Coach Henderson explains when and how they’ll make the announcement, but it all goes in one ear and out the other. Captains are chosen for a variety of reasons, mainly for their leadership abilities, communication skills, and knowledge of the game and team. It means the rest of the team respects and trusts me to lead them in the right direction. It’s a huge responsibility and honor.
I’m still on cloud nine as I head out to my car after I’m dismissed.
“About damn time,” Jake calls from where he’s leaning against my slate-gray Porsche Cayenne. We live in the same neighborhood and carpool to practice, saving the environment one shared drive at a time. “What the hell took so long, Berrett?”
“That’sCaptainto you,” I share, unable to tamp down on a wide smile.
Jake’s eyes widen, and he barrels into me. I grunt as he half tackles, half hugs me, his full weight pushing me back a few steps.
“Fuck, man,” he shouts, pounding me on the back. “You’re serious?”
I sketch a dramatic bow and slip my keys from my pocket. “Yup. They’re announcing it tomorrow after the game.”
As I slide into the driver’s seat, I relish the sensation of the cool leather on my still heated back. Jake hops in a little less gracefully and messes with the heat as I navigate out of the parking lot, then settles in for the thirty-minute drive back from the practice arena.
“Have you talked to your girl recently?” Jake asks.
My chest pinches, but I ignore the sensation. “My girl?”
He snorts. “Seriously? Don’t play dumb with me, Berrett.”
I keep my focus trained on the road. Considering I haven’t shown interest in anyone but Maya in months—years, really—I don’t have to ask for clarification. Honestly, I can’t get her out of my head. I feel like a goddamn teenager when I get myself off imagining her hips pressed against mine as I kiss her breathless. But… “This isn’t a good time for me to get involved with someone.”
“Why?” he demands. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to act all high and mighty now that you’re captain.”
I press my lips together, still avoiding his gaze. “It has nothing to do with that.”
Although it does make things more complicated. Now I’ll be the one who’s studying practice and game film with a magnifying glass. I’ll be the first one at practice and the last to leave, and I’ll be the guy making sure our strategy is executed on the ice. Being captain means the margin for distraction shrinks down to zero.
I don’t need to look at Jake to know he’s studying me. He majored in psychology in college, and despite never having experience in the field under his belt, he likes to think he can accurately analyze us all. It’s funny when I’m drunk but annoying as hell when I’m trapped in a car with him.
Eventually, he sighs. “Then what is it?”
“I missed my flight.” I shift in my seat. The answer is lame as fuck, but there’s no point in lying.
For several seconds, he stares at me. Then, abruptly, he throws his head back and laughs far too loud for such a confined space. “Cole, dude. You’ve got to be shitting me. You slept through your alarms and missed the flight, and you’re blaming Maya for it?”
I shake my head, frustration trickling into my veins. “No, no, I don’t blame her at all. But I’ve been playing professional hockey for almost ten years, and the one time I miss a flight just happens to coincide with the one time I show interest in someone. There’s a correlation there. I need to stay focused.”
“Man, you can’t—” Jake sighs and runs a hand through his unmanageable hair. “Listen, Cole. Enough is enough. It’s time to stop this. You can’t spend the rest of your life basing every decision you make on whether it’ll affect your training or sleep. That’s not healthy.”
“I don’t?—”
“Yes, you do.” He hits me with a stern lecture-ready scowl. “The only people you hang out with outside of the arena are those of us you already see there. Your whole life is the game. Balance isn’t the enemy, bro. Since Nate died, you’ve thrown yourself into hockey even more. I get it, I do, but at some point, you have to step off the ice long enough to actually live.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I suck in an unsteady breath, caught somewhere between shock and uncertainty. Silence settles between us, broken only by an Ed Sheeran song humming through the speakers.
“I’m not trying to be a dick by bringing up Nate,” Jake adds, his tone gentler, “but you need something in your life that isn’t hockey. When was the last time you did anything for yourself? Not for your career?”
I grip the steering wheel harder, making the leather creek beneath my hands, and open my mouth to argue. But nothing comes out. I snap it shut again, pissed at my lack of defense. Since Nate died, I’ve dedicated myself even more wholly to the game. The rink is where the two of us grew up, and when I’m out on the ice, surrounded by the sound of a puck thumping into the goalie’s glove, blades scraping across the surface, and the roar of the crowd, I can drown out the missing part of me and pretend that he’s not gone, even if for a short while.
“He wasn’t my brother by blood,” Jake continues, “but he was my family, too.”
I pull the car to a smooth stop at a red light and glance over, heart thumping painfully against my sternum.
He’s frowning, his usually easy-going demeanor darkened. Nathan and Jake played college hockey together and got drafted to the same team as rookies. Back then, people joked that Jake was our triplet. That’s probably the only reason I haven’t thrown a punch. It’s for the best. He’d be more likely to come out on top in a fight between the two of us; the guy’s got a mean left hook.
“I know, man,” I finally say, shoulders deflating.
