Page 15 of Barn Burner (Love The Game #2)

Jesse

“Are we watching the game tonight?” Rhett asks over his shoulder as we wash down his horse, Ivy, who was caked in mud by the time we returned to the barn.

It’s been raining for most of the day, so I’ve been out in the fields helping my dad and Rhett. I’ve just finished rinsing Prince down, but with Ivy being grey, it’s like she attracts the mud more because she’s covered.

“Yeah,” I say gruffly. “Cooper mentioned something about having beers and hot dogs.”

He snorts. “Of course he did. I swear, if he isn’t sleeping, he’s thinking about food.”

I hum in agreement. Our youngest brother eats more than the animals combined.

“I can’t remember the last time we got to catch a game. It definitely wasn’t last season,” he continues, scrunching up his nose. “It’s probably why they lost the Cup.”

“Yes. A professional hockey team lost the championship because we didn’t watch a single game.” I huff, giving my brother a droll look as I use my palm in a downward stroke against Ivy’s leg to squeeze the water from her hair. “Come on now, Rhett, don’t say you believe that superstition shit.”

His answering laughter tells me he’s trying to wind me up, and I roll my eyes.

“How’s Brayden doing?” he asks, and I’m thankful for the change in subject.

“Good. He’s been busy the last few weeks with work. Travellin’.”

“When are you going to see him again?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly, returning my attention to Ivy.

Minutes go by without Rhett saying a word. Sighing, I glance over at him, and his brows are pinched in concern.

“What?”

“You don’t think he’s leadin’ you on?” he asks, then quickly continues when I glare at him. “I don’t mean that as in I think he is, but it’s been over a month now, and you haven’t seen him.”

“Because he’s working,” I reply defensively. “And if you haven’t noticed, this place hasn’t exactly been a breeze these last few weeks. It’s not like I could’ve left.”

The trail rides have been fully booked for the last month, meaning I’ve been out twice a day, seven days a week.

Then two nights ago, we experienced high winds that caused some damage to the roof of the barn that I haven’t gotten around to fixing, as Rhett and my dad needed help fixing the broken fences in the cattle fields.

We’ve also been on high alert for fires due to the dry weather and continuous high winds, so while today’s downpour has caused a mess, we’re grateful for the rain.

That also means Brayden and I haven’t been able to talk as much as I’d like, having settled for late-night video calls or texts.

“Alright.” Rhett sighs defeatedly. “I just worry ’bout you, is all.”

Turning off the tap for the hose, I walk over to Rhett and clamp my hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t need to worry. I’m good. We’re still figuring things out, and in a way, it’s kinda suited me ’cause I’ve been so busy here.”

He purses his lips, almost like he wants to argue, but instead, he simply nods and gives my side a clap. “Alright, if you say so. You head in, I’ll finish up with Ivy and settle her in for the night. Thanks for helpin’.”

I give him a small smile and say, “Anytime,” then say good night to Prince as I pass, heading toward the main house.

When I step inside, I’m greeted by the smell of food.

The kitchen island is set up, ready with buns and a mix of toppings and condiments.

Cooper is at the stove, pan-frying the hot dog sausages while Mom stands next to him, caramelizing some onions.

I stomp my boots on the mat, then kick them off and shed my jacket, hanging it on the hook next to the door.

“Is there anything I can help with?” I ask, feeling a sense of relief as the warmth of the kitchen seeps into my cold body.

“No, I think we’re nearly done,” Mom replies with a smile over her shoulder. “Is your brother coming in soon?”

“Yeah, he’s just beddin’ down Ivy,” I tell her, then head down the hall to wash up. I change into some dry clothes I keep here to save me from having to go back to my house and put my damp clothes into the washing machine.

As soon as Rhett comes inside, we load up our plates with hot dogs and settle in the living room in front of the TV.

Cooper skims through the channels until he finds Sportsnet.

I take a large bite into my hot dog as the players come out onto the pristine white ice, skating around their offensive zone before some make their way back to the bench, while the others head to the blue line, ready for the national anthem.

The camera pans the players lined up as Mom sings along, but her words cut off with a loud gasp as a familiar face appears on the TV.

My mouth drops open, and the hot dog falls from my hand onto my plate.

His brown eyes sparkle under the arena lights, his stare fixed on something in the distance. His dark hair is damp and brushed away from his face. He’s restless, shifting his weight from skate to skate. It’s like he can’t stand still, wired with a high-intensity energy that’s eager to be let loose.

“Holy shit!” Cooper shouts, pointing at the TV.

“Is that—” comes from my dad.

“Oh my God!” Mom squeals.

Rhett’s head snaps to me, eyes widened in shock. “Did you know?”

I can’t answer. All I can do is shake my head, my hand still poised in the air. I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the man who has been at the forefront of my mind since that morning in August.

The second the music ends, he turns and skates back toward the bench to grab his helmet and does a quick lap around the back of the net, parting his legs wide and wiggling, almost like he’s loosening up his hips.

“Holy shit,” I whisper as everything begins to fall into place.

His fleeing from reality. The hesitancy around him expanding on what he does for work. The constant travelling.

Should I be mad that he hid this from me?

Maybe, but I don’t feel mad. If anything, there’s this sense of relief inside me because I can understand why he kept it a secret, especially when Cooper hoots, “We had an NHL player on our ranch!” Cooper smacks his thigh with his palm.

“Holy shit! That’s so fucking cool. Wait ’til we tell everyone. They’re gonna be so jealous!”

“No,” I say immediately. The need to protect Brayden is brewing stronger inside me. “He had his reasons for not tellin’ us. It’s not our place to share somethin’ he didn’t share himself. If they find out for themselves, then it’s a different story.”

The man himself lines up at centre ice for the puck drop, and for the first time in a long time, I’m on the edge of my seat as I watch him.

He glides across the ice so effortlessly.

He has this dominating presence that makes him stand out from the rest. He’s quick to outskate the defensemen, so agile he avoids any attempts the forwards make to steal the puck from his possession.

He’s incredible.

When he skates back to the bench for a line change, I pick up my phone and type his name into the search bar, and his roster picture appears, along with his profile.

I read through the information I already knew, such as him being twenty-four years, six foot one, 190 pounds, and how he was born in London, England.

Further down, it lists his playing career.

He played in the Ontario Hockey League from when he was seventeen years old, up until he was drafted fourth overall by New York when he was eighteen years old.

He played for New York up until the beginning of last season, when he signed with the Calgary Bobcats.

He’s been awarded the Art Ross Trophy three times for leading the league in points at the end of the regular season, along with the Rocket Richard Trophy for leading goal scorer.

Then last year, he won the Hart Memorial Trophy for most valuable player during the regular season.

He’s won medals representing Great Britain in the Worlds and even the Olympics.

My breath catches in my throat at the magnitude of pride blooming inside of me at Brayden’s achievements.

I shouldn’t feel this fucking proud of him when I’ve only known him for two months, but I am.

I want to text him and tell him how proud I am of him, regardless of the fact that I found out by accident.

But the warm feeling is soon replaced by anger when the headlines of articles from the final round of the playoffs that follow catch my eye and have my heart dropping into my stomach:

“Dear Brayden Nielson: It’s Time to Go Back to New York”

“Another day, another playoff lesson for Brayden Nielson”

“His own worst enemy: Should Keller cut his losses with Nielson before he ruins the Bobcats?”

“Brayden Nielson: Calgary Bobcats’ saviour or martyr?”

“Predictable disappoints: Nielson can’t clinch a title”

“Nielson and the absence of greatness for the Calgary Bobcats”

His words come rushing back to me from when we were at Peyto Lake, and then again in the barn later that night.

“Do you ever feel like you’re disappointing everyone? Like everyone has these expectations of you, and you fail to meet any of them?”

“My life was becoming suffocating, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

He was running from the media. The pressure that was being placed on him. The scrutiny. The sense that he couldn’t do anything right.

He was suffocating under the weight of it all.

I want to rip them to shreds with my bare hands. How fucking dare they do this to him? To feel like his very existence wasn’t valued?

Dropping my phone beside me, I glance up to see my parents and brothers watching me cautiously.

“Is everything okay, son?” Dad asks, eyeing me over the bridge of his glasses.

“Yeah,” I manage to croak out. I reach over to the coffee table to grab my beer and take a swig to moisten my throat, and then I pick up my hot dog again just in time to see Brayden hop over the boards for his next shift.

“I meant what I said. Don’t say a word unless they find out on their own.

This place is safe for him, and I won’t let anything, or anyone, jeopardize that. ”

And I’ll fight anyone who tries to threaten his worth again.