Balancing on one skate, I flex my knee, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. After two rounds of surgery and the best rehabilitation program available, it still gives me a hard time. Maria was probably right when she said that most players would’ve hung up their skates and called it quits on their career. What she failed to appreciate is that hockey is more than just a job or a paycheck; it’s who I am, and now more than ever, it feels like the only constant in my life.
My perceptive captain drops his eyes to my leg, studying the way I flex the joint. His brows knit together as he returns his eyes to mine.
“Jenna is meeting me at Lloyd’s later if you losers want to tag along.” Tommy collides with Jack’s and Archer’s backs as he glides up behind them, wrapping his arms around their necks. “If you’re seen out with me, I’ll improve your street cred.”
Archer rears back, offended at his defenseman. “Did you ever ask yourself why I’m the January model each year for the charity calendar?”
Tommy just smirks, delighted that he’s hooked his goalie so easily. “Because the PR team figured that it can only get better from there.”
I probably shouldn’t encourage our chaotic bad boy, but a laugh leaves me regardless.
“You see, Emmett finds me funny because he knows I’m right.” Tommy tips his chin at me.
Banter like this is ordinarily right in our captain’s wheelhouse, although I don’t need to look at Jack to know why he hasn’t engaged with the others; I can already sense his eyes as they bore into me.
“Moore,” Jensen interrupts Archer and Tommy’s bickering. “Do you plan on finishing up today’s session, or are you declaring an early retirement?” Jensen stands at center ice, hands on his hips as he waits for his goalie to quit messing around.
When Tommy and Archer skate away, leaving me alone with Jack, I turn back to the boards and snag my water bottle, keeping myself busy.
My efforts to delay Jack’s inevitable inquisition are futile, and I know it.
“Have you spoken to the trainer about that?” Jack’s simple nod toward my knee leaves me in no doubt over what he’s referring to.
“My knee flares up from time to time, especially afterhard sessions like today. We’re deep into the season, and aches and pains are nothing new for me.”
Jack clears his throat, and I continue, sounding defensive, “Run the clock on another decade, and you’ll know exactly what I mean.”
Jack’s one of the youngest captains in the league, and even if the accolade is completely deserved, he sometimes lacks the understanding of a veteran captain like Sawyer.
When Adrian Carney, our general manager, was appointed several seasons back, he initially showed an interest in me being Sawyer’s successor. He wanted someone with an experienced head who could handle media responsibilities with ease. I was his top pick to take the captaincy, and I wanted it so badly. Aside from winning the Cup, it was the final check on my career bucket list. Then came the injury, which essentially destroyed my chances. Other than me, Jack was the obvious choice, but for very different reasons—at twenty-seven, his captaincy tenure has the potential to be long-term, he’s probably the best player on the team, and he’s definitely the guy who holds everyone together when shit gets rough.
All that said, I’m not ashamed to admit the kernel of resentment and jealousy I felt toward the guy who had waltzed onto the team and taken the starting center position and then the entire wheel. A lot of the guys felt like he’d only gotten his shot on the team because he was Coach’s stepson, and, yeah, I partly bought into that line of thought.
Within the space of a few months, Jack proved all his doubters wrong, including me. Pushing past the resentment wasn’t easy. I didn’t see the light and drop any hard feelings altogether until last season. But that was on me and my own sense of pride and self-worth. Jack being captain was the reason we lifted the Cup last season, and consequently, I got to at least check off one of my career goals.
“You make me nervous sometimes—you know that?”
I throw Jack a quizzical look. “Why?”
He pulls on his drink and sets the bottle down on top of the boards. “Of all the guys on this team, you’re the only one I can’t read. I’m Edward Cullen, and you’re my Bella. Every time I try to hear your thoughts, I come up empty.”
I close my eyes, part amused and part perplexed by this guy. “I haven’t read those books.”
Jack balks at me in a similar way Archer did to Tommy a few minutes ago. “What about the movies?” He nods to himself like he’s recalling his favorite scenes. “Kendra and I had a watch-a-thon during the bye week.”
Shaking my head, I clamp a hand on his shoulder. “All right, Edward, I’m your Bella. So long as you promise not to suck my blood or some shit like that.”
Grin fading to a more serious expression, he checks over his shoulder, looking to see if Coach needs us yet.
He turns back to me, face now stoic. “I need you to tell me the truth. As your captain, I need to know if you’re good for the rest of the season. You and Tommy are our first choice on the defensive line, and you know that. If we need to give you less ice time, then we ca?—”
“I don’t need a rest,” I voice, cutting across his sentence. “I just need to be more thorough with recovery after games and probably step sessions back up with the trainer.”
My face is a plea for him to drop the uncertainty and give me the benefit of the doubt.
Just like I did when he was a rookie.
The next few seconds could only be described as a stare-down, although it isn’t aggressive, more an analysis of each other’s thoughts.
