Pete grunted. “He sure whipped your band of misfits into shape.”
I smiled. “Sure did.”
“I didn’t expect you to be in serious running for the Cup.”
“Not this soon anyway.”
“If things shake out as they look like they will, you’ll play your old team for it.”
“Don’t jinx us. We have more than a quarter of the season left.” I paused. “That said, I’ll feel a little bad about you, but beating Gauthier and Dukovsky will be sweet.”
Pete grunted. “I bet. Gauthier feels bad about the whole situation. You could have explained what happened—”
“He could haveasked, too, instead of assuming the worst and bulldozing me. He undercut me to the team. I couldn’t stay there after that interaction with my coach.”
“In fairness, he listened to me when I told him why you beat the snot out of Dukovsky.” Pete sighed. “Just a few months too late.”
“After he’d signed the bastard,” I said with a scowl. I hated the guy—that would never change. “He’s still the greatest excrement pipe in the league.”
Pete’s chuckle drifted through the line. No one liked Dukovsky, not even his teammates, which now included Pete. That was the reason Pete had talked to Gauthier about my history with Dukovsky a few months after I was traded; Pete had wanted to keep the old goat from signing the problematic player. But Gauthier signed him anyway. Toronto had played well each year since, but they didn’t have the chemistry we’d once had—before I smashed Dukovsky into the boards and left the city in disgrace.
“Top scorer, though,” Pete noted.
“For now,” I replied. We had an excellent young prospect here in Houston, still acclimating to the league, who looked more than capable of taking on Dukovsky. We’d also signed Jagger Naese during the offseason—a suggestion I’d made to Coach Whittaker after watching way too much footage in my media room. What else was I going to do?
Naese was a hardworking twenty-five-year-old who every other team had ignored, pushing him to the second or third line. Since his move to the Wildcatters, he’d led our first-line scoring and had the most assists in the league.
“Well, I’ll see you next Sunday,” Pete said as we finished our conversation.
“Looking forward to it.”
He sighed. “Something tells me that’s not because you’ll be seeing my ugly mug.”
I chuckled. “It’s always good to see you, Petey.”
“Still can’t get used to being on the coaching side of the game.”
He’d blown out his knee the year before, and Gauthier had made the right choice in moving Pete to be the offensive line coach. Unfortunately for Pete, that meant he spent more time with Dukovsky now. But Pete had made his choices, just as I’d made mine.
I clicked the phone off and continued to contemplate the skyline. Houston lacked the beauty of my home, thanks to its mishmash of zoning and swampy foundation, but its allure was outside the natural setting. The huge, writhing metropolis teemed with life and culture. I felt at home here—the loose cannon who’d found his place. Well, mostly.
I turned back toward my empty room and empty bed with a sigh. As much as I appreciated the space and beauty of my home, I hated that it remained unoccupied. The silence pressed against me, reminding me of my greatest dream: I still yearned for kids. But the likelihood shrank with each passing year, especially since the idea of dating, let alone getting married again, caused my chest to seize.
I’d considered adopting, but that wasn’t a good option until I quit hockey. It sucked that I had to give up one dream for the other.
“Maybe I should get a dog,” I announced to the empty space.
In a few months, I’d be thirty-two. I wanted to play for a few more years. However, to hedge my bets, I’d already talked to Coach Whittaker about taking on some more managerial tasks so I could learn the ins and outs of coaching. He’d been receptive to the idea, as long as my productivity on the ice remained high.
Since I had no family to come home to, I now focused on both. I hated that reality, but itwasreality. And Houston was home. Now I just had to learn to enjoy living again.
My alarm blared,and I groaned, reaching for the small, black box of evil. Mornings weren’t my thing. Getting up with the sun offended not just my mind, but all my muscles. Didn’t matter, though, because practice was starting earlier than usual this morning to accommodate the open skate with a group of kids with special needs from the city’s schools we’d have visiting us after, something Coach insisted on twice each regular season—once in December and once at the end of the season.
I’d asked him why in December, and he told me because his niece, Trixie, had confessed once that there was something magical about ice skating near Christmas. She’d moved in with him a few years back. Her sentiment had stuck with him, so he’d turned it into a Wildcatters’ tradition.
This was one of the coolest parts about playing for Houston—the amount of outreach and community service we did here. We might have been a youthful team without a championship to our name, but the Wildcatters were well-loved, with most games sold out long in advance—not bad for an expansion team in a city with professional football, baseball, and basketball teams as well.
As soon as I remembered what day it was, I swung my legs out of bed, excitement sizzling up my spine. I adored working with these kids—their enthusiasm rubbed off, making me just as eager as they were to experience ice skating. I loved bringing smiles to their faces, loved seeing so many small people on our ice.
