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EIGHT

CHARLIE

Everything inside me insists on not moving one more muscle than what’s needed to walk, but when I get to the door of the family room, I force my cheeks apart and paste the most genuine smile I have in me onto my face.

I thought I was in deep shit yesterday when I realized Brotnik would not be welcoming in the least, but the little stunt he pulled right before warmups is on a whole other level.

Even though I’ve been thinking about it since then, I still have no clue what I could’ve ever done to Nikolay Brotnik to earn the level of hate and vitriol he spewed at me.

I’m proud of myself for how in control I stayed, though, if only for the fact that I didn’t give him a fucking shiner the second he slammed me against the wall. There’s also the fact that I managed to get my head in the game at all after that bullshit .

Now I’m going to have to tell Gab about this too—though she probably already knows. After all, Laney changed the lines back which means he heard about it too. Maybe he even saw it?

After Brotnik stormed off toward the ice I didn’t have the headspace to pay attention to my surroundings. Only thing I noticed was that despite being very close to the opening of the tunnel, the whole ordeal happened out of sight of the people in the stands.

If it hadn’t, it would’ve been the biggest mess of my whole career. And on my first day as a Pirate...

I’ve never been one for subtlety or doing things halfway, but making that kind of splash after coming back from a months-long retirement would’ve been too much even for me. Thankfully, no one who isn’t a Pirate knows anything was wrong behind the scenes.

I mean sure, the first period was a bit rocky, with Bear letting in a goal that he normally would’ve handled—at least from what I’ve seen of him—but we got back on track for the second and third period. We caught up enough that we earned the overtime, and then I did an epic dive for a save that bounced over to Jules. If one could plan such things it would have been pretty cool, but since I can’t, the miracle helped.

But fuck, I’m going to have my whole left side bruised for a couple of weeks at least. I got a quick X-ray done, and there’s definitely some damage, but no broken ribs thanks to all the protective gear they make us wear .

And now I have to somehow manage a whole evening with a dozen family members who are more than likely chomping at the bit to chat about the game.

I don’t even give myself another second of reprieve. I just have to push through.

Oh, I was wrong, it’s not a dozen family members, it’s only eleven.

I surprise myself when I realize my smile isn’t totally fake as I walk over to them.

My uncles Enzo, Atlas, Riccardo, Leo, and my aunt Allie all stand with my mom as soon as they see me. My cousins Wade, Travis, and Pierce, as well as my twin baby brothers Finn and Beau were all standing already, looming around and taking over most of the pretty big room.

I make the rounds, getting enthusiastic hugs—with backslaps—from my brothers and cousins, as well as proud looks from all the adults.

I mean, we’re all technically adults, but not while we’re surrounded by our parents, aunts, and uncles. It’s the natural way of things, to revert back to your younger self when there’s proper supervision around.

I’m sad that Sam and Harper—my closest cousins in age and if I’m honest, probably my best friends—couldn’t make it, but I get it. Harper has two kids with Owen, and Sam has his mini-me Colin and a whole damn company to run, which always makes quick trips like this one harder to fit in.

Soon enough, a debate begins—because that’s another natural fact when it comes to us Hearts. We argue over everything whenever the opportunity presents itself.

I watch from the sidelines, happy to be an observer tonight since I’m beat to hell and back, and I catch the way Enzo and Atlas are looking at each other as they drift closer. They’re holding hands, and it strikes me right then—whenever they came to see me in Atlanta and caught a game, I don’t think I ever saw them holding hands so openly at the arena there.

My throat closes with the realization, and the feeling of dread at the fact that I never thought twice about it before today. Goddamn, I can be so fucking oblivious sometimes.

A flurry of activity comes from the door and I see Sterling —oh my fucking God, that’s Sterling —come in. He has a baby in one arm and the other extended down, holding the tiny hand of his daughter.

He’s making nonsense noises at them both as he leads them to a couch, and all the chatter from my family slowly dies down until we’re all just staring at him.

I open my mouth to apologize for our weirdness—not the first time and it won’t be the last—but he looks over and smiles instantly.

“Oh, hey. Wow, you’re a big group.”

“Hey,” I hear my youngest cousin Travis say weakly.

“Uh, this is my family,” I say, pretty uselessly, and even sweep a hand around. His piercing dark eyes swing over to me with that same relaxed smile still in place, and I have to swallow hard to get over the nerves. “And I’m Cha?— ”

“Charlie Heart,” he says, nodding. “I know.” He chuckles lightly and looks down to the baby in his arms. I see then that he or she has their eyes closed and I pray that no one wakes them. “I’m so pumped that you came to play for the Pirates,” he tells me. His voice wants to be a whisper but doesn’t quite manage it.

“Me too,” I tell him, because I have no idea what else I’m supposed to say right now.

The door swings open again, and Mater comes in, followed closely by Jules. My new captain’s face lights up like a sold-out arena when he sees his husband and it clicks then. In my brain.

It’s because of them.

I look back at my uncle Enzo and his husband of twelve years. I can see the impact Jules and Sterling had on them as plain as day. I can see how lives can be changed when people stand up and say who they are loudly and proudly.

And suddenly I forget my worries over Brotnik.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m still going to do my best to mend things there, but I’m not going to jeopardize my shot to be part of such an historic group of men for one surly bastard. There are more important things in the world.

I enjoy the hell out of my family for the two days they spend in the city I’ll call home for the next year, and then I get back to work with blinders on.

I did manage to carve out thirty minutes with my brothers during that time, to tell them about the incident with Brotnik. To say they were livid would be an understatement, but I made it clear I only needed to talk to someone about it. I don’t need them to do anything, just support me silently.

After they leave, I have a second conversation with Gab that goes eerily similar to our previous conversation. She assures me she’s got a handle on things and I shouldn’t push Brotnik for now even though I want to. I want to know what the fuck his problem is, but keeping the peace, making sure no one outside the facility finds out about it, and winning games is more important.

We go on a nine-day roadie basically all over, starting in Dallas and ending in Edmonton. We lose half the games, and the vibe all around isn’t too great. I get the feeling that everyone’s feeling the tension pulsing from Brotnik, and I can’t be sure of course, but I feel like he’s usually different when on the road and hanging out with the team.

Every time I catch one of the guys looking at him, it’s with concern.

It’s a good thing, I suppose, that I don’t detect any kind of anger or resentment. I think everyone truly cares for him, which is why I can’t really feel any resentment for the distance everybody keeps from me. Just enough to be noticable, but again, nothing new for me .

I practice hard, work out harder, and play like it’s a duel to the death every game so no one can really complain about me, but I’m still not really welcome.

I’m not invited to any outings after the games while we’re on the road, and the only time someone talks to me is on the ice or when Laney is giving out instructions.

I have enough things to fill my time, though.

Getting into shape is one of those. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been able to hold my own on the ice, that’s never been enough for me.

I prefer to dominate. The rush of it is unlike anything else and the only true glory I’ve known as a professional hockey player.

In order to be the best defenseman on the ice again I have to put in the work.

All those months where I was retired I barely went to the gym, I barely watched what I ate, and I sure as fuck didn’t skate every day until I felt my lungs would collapse at any second.

So yeah, there’s been an adjustment period for sure. I spend more time than anyone on the ice at the practice rink, in the gym, or with our PT making sure everything’s in order.

It’s impossible not to notice, though, how out of his way Brotnik goes to ignore my existence. He turns to give me his back, and whenever I enter a room he leaves it if he can. And don’t even get me started on the way he treats me when we’re practicing. As far as he’s shown, I’m actually invisible to him.

I prefer that to being attacked for asking him if he’s okay, but I also know that something’s gonna give eventually.

When we get back to Vegas I even start to appreciate my house and how it feels close enough to a home thanks to all the little touches from my mom. Having a few memories of my family in the house also helps, since home is where a Heart is , as Yoyo, my grandfather always says.

Two days after getting back, I invite Michelle and Kelly over for dinner. To thank them for the heavenly fucking apple pie they made me, I make them Lala’s lasagna, and I can’t deny I preened at their praise. Of course I called my grandmother to tell her of my victory in the kitchen and she was as happy as I was.

Kelly and Michelle stayed over long after we’d had seconds and dessert and we just talked and talked.

I learned they’re both in their mid-thirties as well and have always been dancers—that’s how they met and fell in love—and how a handful of years back they left New York to come work here as choreographers.

It seems to me that they both love their job and it brings them as much joy as hockey brings me.

I feel a kinship with them immediately, and when they invite me to see one of their shows exactly two weeks after the first game of the season, I readily agree, and enjoy every second of the burlesque-style show .

I stare slack-jawed at the dancers and singers for most of it. What they do is one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.

It’s like a circus but somehow more impressive because it’s so much more entertaining.

One dancer especially steals my attention from the moment he steps on stage. He’s tall, I don’t know exactly how tall, but taller than average. He has blond hair that’s kind of long, and it’s clear even though he’s wearing a lot more clothes than the rest of the dancers that he’s absolutely ripped. And still, his every movement is graceful and almost... delicate. Precise.

I don’t know why, but I’m transfixed by the way he moves, and when he turns sharply and faces the audience with a ferocious glare—playing the part of scorned lover perfectly—I audibly gasp.

I feel my cheeks warm from embarrassment over my dramatic reaction, but the dancer just reminded me so clearly of Brotnik that I can’t unsee it after that.

And the worst thing of all is that I still can’t stop staring.