Page 54 of He Has Pluck

But Jason? What we’ve had is so new and hot and fragile, I’m afraid. Afraid we’ve lost it, and so, so sad that it’s a physical ache in my chest, as if my heart really is breaking.

When did my obsession turn into something more? So what if we shared a few secrets. So what if he gets me at an elemental level. So what if it feels like our connection goes deeper than his cock when it’s inside me. What does that all add up to?

I’m not exactly relationship material. I have my life, and he has his. And the acknowledgment of this truth saddens me so much that I find tears dripping off my cheeks and swipe them away viciously.

Get a reality check, Sullivan. You chose this life. If it was easy, everyone would do it.

I don’t want to give up on Jason in spite of everything working against us and all the reasons I shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t be remotely interested in him, should instead be bored silly by him. On my twentieth or so time around the room, refusing to examine why I feel this way, why all my normal defenses against bad relationships—or any relationships—are suddenly and thoroughly failing, I need to do something more constructive.

I have to get Jason back, even if it’s to finish this thing between us on my own terms, with the hot sex and without the connection. I need to stand up to whatever it is that’s dragging me down, that’s making me want something from him he doesn’t have and I have no business wanting.

And most importantly, I have to make sure I don’t stand in the way of him getting his dream along the way whether I get mine or not. I need to save him from himself because he played like shit tonight and that can’t continue.

Why do I care? Hell, because he’s a decent man. He deserves whatever dream he has, no matter how stupid a dream it is.

Hell, maybe I can give him a push and help him get there. How? Only time and opportunity will tell. But I’ll make sure the world—or at least the small corner of it that watches the documentary—knows he’s a damn good hockey player, a hard worker and a decent, honest guy, maybe even heroic based on what passes for heroic in the hockey-going layer of society.

And who the hell am I to disagree?

Rushing back into the office, I grab my phone and scroll my contacts until I find Ruminski, then I stab the icon with force and call him.

Chapter Eighteen

JASON

Game two of the series is a matinee at the Garden, and surprisingly, the fans still cheer when I come out onto the ice. My mother and my twin brother Josh are at the game, forcing me to double down on my focus to play the best game of my life. I glance at Juliette sitting just behind the bench as she fiddles with the lens on her camera, addicted to her beauty, the cool calm competence that hasn’t failed, even after I rejected her.

She texted me good luck today, and in her own way, I think she means it. She wants me to win, wants me to succeed. But she doesn’t want me. Except for my body, the fucking awesome sex, maybe. As for that connection I feel, and I know she feels too, I’m not so sure she wants that. Correction—I’m fucking sure as hell she wants nothing to do with that part. It’s what makes her so damn prickly. Big revelation. I shake my head, focusing on center ice.

The ref blows the whistle, and the puck drops, and I can’t believe my head is on her instead of the game. Fuck that. I keep my eyes riveted to the ice and vow to keep my attention on the hockey. The last thing I want to do is let my teammates and coach down, or my brother and mom. They’re watching me play for the NHL in person for the first time.

And I don’t want to give up on my fucking dream. Not now when I know I can make it, when I’m as close as a skate blade away.

Sweat drips everywhere, off the end of my chin, down my temples and from my forehead into my eyes. I yell for the kid, Pat, to squirt water in my face to wash the salt from my eyes as I blink at the fucking scoreboard. We’re losing one to zip, and there are less than ten minutes left in the third period.

Desperation seeps into the air on the bench, and that makes me angry.

“Shit. Where’s our fucking determination?” I yell down the bench. A couple of the guys turn to me. Rafe looks at me, his expression pained, and I direct all my fierce rage at him, all the revolt at losing, at my NHL career slipping away. All the passion left in my body roars to life, and I stand and start banging my stick against the boards, and I shout.

“Let’s get a fucking goal, you goddamn bastards.” Energy surges in me, and when the ref blows New York off-sides, I don’t need to wait for Coach to signal a line change. With all the rage, frustration and hope in me, coalescing from the last couple of weeks, I jump over the boards onto the ice and race to the faceoff circle. We’re inside New York’s blue line, and there’s no fucking way we’re leaving this zone without a goal. I yell as much to the guys.

O’Rourke taps my pads and signals for me to take the faceoff. I shift to the spot across from New York’s center and bend at the waist, my stick hovering over the spot where the puck will drop. The ref pushes me back slightly, and everything in me focuses. The next seconds travel in slow motion, stretching to minutes in my head.

The instant the puck hits the ice, my stick covers it, and I sweep it behind me to the exact spot where our defenseman catches it and passes it to Rafe, who’s skating front and center of the net, attracting the two defensemen like a magnet. He passes it over to me where I am on the faceoff circle, and I want to one-time it, but I don’t have a shot, can’t see the net with all the guys in front of it.

But O’Rourke circles around, close in, and looks at me. Our eyes connect in a blink, and I pass him the puck, fast and hard, and it bullets toward him. He tips the puck off his stick and redirects the puck past the goalie and into the near corner of the net.

Our celebration is intense, as tears join the drops of sweat on my face in rejoice of the reprieve as if I’ve escaped the guillotine. But it’s a short celebration as Rafe points at the scoreboard to remind us we’ve only tied the fucking game. I don’t want to, but I come off the ice, and the second line heads out. Tony G is out there, and I pray to God that I don’t care if he’s an obnoxious asshole; please let him score a fucking goal, just so we can win. It’s the equivalent of making a deal with the devil in my currently scared-as-shit depraved mind.

The hockey gods take pity on our team, and we win 2-1. Tony G got an assist, the same as I did, and he doesn’t let me forget it on the way to the locker room, reaching up into the crowd as we walk down the chute, bumping his glove with anyone and everyone he can reach. I don’t have the energy. I swear it feels like the team breathes a sigh of relief as we fill the locker room, spent.

“Great game, boys,” Rafe says. “We fought hard and won.” There’s a lack of enthusiasm in his words and a tightness in his smile.

“You better believe it,” Tony says. Some of the guys slap high fives.

Even though we won, there’s more relief than celebration in the air. It’s like we weren’t sure we would win. The edge of uncertainty is palpable. I can’t shake the feeling despite all the positive talk.

Restless discontent moves me. Tension grips my muscles, and a spasm forces me to stand. I whip the towel in my hand, lashing it out in no one’s direction, but Juliette jumps back as if I’m aiming it at her. I laugh.