Page 15

CHAPTER 15

Naomi

I had no idea there were so many whistles in hockey. Or at least, for so many boring things. I would maybe have expected whistles for players punching each other in the face but have to admit I’m a little disappointed.

I mean, I wouldn’t feel good about Camden fighting. Probably. I shouldn’t feel good about it—both for the sake of his face and also for the example it might set for Liam. But hockey fights are different than street fights. This is what I’m telling myself. I’d be able to say this with more confidence if I actually got to see a fight.

Camden isn’t on the ice right now, which makes it a good time for questions, which Liam and Bailey, sitting on my other side, have happily answered through most of the first period. The other WAGs—I’m with Parker and want to come up with a new name—are up in a special family area, and we’ll go up there during intermission.

But I suspect the three of us will end up back down here, closer to the action. Even if there’s free food.

I wasn’t sure how it would be at a loud event like this with someone as quiet as Bailey. She seems to actually thrive in the noise and chaos, and I find that I like her even more than I did the first time we met.

She has an inherent sweetness to her, which, on someone else, might be an annoying characteristic. With Bailey, it’s not.

She isn’t cloyingly sweet or fake sweet. Just genuinely kind.

Then again, when some guy on the other team knocked Eli down earlier, she did yell some things that might have gotten her arrested if she were yelling those words anywhere but a hockey game.

While the guys were out doing warm-ups, Bailey told me a little about her relationship with Eli. She fell for him totally not knowing who he was and not knowing the first thing about hockey. I asked how it works with the travel and schedule and Eli being semi-famous.

“At times, really hard,” she told me, biting into the chocolate bar Eli slipped me in the locker room and asked me to deliver. “But also, completely worth it. You find a way to make the hard things tolerable, the not-so-great parts manageable, and the rough patches navigable. Because the person you love makes all those difficult things forgettable.”

Simple words, spoken with a raw honesty that squeezed between my ribs and lodged right in my heart like an arrow.

“Now what?” I groan, as the refs blow the whistles again, just when two Appies were chasing a puck down toward the other team’s goal.

“That’s an icing call,” Liam explains as the play stops for like the fourth time in as many minutes. “Did you see how the ref has his arm up? That tells you it’s icing.”

“What even is icing?”

Liam patiently explains the rule, which keeps defensive players from just whacking the puck out of their zone and all the way to the other end of the ice over and over. Apparently, one of the Appies just did that to clear the puck. Though there’s no score on the board yet, it’s been very back and forth.

“But why can’t they just hit it all the way down? And they did that over and over again just a minute ago without any whistles.”

“That was during a power play,” Liam explains. “If you’re down a man and on the penalty kill, you can ice it all you want.”

Bailey leans closer so I can hear her soft voice over the din in the sold-out arena. “They put the rule in place to stop teams from doing it over and over to protect a lead. It would be really annoying to watch.”

I guess I can see that. What I can’t see most of the time is the puck. It moves so fast that by the time I locate it, I lose it again. Liam told me to watch the players’ bodies rather than looking directly for the puck, but I still get lost.

Except when Camden is on the ice. And because he’s on what Liam explained is the top defensive pairing, he’s out there a lot. Then, I don’t really give a rip where the puck is—Camden has my full focus. His job involves a lot of knocking guys into the boards and trying to get pucks out of the defensive zone—without icing.

Once I got over thinking he was going to get hurt every time he slammed into someone, I started to enjoy watching him.

It was one thing to see Cam on ice with Liam during the class, where slow and steady is the name of the game.

Tonight, I’ve seen Camden’s explosive power and speed that has honestly left me awed. Like, this quiet man, this secretly funny man, this patient man—he’s holding all this inside him all the time?

All the buzz about hockey romances—okay, fine. I get it now.

As Camden hops over the bench and takes position on the ice for a face-off (look at me with the hockey terms!), I lean forward, my hands clenched. We’re only a few rows back from the glass, in great seats that Parker arranged for us, but if I could, I’d have my face pressed up against the glass.

The ref drops the puck, and Eli knocks it back to Camden, and Bailey claps beside me. It gives me a little baby buzz to realize that guy out there—the one who just cut to a stop behind his net and switched directions to make a pass is mine .

Mine-ish.

We’ve danced around the topic of labeling our relationship this week, with Camden keeping up a party line of saying he wants to be serious but slow.

My personality hears slow and wants to jam my foot on the gas, but Camden’s schedule will definitely help in this department. He left the morning after our lunch for a few road games. Other than a few video calls we had in addition to our now-daily texts, I didn’t get to see him until last night—and only for a few minutes.

You up? he’d messaged me at close to midnight.

Duh, I responded. I’ve been waiting to hear you landed safely.

For some trips, I guess the team takes a charter bus, but this time, they flew to the West Coast for a series against a team in Bakersfield.

Knock knock , he’d texted next, and by the time I realized why, he was actually knocking softly at my front door.

I threw myself into his arms and barely felt the cold as he pressed me up against the front of the house and kissed me until I could hardly breathe.

Then he put me down and stepped back. “Go inside before your toes fall off,” he’d ordered in just the kind of tone I both love and want to disobey.

I crossed my arms and stood my ground. “You’re not coming in?”

“Nope. Just needed to see you.”

When I tried to protest, he only grinned, backing away to his car while repeating, “Serious and slow.”

When I got back inside and put on socks to warm my feet up, I composed a long text making an argument for why slow and steady wouldn’t actually win the race and therefore he should consider another catch phrase.

He’d texted back four words: Something to think about.

Then three more: Serious and slow.

Serious and slow. Serious—and slow. His new mantra, his chorus line, and the bane of my current existence. At least … the slow part. I have no problem with serious.

In truth, it’s probably a wise choice to go slow. This is my first real adult relationship. I can’t pretend to know what I’m doing or how this works. And though Liam loves Camden and vice versa, it’s not enough. If things progressed to the level of a marriage type commitment, Camden has to be okay not just being a husband, but an instant dad.

He’d see Liam at his worst, when he’s being bratty or difficult. Admittedly, this isn’t often. Liam’s a stellar kid. But maybe such a big change would make him bratty and difficult?

No—I doubt it. Not with how much Liam loves and looks up to Camden. It would be an adjustment, but Liam would be absolutely thrilled .

Which brings up a whole other issue making slow a good choice—What if it doesn’t work out?

Like last summer, I’d be dealing with my own heartbreak plus my kid’s. Only much worse, because things are already more intense than they were. I guess that’s how it works when you restart a relationship: you aren’t starting over exactly, but spring-boarding from where you left off.

Also, Cam wouldn’t be signing up just for the Liam of right now. I’ve lived through a whole host of developmental changes. One of the biggest is still to come: the teen years. Who knows how he’ll behave when puberty hits Liam full force.

Sticking with me for the long haul is like shacking up to someone holding a grenade. There’s a chance it might not go off, but you won’t know until it does!

Has Camden even considered that? Do I need to warn him of all the worst-case scenarios that come with me like a bag of party un favors?

If those reasons weren’t enough, Camden has Mike, and that’s a whole other complication I’m not sure about. Mike is great, and it’s amazing what Cam is doing for him, but even from our brief conversation over lunch and the few we’ve had this week, I can’t help but wonder if he’s in over his head.

And is Mike a package deal for Camden like Liam is for me? Again, this is looking maybe too far ahead, but it’s definitely something to consider.

Begrudgingly, I think serious and slow is the right choice. Even if I don’t like it.

“Yeah!” Liam and Bailey jump up along with most of the arena as a very loud horn sounds. I guess we scored.

I’m a few seconds behind everyone else getting to my feet but waste no time screaming because Camden is out there, part of a group hug involving all the Appies on the ice.

“Did Camden score?” I ask Liam, shouting to be heard over the horn that won’t stop blaring.

“No. Eli got the goal, but Camden got a point,” Liam says.

“I … don’t understand.”

“Eli scored the goal. But Camden gets a point for an assist.”

Just when I think I am starting to understand hockey, something new confuses me again. “But there’s only one point on the scoreboard. Not two.”

“The points are just hockey stats. Players get a point for a goal and a point for an assist. I’ll show you later. We can look up Camden’s stats.” Liam grins, clearly thrilled that I finally care (at least a little) about his obsession.

“Go Cole!” Liam shouts, his hands cupped around his mouth.

The announcers mostly use the players’ last names or a nickname, so since the game started, Liam dropped Coach Cam in favor of Cole.

I think it’s funny I didn’t know Camden’s last name until today. We had no need to be so formal on the island last summer, and Cam’s social media handle is simply Camden_CO11.

The celebratory hugging has broken up, and the guys on the ice skate by the short wall, tapping gloves with their teammates on the bench. The horn finally stops blaring, but the fans are still on their feet. An upbeat 90s rock ballad blasts over the speakers while the big screens above us show the goal again in slow motion.

Camden passed to someone whose number I couldn’t see, and that guy passed it to Eli, who was planted in front of the goal and barely tipped it in. When they show it at regular speed, I can’t even see the puck.

How in the world do goalies ever stop them? It makes no sense to me, even if I’ve watched Felix make multiple saves tonight.

Wearing thirty pounds of pads, apparently, which was one of the facts I learned from Liam on the drive here and still remember for whatever reason.

All in all, I’m more impressed—and slightly confused—by hockey than ever before. And as far as how it’s impacted my view of Camden … well, let’s just say I’m a fan.

As he takes his spot on the bench, I don’t miss the way he scans our section. Though he’s all the way across the ice, I know when he’s found me because his gaze stops. He doesn’t smile, but he inclines his head the smallest bit, kind of a less bro-y chin lift. Grinning, I wave wildly because I just don’t care if I look silly.

Seeing me wave, Liam glances over at the bench, then he starts waving too. Camden’s smile grows, though he appears to be trying to hide it behind a water bottle. We’re being kind of ridiculous, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Bailey leans over, a knowing smile on her face. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it?”

It is. And it might be the hockey high talking, but for once, when it comes to a man in my life, letting loose seems like the best option of all.

* * *

During the break between periods—intermission, Liam corrected when I referred to it as halftime—Bailey, Liam, and I head up to the box Parker told me about. It’s similar to the family suite downstairs with food and drinks and comfy seating with several screens. Unlike the suite, which is somewhere in the bowels of the building, this box is high with a great view of the ice. It also has a decent number of people I don’t know milling around.

I hoped for a few familiar faces, but I haven’t seen Parker since the locker room, and she told me Grey is working. We probably won’t see her tonight—at least until after the game when we’re all going to Felix’s. I’d rather not go with my kid in tow, but since I haven’t figured out a babysitter, it’s take him or not go at all. Parker assured me it won’t be some wild party and they’d be happy to have us both. I’m also reluctant to keep Liam up so late on a school night, but this game had a five o’clock start time, so it won’t be that bad. Probably.

Liam immediately gravitates toward the food again, making me wonder if he’s about to hit another growth spurt. I should eat, but my nervous stomach says otherwise.

“There they are,” Bailey says, linking her arm through mine. “Come on and I’ll introduce you.”

Gracie is talking to two other women who wave as they see us crossing the room. All three are dressed up, wearing skirts with nicer tops, not jerseys and jeans like Bailey and me. But I notice each wears something with a number on it that I assume belongs to their guy.

The woman with dark hair in a sleek ponytail has on a gold necklace with a delicate number twenty-three hanging down over her black scoop neck blouse. Gracie wears a charm bracelet with a variety of hockey and other related things. The biggest charm is a thirty-one inlaid with what looks like tiny sparkling diamonds. When the woman with soft, honey-blond waves turns, I realize she’s wearing a fitted short-sleeved shirt with a thirty-seven across the front.

“Naomi, this is Summer and Amelia. They’re married to Nathan and Van, respectively.”

“Apologies. I know it might be hard to keep us all straight,” Summer says.

It is, but meeting the women a few at a time has helped. If I had met them all at once, I’d never remember their names and couldn’t say which guy they’re with unless I have a program in hand to know whose numbers they’re wearing.

“I’m glad y’all decided to grace us with your presence,” Amelia teases.

But it’s playful, and Bailey rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “You know I like watching the game from actual seats. Though I do like the free food and drinks. Speaking of which … want something?” she asks me.

I glance over, where Liam balances two hot dogs and some cookies on a plate while swigging a giant plastic cup of soda.

“Maybe in a minute. Thanks.”

I realize as soon as she leaves that I should have gone with her because I’m now feeling like the new girl on the first day of school. Not sure if I’m wearing the right clothes. I hate giving into that kind of insecurity, so I remind myself that everyone has been great to me and shove down the stupid feelings.

“Let’s,” Summer says, nodding to a seating area that just opened up.

I end up on a couch between Gracie and Amelia with Summer taking a chair next to us. We can still hear the buzz of the arena from the open balcony and the televisions play quietly, but overall, the noise is a bit muted, which is a relief. The couch is definitely preferable to the seats downstairs.

“You look ready to be convinced you should stay up here with us in the fancy seats,” Summer says.

“And the free food,” Bailey says, sitting down with a plate that’s mostly sugary things.

“And away from all the fans.” Amelia gives a dramatic little shiver.

“Do fans give any of you a hard time?” I ask.

I’m sure the women are publicly linked with the guys through photographs or articles, but I’d be surprised if they would be recognizable in a crowd.

Or maybe I’m just not in the hockey bubble to understand how obsessive the fans get.

“Not me,” Gracie says. “I just prefer a little space from the chaos down there. I get less nervous for Felix up here. I’m not sure why.”

“My dad’s the coach,” Amelia says, taking a sip of her white wine. “Every so often I get recognized and people want to talk to me or tell me what my dad is doing right. Or wrong.” She smirks. “And if anyone happens to know who my husband is, I might get an earful. Especially from the other team’s fans for whatever Van might have said or done on the ice. He’s always the most hated player by other teams.”

She says it proudly, which surprises me. I don’t think I’d handle that kind of negative attention well. I might end up fighting someone if they made a comment about Camden.

“Don’t worry,” Bailey says. “We mostly go unnoticed and unrecognized. If you don’t want attention, you can absolutely avoid it.”

Amelia laughs, but it’s not unkind. “I think we’re still traumatizing her. Do we need a subject change? Because I have to assume you’re the reason Camden is finally playing well tonight. We’ll really be in trouble with my dad and the guys if we scare you off.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Honestly, it’s probably good to know this kind of thing before …”

I trail off, not wanting to say before I get fully invested .

I’m already invested in Camden—even after he left and I didn’t want to care about him—I did. But now, until there’s some kind of official title on the table, I’m saving an escape hatch for myself.

Just in case.

In case I don’t love this hockey life or this version of Camden. Though so far, in this admittedly small sample size of experience, I’m loving it.

Or even in case I don’t turn out to be the kind of person who can handle a long-term committed relationship. I have no idea what will happen if my restlessness starts to buzz again and Camden becomes the collateral damage with my need for change.

Or in case this relationship seems like a bad choice for Liam for any reason at all.

My eyes find my son across the room, parked in a chair in front of a flat screen, watching replays as he shovels cookies into his mouth. He’s been on whatever cloud is above Cloud 9 since he got to read the lineup. This might just be the best night of his life. I’m happy for that, and I’m happy he’s glued to the screens.

I don’t really want him to be involved in this conversation. For all his hockey knowledge, what it’s like to be in a relationship with a player isn’t something he has stats on. Or that I want him thinking about.

“Actually, can I ask some nosy questions about being with a guy who does this for a living?” I jerk my thumb toward the screen Liam’s watching, where a goal is being replayed in slow motion.

“Nosy questions are my favorite kind,” says Amelia with the kind of sly grin that makes me feel certain she’s the perfect counterpart for Van and his smart mouth.

“Happy to answer what I can,” Summer says. “I’m a pretty open book.”

“I like the way you worded that,” Gracie tells me. “Because a good starting point is to remember hockey is their job . Identity gets tied up in there too, but ultimately, it is their career. A different one than, say, an office job, but still. It is but it isn’t who they are .”

I see her point, but also how different this would be as a job, and also how identity would get tangled up in hockey, maybe more than other, typical jobs.

“The pay isn’t bad,” Amelia says with a smirk. “On the very shallowest of sides, that’s a perk.”

“I thought minor league players didn’t make much,” I say, feeling slightly awkward mentioning money. But I did google this, and the base salary for an AHL player was somewhere around fifty thousand dollars a year. Which sounded incredibly low for how much time this takes and also the amount of success these guys seem to have.

“Not all AHL players make great money,” Summer says. “But it depends on their contracts—many of these guys have a contract with the NHL affiliate. Plus, the Appies are incredibly popular because of social media. I handle a lot of their contracts with brands, and they do well.”

“I’m not interested in Camden for the money,” I say quickly. “And not having tons of money wouldn’t be a dealbreaker. We’ve definitely scraped by for a lot of years.”

“Me too,” Bailey says. “And you don’t need to defend yourself about the money. Honestly, it does make some things easier—like my vet school—but we can tell you’re not just with Camden for that.”

“Best thing about dating a hockey player?”

Gracie smiles at this. “The best thing? It has nothing to do with hockey. The best thing is just who the guys are.”

“Agreed,” Summer says.

“I like that they come ready-made with friends.” Amelia smiles. “Without being too cheesy—their friendships and the ones we get.”

“The worst part,” Gracie says, “assuming you were going to ask about that too, is the uncertainty. We’ve had a good run with the guys mostly staying put. But they won’t forever. Or even for long. Logan definitely will be called up soon. It’s a matter of time.”

“And cap space,” Summer adds.

I don’t know what that means, but Liam has mentioned salary caps before, so I can assume it has something to do with however that works.

“We lost Wyatt to Boston before this season started. Camden was close with him, I think,” Gracie says.

“It doesn’t happen as much in the AHL as the NHL, but sometimes the moves happen really quickly,” Summer says. “Right before a game or in the middle of the game. The player might need to be on a plane that afternoon, leaving the wife or girlfriend to pack up their life and join him … or do long distance.”

Long distance isn’t something I want to do—it’s one of the things I kept telling myself last summer when I was trying to keep my feelings for Camden in check. If it weren’t for Liam, I could thrive under uncertainty. I’m sure my restlessness would love the idea of a new city. Travel and a fresh start.

But I’m not a single woman in her twenties. I’m a single mother in her twenties. Though I just made a multi-state move in the middle of the school year that’s working just fine, it wouldn’t be fair to Liam to keep doing that.

“Some of the guys have been here for years,” Bailey says, clearly reading the internal freakout I’m having on my face. “There are career AHL players who spend years on one team.”

“Like Felix,” Gracie says. “He turned away offers to go elsewhere. He wants to stay.”

“And Alec,” Summer says. “Before he retired, he was here forever. What else do you want to know?”

Of course, now my brain blanks with what other questions I might ask. I happen to glance down at the rink and my eye catches on two women seated behind the bench. I remember seeing them hold up posters with their phone numbers when the guys sat down for warm-ups. My brain circles back to what Amelia said about the fans.

“Is it weird being with a guy while knowing there are probably dozens of women who have no shame about sliding into their DMs?”

“Dozens is a low estimate,” Amelia says with a laugh, and it makes my stomach twist.

“I hate it,” Bailey confesses, looking at me apologetically. “And though I trust Eli, he’s so sweet and friendly, those qualities can make it harder when it comes to someone who’s pushy or manipulative.”

“You know Eli says no and draws lines when he needs to,” Gracie says kindly, reaching over to touch Bailey’s arm.

“I do know,” Bailey says. “Sometimes … I still worry or feel insecure. That’s on me, but it does come with the territory.”

“It’s definitely one of the worst parts,” Gracie agrees. “The public nature of what they do and the way people feel a sense of ownership. Or like because they follow them on social media or know their stats or watch interviews that they know them.”

“Ugh—social media,” Amelia says. “I do hate that. I can’t go on my own feed without seeing edits of my husband.”

“Edits?” I ask.

“Fans put together video clips or photo montages to music,” Amelia explains. “Often with a caption like, ‘Possibly the One’ or ‘NGL—I’d have his babies tomorrow.’”

“Ew. People really do that?”

“Yes,” they all say in unison.

Gracie wrinkles her nose. “And those are pretty tame examples.”

“I actually like the edits of Nathan,” Summer says, laughing. “Because I don’t want to do the work of making them, but I like looking at Nathan. It’s like they’re giving me a little gift. And if they’re too creepy or weird with the captions or song choice, I just report them for copyright infringement since they don’t have permission to use most of the clips they use.”

Amelia cackles. “Summer! Are you serious?”

Summer shrugs, looking unapologetic. “Sometimes I’m petty. I won’t apologize for it.”

“Can I report videos, too?” Bailey asks.

“Yup. And if that doesn’t work, I can also send a legal takedown notice. Half the time, they’re using videos the Appies own.”

“I love having a lawyer friend,” Amelia says with a laugh. “I wish I had a cool skill to contribute. Gracie can play amazing music, and Bailey can spay or neuter our pets.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! You could write our life stories,” Bailey says. “And I can’t spay or neuter pets until I’m done with vet school.” She makes a face. “Also, saying I can just spay and neuter animals sounds really weird. How about … I can help people find the perfect dog to adopt?”

“I want to adopt a dog!”

Liam appears behind me, and I almost jump out of my skin. I’m just grateful he wasn’t here when we were talking about edits.

But maybe this is actually worse.

“Can we?” he asks, borderline begging.

“We can’t have a dog right now,” I tell him. For like the hundredth time.

Look—I like dogs. All animals, really. But dogs require a stability we haven’t had, what with me switching jobs and moving from Oakley to Savannah then back to Oakley, mostly staying in apartments where we—let’s be honest, I —would be responsible for walking the dog all the time without having a yard. Liam is responsible. But would he do most of the dog-related things? Probably not. Because he’s responsible for a ten-year-old .

“But now we’re in a house,” he argues now. “There’s a fenced yard and everything.”

“A house we rent . I’m sure the rental agreement says no pets.”

“Did you even look at the rental agreement?”

I signed it. Did I read it? Unlikely. But I definitely will now .

Before I can answer, Liam turns his full charm on Bailey. “Can you help us find a dog to adopt?”

Bailey glances between us. Liam, with his adorable, pleading eyes. Me with desperate ones saying Don’t you dare .

“Um,” she says.

Just then the announcer welcomes the Appies back to the ice and the crowd cheers.

I stand up. “We better get back to our seats! Time for the second half.”

I know very well it’s a period, not a half, and that there are three of them in a hockey game.

But I’m hoping to distract Liam from any talk of dogs, and it works because he corrects me and then talks about the breakdown of a hockey game all the way back down to our seats.