Page 16

CHAPTER 16

Camden

The hour after our game almost kills me. It’s interminably slow.

Coach doesn’t keep us long, since his notes can basically be summed up by him telling us we played well, and that we can't take our foot off the gas through the stretch leading to the playoffs.

Yeah, yeah. Got it. Play good hockey. Repeat.

I expected a little more of a speech after our decisive five-one win, since Coach loves a good win and gets a little wordy. Tonight, I didn’t mind the brevity.

But then Larry Jensen appears like a mustachioed specter in the locker room, wanting to give us an owner’s speech, which is basically a whole lot of grandstanding about how we are doing. Last time I looked, the man wasn’t on the ice. Or at a practice. I’m not sure what he does, other than overbook us for all kinds of appearances and activities designed to exhaust us and line his bank account.

Coach barely holds back his eye rolls, and when the two of them disappear into Coach’s office, I’m reminded of the tense meeting they had the first day I found Liam in class.

I’d forgotten all about the yelling and haven’t thought once about the potential shift in the organization it might signify. But the tightness in Coach’s mouth before he shuts the door makes me feel more certain something bad is happening literally behind those closed doors.

Before I can escape to the showers, I’m forced into doing post-game interviews, which I’ve avoided for the past few months. Partly because I’ve played so poorly no one wanted to talk to me, and partly because the only person worse at interviews than I am is Nathan.

I’m not a grouch like he is, glaring at the press like they’re personally violating his space and privacy, but I’m not eloquent. Alec was always good at giving good sound bites—saying things that sounded smart, showing off his hockey IQ. Van is good for the kind of funny quotes that go viral on social media. And then there’s me.

I give the quintessential dumb hockey player interview people make fun of online. Yeah, we uh, just tried to control the puck, uh, get it in deep and, uh, put it in the back of the net. Yeah.

My yeahs and uhs are out in full force, and I can tell the correspondents are not getting what they want from me because they look bored.

Good. Maybe they won’t ask me to do interviews ever again.

I take the fastest shower possible to wash off the sweat and the stink of the game. I give myself a little extra scrub for good measure. Per the usual, I ignore most of the conversations in the room as I button up my dress shirt. My wet hair drips down my back, and I think about Mike saying I need a haircut. Maybe he’s right.

The past few months, I’ve been rushing home to Mike. But there’s very little worry now that I’ve got a team of three home caregivers who split the time. Jordan, who remains my favorite, is there now. I’d like to get both of them out to a game sometime, maybe with Liam and Naomi. But for now, I’ve set up an app on the TVs at home so they can watch.

Good game! Jordan texted. Mike says to be home by curfew, but I say stay out as late as you want.

So, it’s not worrying about Mike that has me disengaged with the guys and rushing to get ready. Tonight, I’m in my head and not paying attention in the room because I know Naomi and Liam are waiting for me, and every moment I’m in here, not out there, feels endless.

Someone smacks me on the arm with a damp towel. Van. I wish he hadn’t stripped the towel off his body to hit me with it, but … it’s Van. “Finally, Cole! You showed up.”

I frown. “What? I’ve been here the whole time.”

“No, I mean, your head was back in the game.”

“Cammie’s back, baby!” Eli crows.

I ignore the other guys agreeing, but they’re right. I was back on the ice, figuratively speaking.

And it felt really good. Great, actually. I’d forgotten the whole-body satisfaction of a game played hard. I’m sore but my muscles are singing and adrenaline soaked.

But it wasn’t so much that my head was in the game. My head was with Naomi and Liam, sitting a few rows back near the center line. I may not have looked up every time I was near, but I was constantly aware of them. Aware of how my actions on the ice might look to them. I wanted to make a good showing, to make them proud.

If I was effective on the ice, it’s because I needed to prove something to them both. Even if I already know they’re two people who wouldn’t see me differently if I’d played as badly as I have all season.

I wanted to be better. For them. And maybe, a little, for myself.

For the kid who wanted to look up and see his mom and dad in the stands. Maybe, just once, his sisters. The teenage boy who was almost a man but still felt like a kid. A kid who very much wanted his family to show up. To care. To make the bare minimum of effort.

There was Mike, and it helped to be wanted by someone , but I wanted to be wanted by my parents . Seeing how quickly they gave up on me made all my previous memories feel tainted somehow. Like, could the happy, normal family I remembered be real if they could just move on without me—like I’d never been part of them at all?

I couldn’t grasp that. Still can’t.

I’m usually better now about gatekeeping these thoughts at games, but tonight, having Naomi and Liam here stirred up the memories and the sense of longing that used to drive me.

For a few years after my sisters were born, as it started to sink in that my family had changed, the hurt morphed into an anger that drove me. The emotions I couldn’t process became my fuel. I became a better hockey player because of it, but also a bit of a goon. Late hits, dirty hits, any hits. I chased the pain and used the physical roughness as a way to work out my feelings.

Only, it didn’t work. And it was Mike who finally called me out on it.

My first year of college, he came to one of my games where we won, but I had two minor penalties and then got thrown out with two minutes left for back-checking their star center into the boards. Coach wasn’t happy with me, but I didn’t think it was a huge deal. We won. I led the team in hits and had two blocks. So what if I also got kicked out?

Afterward, Mike took me to a diner where they served breakfast all day. I scarfed down eggs and bacon while Mike sipped a malt.

I didn’t notice how quiet he was—probably because I was running on a post-game high—until he said, “You’re playing against ghosts, Cam.”

I almost choked on my eggs. Immediately defensive because I knew he was right, I started to argue. But when he shook his head, I noticed he had tears in his eyes. That shut me up.

“You’re playing against ghosts, which means you can’t win. You will always lose,” he told me. “Every time. The only way to win is to stop playing against them. Let the ghosts go.”

I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to recognize the truth. In fact, after Mike dropped me off, I met up with my teammates and drank myself into oblivion.

But I woke up the next day with a pounding headache and an unignorable clarity: I didn’t want to fight the ghosts.

That one talk changed not only how I played hockey but how I lived. I still felt—and feel—hurt and rejected and confused. But I didn’t let those feelings be my fuel. I stopped fighting the ghosts.

And I never got to tell Mike that because soon after is when everyone found out about his affair. His life imploded, and it felt like the wrong time to thank him. We sort of drifted apart then. Nothing like what happened with my parents. We still talked, but he came to fewer games, and we didn’t have any more heart-to-hearts.

He was, I suspect, ashamed of his actions. And I was still just a kid, probably too focused on my own self to know what to say.

Anyway, tonight was the first time in years I thought about my parents not being here. But instead of those wounds reopening and being any kind of motivation for my play, I simply recognized the hurt and let it go.

Naomi and Liam being in the stands, being there for me was like a balm, soothing over those past scars.

I know this is probably too much weight to place on them. I’m moving too fast, wanting too much.

But it doesn’t seem possible to staunch the flow of my feelings. So, I just … gave in.

I didn’t even know what the score was for most of the game. I just knew I needed to win every battle along the boards, clear the zone, and hit anyone who had the puck. Each shift on the ice was about doing the work. For them.

The by-product, I guess, is that my teammates are thrilled. Yay .

“You’re coming over, right?” Felix asks.

Though a handful of the guys have already cleared out, our goalie still hasn’t showered. After a game, he sits in front of his stall for at least thirty minutes, stripped down to his bare chest up top but still wearing his goalie pants and pads. He’s never said why or what he’s thinking about when he sits there, but I suspect he’s trying to replay every shot on goal and his response.

Goalies are weird.

“I’ll be there,” I tell him. If I ever get out of this locker room. I’ve changed back into my game-day suit, which I probably will change out of as soon as we get to Felix’s. But I was in such a rush earlier, I left my other change of clothes in my car.

I don’t really mind wearing a suit in front of Naomi. She’s only ever seen me in beach clothes, hockey gear, and casual clothes.

“Are you bringing Naomi and Liam?” Eli clasps his hands together like he’s begging. “Please say yes. We need to thank them and see what we can do about getting them to every game so you play that well.”

“We promise not to embarrass you too much.” Van smirks.

“The rest of us promise that,” Logan says. “Van absolutely will embarrass you every chance he gets.”

“Consider it a test,” Van says with a shrug, finally pulling on some pants. “If she sticks around afterward, she’s worth it.”

“She’s totally worth it. Did you see this guy lay out their pretty-boy rookie?” Tucker asks. “It was glorious, man.”

“Yeah, you can’t jeopardize that,” Dumbo says, and Tucker gives him a high five. “Maintain the status quo.”

Dominik rolls his eyes and says something in Russian. Tucker looks down at his phone, then cackles.

“Dude, you shouldn’t say stuff like that about his ears. Or his mother.” When Dominik looks at him, confused, Tucker holds up his phone. “I got a translator so I could figure out if you were actually insulting us or not. Spoiler alert, everyone: he absolutely is insulting us. Dumbo, he said your big ears come from a mother who?—”

Tucker gets cut off when Dominik tackles him, grabbing for the phone. Dumbo piles on top, and I step around them all, straightening my tie and ignoring the scuffle.

“Looking sharp,” Van says with an approving look. “Good way to lock that down.”

I roll my eyes and walk on by and pause by Felix. “Need me to bring anything?”

Finally done with his post-game ritual, he stands, stretches with a groan, and starts to remove the rest of his pads. He grins. “Nope. As long as you bring the woman and kid who reminded you how to play hockey, I don’t care if you come in your underwear. Though the suit does look nice.”

As I push my way through the door, I give his bare shoulder a shove, then have to listen to his laughter as I make my way down the hall to find Liam and Naomi.

* * *

The look on Naomi’s face makes wearing the suit worth it. When I walked into the family suite, she dropped her phone but didn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes went hazy, and she bit her lip in a way that made me really have to hold back. Because a few other people are still in the family suite. Including Liam.

He definitely did not care about the suit and practically knocked me over when he threw himself at me in an unexpected hug. This isn’t the first time he’s hugged me, but this hits different somehow. I swallow, hugging him back as I meet Naomi’s gaze over the top of his head.

She still looks a little dazed, and the smile she gives me promises a better greeting later. When we’re alone.

If we’re alone. Going to this party with Liam in tow won’t exactly afford us any privacy. And with Mike at my place and Liam at hers, I guess that’s the way it’s going to be.

Better get used to existing in a state of wanting what I can’t have.

He releases me quickly and starts babbling about the game, his whole face alight with excitement.

“The way you laid that guy out at the end was awesome! And two apples—clutch.”

“Apples?” Naomi asks.

“Assists,” Liam and I say at the same time. He laughs, and Naomi looks between us, smiling as she shakes her head.

“No chance he’s getting over hockey,” she says as I bend down to pick up her phone. “Not now.”

“I was never getting over it,” Liam says. “Get used to it, Mom. Are we really going to Felix’s house?”

“Are you more excited to hang out with Felix than me?” I tease.

“No way. But … he’s really tall.”

“And I’m not?”

Liam scrunches up his face. “I mean, you’re six-one. He’s six-five.”

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk, bud,” Naomi tells him.

“I’m just saying. Cole—I mean, Coach Cam—is hockey average .”

“Hockey average? That’s it. Hold this.” I hand Naomi back her phone, making sure my fingertips brush over her palm a little longer than necessary. Then I toss Liam over my shoulder, balancing him against the weight of my bag, and march out of the family suite. “Someone needs to be thrown in the ice bath.”

I don’t actually throw Liam in the ice bath. But I do walk him down there and threaten it, holding him over the water while he squeals.

Then we make our way out in the cold to the parking lot where I finally set Liam down at the car. “Oh, I brought you something,” I tell him, pulling a puck out of my bag. “It’s the game winning goal. Logan signed it for you.”

Liam goes still, staring at me with wide eyes. “Seriously? He didn’t want to keep it?”

“Nah. He’s already got enough pucks.”

I don’t look at Naomi, but from my peripheral vision, I can see her pressing a hand to her chest. Tentatively, Liam holds out his palm and I drop the puck into it. He turns it over, running his finger over Logan’s messy scrawl in silver Sharpie.

“He wrote my name,” Liam says.

“I told him it was for you.” This earns me another hug, this one tighter and longer.

Finally, I allow my gaze to find Naomi. She still has one hand pressed to her chest, the other wrapped around her waist, like she’s giving herself a hug. She looks somehow both happy and sad at the same time.

“Come here,” I tell her, opening one arm. And then I’m hugging them both, one tucked under each arm.

There’s no moon, so the only light comes from a very unromantic streetlight, but as we stand in the parking lot surrounded by equally unromantic chain link fencing and the sound of highway traffic, it feels like the kind of special moment that’s going to shift my entire world.

Or … like it already has.