Every scream from the crowd, every glare from my teammates, every shout from Coach—Get it together!—felt like a hammer. I was a liability. My worst fear wasn’t abstract anymore. I was going to be replaced. And tonight, I felt it, in every fiber of my body.
I stayed planted at the end of the bench while the second rolled on, stick wedged between my palms, tape already peeling where I’d been grinding it. The play kept snapping past me in bursts. Breakout up the boards, chipped at the line, turned back the other way before anyone could set. Landon jumped over the boards on the next change, took a pass in stride, drove wide and sent it across the slot. It got tipped just enough to miss. The crowd surged, then dropped. I tracked it all from five feet away, waiting for a tap on my shoulder that never came.
Midway through the period, we lost our gap for half a shift and it cost us. A bad clear died at the hash marks, their winger scooped it up and fed the point. Shot through traffic, rebound kicked out hard to the far side. No one got there in time. 3–2. The red light snapped on and I stared at it longer than I should’ve. Coach didn’t look down the bench. He just leaned in on the next line change and sent another unit out. I tightened my grip on the stick and kept my eyes on the ice.
Third period opened fast. We pushed, finally. Tucker won a draw clean, D-to-D, quick shot from the top that forced a glove save. We kept them hemmed in for a stretch, cycling low, bodies to the net, sticks banging for a pass that never quite found its mark. I was up on the boards once, ready to go, but the whistle came late and Coach sent the same line back out. Theirgoalie froze a rebound, and when play flipped, it flipped hard. Turnover at our blue line, odd-man rush the other way. Cross-ice, one touch, back of the net. 4–2. I sat back down before the crowd finished reacting, the game still moving without me.
The final minutes bled out without a dent. We pushed, or tried to, but every entry got stood up at the line or chipped back out before it could turn into anything real. The clock kept sliding, red numbers dropping one by one, and I watched it all from the same strip of bench I’d worn into place. When the horn finally cut through the arena, it didn’t feel loud. Just final.
Gloves tapped the boards as the guys came off. Heads down, a few sticks slammed once against the rubber before getting tucked under arms. No one said much. Tucker peeled his helmet off as he passed, jaw tight. Landon skated straight through to the tunnel without looking up. Coach stepped aside to let them file past, already talking to one of the assistants. No one stopped. No one glanced my way.
We’d lost, and it was all my fault.
The locker room was dead silent after the game, the team dragging themselves inside, heads down. Away games were sometimes brutal, but this loss was on me. My hands itched, my legs felt like lead, and my chest burned from guilt and shame.
And then, from the shadow near the lockers, Mason appeared. Still hobbling on his crutches, but there was nothing injured about the fury in his eyes. He was on me before I could react, shoving me so hard I went skidding across the locker room floor.
26
Sage
I was mid-sip of my third black coffee for the day when the bell above the door jingled. My ten o’clock, who was late. Except when the curtain to my booth drew back, it was Aiden who sauntered in.
“Uh—”
“Before you bring up your booking,” he said, making himself comfortable on my tattoo chair. “It’s me. I’m Helen Kurkdjian.”
The audacity of this man had me speechless as he nonchalantly pulled his white t-shirt over his head. My gaze followed the motion automatically, snagging on the curve of his pecs, the faint scar almost hidden in the ridges of his abs. The warmth between my legs reared its head to remind me I had to tread carefully. Last time we were in this booth together, he’d fucked me into another dimension. I didn’t have to linger too long inside the unwarranted flashback to taste his skin or feel the familiar ache when he filled me up.
I cleared my throat and rolled my chair over. “Why are you an old Armenian lady?”
“Who said I was old?” he asked, feigning insult.
“The voice you put on when you called to book your slot two days ago,” I deadpanned. “It was all thin and shaky and… old.”
“Oh, that.” He chuckled softly, as if only just remembering. “I figured I needed to be the total opposite of me to guarantee you didn’t put two and two together.”
“You succeeded,” I said, snapping on my gloves.
It wasn’t as if I’d kick him out now that he was here and topless. Besides, there was no other work to do since he’d blocked my schedule for the next three hours at least.
“Good to know I can fall back on acting if the hockey thing doesn’t work out, huh?”
It was impossible to joke around when the mention of hockey caused bile to burn the back of my throat. He had no idea what had happened with my mom. Or me, for that matter.
“I take it you’re here to finish the Cup?”
Aiden scoffed, intentionally looking away from the half-finished tattoo on the inside of his right bicep. “I’m thinking we can go ahead and cover that one up.”
“Mhmm, good idea.” I called his bluff. “I’m thinking a lotus flower. Add a zen element to the Latin you’ve got going on with that scrawl. It’ll be like it never happened.”
He looked at me then, and that playful swagger had faded away completely. What remained was just Aiden. Not first line center, or NHL’s new favorite son. Just Aiden.
“I think I really fucked things up for good this time.” It was the first crack in the polished confidence he usually wore like armor. “Grayson hasn’t said anything. Coach hasn’t said anything. But I feel it coming.”
I leveled him with a glance while I routinely filled my machine with black ink. No idea what I’d be doing, but feeling like that was a safe bet. “What do you feel coming?”
“The axe,” he muttered, and I felt that low hum of fear simmering just beneath his words.
