December — Five Months Later
My body aches in ways I never knew possible as I drop onto the bench of the locker room in Madison Square Garden, but I’m also vibrating with adrenaline unlike any other time. From the hoots and hollers echoing through the space, my teammates are on the same wavelength.
“Nice job tonight, Rook,” Sullysays, clapping me on the back as I pull off my skates.
I shoot a grin at our captain, Darren Sullivan, who happens to be a former Blackmore center. And I mean almost a decade former, which is why I’ve taken to calling him—
“Thanks, Old Man. Glad you could finally find the net in the second period.”
He scoffs and waves me off, but there’s a wry grin on his lips as he mutters something about “Damn Timberwolves”under his breath, despite us both being on the Chicago Blaze roster now.
When I got the call up from the AHL farm team earlier this week, part of me thought it was some kind of joke. Even as I was dressing before the game earlier tonight, I was expecting AshtonKutcher to pop out and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.
And yet, here I am, taking home a win after my rookie debut in the NHL.
My mind replays every minute of the game as I shower and redress, and I find myself picking apart my gameplay the way I never used to before; mostly because playing against this caliber of players takes it to a whole new level.
Still, I like to think I did a pretty decent job tonight. I secured the win, after all, though I doubt Quinton will ever shut up about the goal he snuck by me in the second period—especially when I know damn well how killer his backhand is after playing with him for two years. I just wish we didn’t have to head back home tonight, if only so I could grab dinner with him and Oakley. It would be great to catch up since I haven’t seen them in person since the wedding. Maybe rub the win in their faces a bit too.
And, of course, shamelessly inquire about Logan. Not that I get much intel from Oakley these days. He usually sticks to saying “you should ask him yourself”or some other prompt to get me to reach out.
I don’t, of course, no matter how much I want to. It doesn’t stop me from thinking about him, though. Every fucking day. Doesn’t keep me from wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake that I’m gonna regret for the rest of my life.
But I heard what he said that day in his speech. About love. About sacrifice. And I have to stand firm in my belief that, sometimes, making sacrifices for love means letting that person go. Loving them from a distance. So that’s what I’m doing, even if it hurts.
I check my texts after grabbing my bag, ready to head out to the charter bus that’ll take us to the airport. There’s a text from Louis offering his congratulations on my first win, same with my brother, and there’s over a hundred in the group chat with all the guys, which I’m definitely saving for the flight home.
Quinton also sent a text in a chat with just me and Oakley, and I snort when I read the message.
Quinton: Congrats on your first NHL win, Steele. Still pissed about a loss at home, but at least I got to light the lamp on you once tonight.
Yeah, called that one.
I’m in the middle of typing out a reply when a text from Oakley comes in.
Oakley: Just don’t enjoy your victory present too much, okay?
My brows draw together as I push open the locker room door, and I frown at the screen, having no clue what kind of victory present he’s—
“Cam.”
My heart stalls in my chest when I glance up, finding Logan leaning against the wall across from me. One of his heart-stopping smiles rests on his lips, and if that weren’t enough to send me into a tailspin, then him wearing a red and yellow Blazejersey definitely is. Or maybe it’s the number I catch on his sleeves that really does me in.
Mynumber.
Except, I know it can’t be. Logistically, it’s impossible. Tonight was my first game; fan jerseys with my number don’t even exist yet. Still, the thought that it could be has my heart catching in my throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone find my voice.
“Little Reed,” I croak before clearing my throat. “What are you doing here?”
Still smiling, he pushes off the wall and holds out his hands, motioning to the space around us as he approaches me. “Well, I thought I’d finally cash in on the perks of nepotism and wait outside the locker room to meet the players after the game.”
An uncomfortable laugh slips out. “Uh, well, I think you gotthe wrong locker room.”
“I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head. He stops a foot away, close enough for me to see that cracked pattern of his chestnut eyes. “See, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Chicago brought up this stellar goalie from the AHL tonight. I decided I needed to see him in action for myself.”
The muscle in my jaw tenses as I grit my teeth together, attempting to gain control of the emotions coursing through me. Because what he’s implying? I can’t let my heart get carried away by it.
“Your brother plays for New York, Lo. You don’t have to pretend you’re here—”
