cell on the shelf, I prep for the start of the second period, much more composed than when I left the ice, thanks to Charlotte’s texts.
The rest of the game passes in a rush of heady, but steady, flow state energy.
I donotrise to Beefy’s third challenge, passing to Blue instead of going for an opening that would have put me directly in Big Angry’s path.
I don’t have time for anger right now.
And not all fights have to get heated.
I keep my fight—and my play—clean. Focused. Sharp. No more rage, no more flirting with the line. Just solid, genius-level hockey that ends with a 4-2 win.
Hey, it’s not bragging if it’s true, and we’ve all put in the hours to be considered geniuses in this zone.
Now, if only I felt half as prepared to fight for the woman waiting for me in the family lounge…
As I push through the doors just off the main tunnel, I spot Charlotte’s strawberry blonde head instantly. It helps that she’s tied her hair up in a high, messy pile. It looks great, actually, a little curlier in front than usual—beer has curl-enhancing properties, perhaps?—but still a solid recovery from her post-soaking turn on the Jumbotron.
In a bright green Irish pub T-shirt, paired with fancy slacks and heels, she looks laid back and classy at the same time. Like the kind of woman you want to take out for the biggest loadedpizza in history and congratulate her for handling Beer Tits Gate with her own, genius-level skill.
Then she sees me, her eyes lighting up as she thrusts her arms my way, shouting, “Oh my God, you were incredible! I’m so proud, baby,” and I know that’s it.
I’m notfallingin love.
I’m in it.
