Page 63 of Risking the Pucking Defense

I exhale a heavy breath as the weight of that realization makes me want to strip this tux off and crawl under my sheets instead of spending the night socializing.

It’s going to be okay.

You’ve got this.

I nod, trying to believe my little pep talk before spinning around, pocketing my cell and wallet, slipping my feet into my shoes, grabbing my mask, and walking toward my front door.

The car is due any minute, and as much as I might want to bail on this whole night, I’m not going to do it.

I’m barely on the sidewalk when a blacked-out town car appears before me.

Taking another steeling breath, I pull it open and peer inside.

“Whoa, look at you,” Bea gushes, making my cheeks heat.

“Excuse me?” Rett grunts.

Bea rolls her eyes, ignoring her fiancé as he pouts. “You’re so gonna score,” she says confidently.

I won’t lie, her words lift me up a little, even if I have no intention of spending the night with a woman. Well, that’s a lie—there is one I’d quite happily spend the night with, even if all we do is watch musicals on TV.

“What’s that smile?” Rett asks. “Have you met someone?”

“What? No,” I argue, possibly a little too forcefully. “When the hell would I have had time for that?”

Rett shrugs. “There’s always time.”

I don’t respond, and I also don’t lose their suspicious gazes.

Thankfully, despite clearly not believing me, they change the subject. It’s almost enough to distract me from what’s about to happen, but not quite.

I’m a nervous wreck as the car pulls up in front of the hotel where tonight’s event is being hosted. Aside from the press conferences and interviews the PR team have organized in the lead-up to our first games, I’ve managed to steer clear of the media. Tonight, though, they’re right outside, and they’re about to take photos of me that will forever document the pain etched into my features.

“Are you okay?” Bea asks, her small hand landing on my upper arm, squeezing gently in support.

“I had Rylee with me last year,” I whisper. “It’s just…” I let the words trail off. They don’t need saying.

“You’ve got this,” Rett says confidently.

“And she’s right here with you,” Bea says. “Always.”

I close my eyes, hoping to banish the tears that threaten.

As I expected, Bea welcomed us all in with open arms the other night after my breakdown at the bar, and we spent a few hours forgetting about life while she beat all of us at CoD. Honestly, for such a sweet and thoughtful woman, she’s a beast with an Xbox controller and a shotgun.

“Yeah,” I agree before the door opens and the chaos happening outside the car rushes in.

I’ve got this.

I step out and focus on the crowd, on the kids at the front who call my name. While my actual mask for tonight might be in my pocket, I pull on the figurative one I need to get through this as I smile for photos and sign anything that’s thrust at me, letting myself get swept along by those who support us day in, day out, win or lose.

By the time I step into the hotel, my heart is full. I love all our fans, but it’s the kids that really get me. The ones who look up at us and see their dreams playing out in real life. We are the proof that it’s possible. I remember what it felt like and how inspired I was every time I caught a glimpse of a real-life NHL player the few times we went to watch the Seattle Bandits when I was a kid.

A hand lands on my shoulder as I make my way toward the bar, and when I look back, I find Killer stepping up beside me.

“You killed it out there,” he tells me. “And of course, looked insane doing it.”

I laugh. “Thanks, man. You’re not looking too awful either. The black eye really sets off the color of your bowtie.”