I growl and clench my jaw as I fight back the urge to lay the kid out. I am physically and mentally wrecked and itching for something to take the edge off. A fight with some know-it-all punk might do it for me, but it’s exactly the kind of thing a captain shouldn’t do.
Thorn blows the whistle twice, and I skate to the bench to grab my water. Rooks hops over the boards and lifts a bushy brow at me.
“What?” I ask before I squirt water into my mouth.
He and Thorn exchange glances, and that thread of anxiety turns into full-on background noise.
“The kid is right, Harrison,” Thorn says, shifting from coach to friend. “Colt is quick as a whip, but you usually blow past Rooker. Are things okay?”
I stare at the ice where most of the younger guys are joking around with each other, seeing who can keep their balance as someone else whacks them behind the knees.
A year ago, I’d have been right there with them.
Thorn and Rooks share another glance over my shoulder.
“Hit the showers, then get the youngsters caught up on next week’s schedule,” Thorn says.
Rooks looks between the two of us like he wants to add something, but he eventually nods. Orders from Coach Cason are not to be ignored.
Once the last guy clears the ice, I settle onto the bench by Thorn. The silence is as painful as it is awkward. There are so many wounds to pick at that I don’t want him to have the first dig.
I scuff my blade against the ground as I acknowledge the elephant in the room. “I’m thinking about hanging up the skates,” I mumble, my voice raw with emotions that I can’t stuff down. The idea of willingly giving this up when I know, physically, I have years of play left in me is not a discussion I can take lightly. But if I’m being forced out, it’ll be on my own terms. Trying to balance Aubrey’s fear of being left behind with my inability to meet every need while playing professional hockey feels impossible.
“I can help with practices or some things, and I will aid whoever takes over my line, but—”
Thorn cuts me off, a crushing grip on my shoulder. “You are not hanging up your skates this early, Silas.”
I shake my head as my throat tightens. “I can’t be captain, starting center, and her full-time caretaker.”
He nods like we’ve been circling this for weeks, and the lack of surprise on his face almost makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “It’s what all of us have been trying to tell you.”
I shake my head as I push to my feet, the need to get out of my gear suddenly a driving factor to end this conversation before it can go any further. “I can’t leave her with a nanny.”
“Not a nanny,” he says, and I freeze mid-step, because I know damn well what he is about to say.
“No.”
“Oakley.”
“No. Not going to happen,” I say without turning around. My fists clench and release, and my breathing turns shallow as the edges of my vision darken.
Thorn winces. “What if I told you it already is?”
One second, I’m nearly in the tunnel; the next, my stick is in several pieces on the ground. Thorn steps closer, his hands open by his head—as if a six-foot-five broad man can look harmless—and keeps his eyes on mine. The sound of my own breathing startles me. I drop my arm, back away from the shattered stick, and scrub a hand over the back of my neck as I try to make sense of what just happened.
“What the hell?” I rasp as I drop back to the bench.
Thorn palms the back of my head until it’s between my legs and pours cool water along my neck. “Just breathe, man.”
I glance up at him through sweat-soaked hair. “I don’t know what that was.” My breathing is still shaking, and the pounding in my chest might be cause for concern.
“I’m hoping it was the tipping point for you.” He points up toward his office where a large window overlooks the ice, the outline of three individuals clearly visible, one much smaller than the other two. When my vision finally focuses, it’s a gut punch.
“Why is Oakley Kate upstairs with my sister and your wife, Coach?”
Instead of answering, he nods over my shoulder. As I turn to see what he is looking at, I realize it isn’t a what. It’s a who.
Noah Slater stands at the edge of the tunnel, arms crossed and back against the wall, concern written all over his face.
