Correction. Chanting half my nickname.
“Baby! Baby! Baby!” Ivanov’s Russian accent booms the loudest.
So now, thanks to that, forget tripping or throwing up. I want to die. I want a hole to open up under the rink and swallow me.
But that is not an option. So I steel myself the best I can while the announcer calls out over the speakers, “St. Louis! Please welcome onto the ice for the very first time… Number seventy-two! Brandon Bouchard!”
My cheeks flare red as I walk through the tunnel. My teammates start chanting louder as they bang their sticks on the ground. Despite them using that godawful nickname, their enthusiasm pushes me forward, and the minute I skate onto the ice, they cheer as loud as they can, drowning out most of the noise in the stadium that’s filling up with fans.
I skate my rookie lap as fast as possible. With some luck, maybe no one will notice how pink my cheeks are. But I’ve watched enough rookie laps on TV and seen the replays on social media to know the camera loves to zoom in. Lord help me, my brother is probably having a ball laughing it up with his friends and teammates in Buffalo right now.
Shit. Gavin Marshal and Connor Kennedy are probably with him. I’m sure the camera mic picked up my nickname being chanted and even if it didn’t, my brother has definitely told them all by now anyway. I’m doomed.
But instead of a puck tripping me up, or catching an edge with my blade, what almost stops me in my tracks is suddenly hearing the familiar sound of my mother calling my name louder than my teammates. My actual name. Looking around, I spot her and my father pounding their fists on the glass next to Vicky and Danton’s kids on one side and a few of my other teammates’ wives with their small children on their other.
My mom sees me spot her and starts waving her arms frantically. Of course they drove down here. I should have known they wouldn’t be able to stay away. I grab a puck with my stick blade, smile at them, then shoot a wrist shot towards the empty net. Itgoes in and my mom starts jumping up and down. Danton’s youngest, Danny, is bouncing up and down with her, clapping wildly.
“Your family,” Ivanov says, skating up behind me. “Is like your brother.”
“No kidding,” I say, a smile pulling at my lips.
He nods his head. “Your mom. Hugged me.”
I can’t tell whether that’s a good or bad thing. I’m not sure if he knows. “Sorry about that,” I say.
He places his giant goalie glove on my head like I’m his kid brother. “Not your fault. I blame Ryan,” he says and skates away.
Interesting. My blush comes back. Ryan arranged this. Wait. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I know exactly what happened. Ivanov wasn’t the only one of my teammates who got ambushed by my family today.
Now that the rest of the team are all on the ice, I skate towards where Ryan is doing some easy stretches. When I get there, I can’t help but notice the gathering of young women who have taken up residence behind the glass with signs asking for either a puck, a marriage proposal, or both. They’ve parked themselves into the perfect place for a view of his ass as he stretches. Admittedly, it’s a nice view, but I’m not about to let myself enjoy it. So instead, I get down on the ice with him to do a simple lunge stretch for my hip flexors.
“I take it my brother told my parents to call you too.”
“Too?” He looks at me and laughs.
“Yeah,” I say, guiltily. “He told me to call you.”
“And yet you didn’t,” he says, smirking.
“I didn’t want to bug you.”
He reaches over and gives me a playful shove on my shoulder. “It’s alright,” he says, then switches which leg he’s stretching. “To be honest. I should have done a better job of keeping in touch with your parents and…”
He looks directly at me for a split second before he quickly casts his gaze downward. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, butthere was a trace of guilt in his expression, and it almost sounded like he was going to say me as well.
“Nah,” I say, catching his attention again. That flicker of vulnerability I saw from him is gone. But damn. He is still undeniably so handsome. Even with how aloof he can be, the relaxed nature of his face is sexy.
I swallow. I need to focus. I came over here to apologize for my overbearing family. “No one who lived with us is required to add us to their Christmas card list. Trust me, you’re fine.” Literally. “They don’t take it personal.”
Unlike me. My encounters with Ryan have all left me gutted. It’s taken me years to sort out my intense feelings about that. Not that he’ll ever need to know that. And also, apparently, I’m still not over it because looking at him right now, that old familiar ache I used to get in my chest at the sight of him has returned at full force.
“Still, though,” he says and rises. I follow and he slides a puck over with his stick. He leans over it and starts working on his stick handling. He sends the puck towards the net, sliding it right past Ivanov, who’s talking with a few of our defensemen. He stands up straight again and rests both of his palms on top of his stick handle. He gazes at me, then turns his attention to my parents. “It was good to see them.”
He skates off towards where my parents are, then scoops another puck up with his stick blade and sends it over the glass for them.
Goddamn it. Why haven’t I done that yet? Huffing out a breath, I grab a puck as well and do the same. My mother beams at me and I know this puck is going on the already crowded mantel next to one of the pucks from Ander’s first game.
SEVEN
