Page 11

NINE

SANTA

End of November

Laney calls a time out and I grit my teeth as my line moves in tandem to the bench. I don’t know why but this whole game has been more aggravating than any other this season—yes, even more than the season opener—and the first period isn’t even over yet.

Okay, maybe I do know why.

We’re playing against Carolina, a team Heart has played against so often over his career that he knows basically everything there is to know about them since they’re in the same division as his former team.

I had to listen this morning as Laney demanded he tell us everything he thought we should know about them, and then I had to listen to Heart talk to the whole team for about an hour .

I can’t fucking deny that he had some amazing tidbits on most of the players. Most of all he knew the tells of the forwards and the weaknesses of the goalie, but we shouldn’t need more than that to win.

We’re only fifteen minutes in and we’re already winning two-zero, so I guess it has paid off.

Laney tells us what he wants us to do for the next two minutes until he calls up the first line, and I tell myself to follow his orders.

I can’t afford to get on his bad side, not that I want to, but sometimes I just wanna smash my fucking hand through a wall at the thought of Charlie Heart being part of the first line of my team, at the thought that he’s even on my team.

But Laney hasn’t forgiven me for slamming Heart against the wall at the season opener almost two months ago, and I can’t blame him for that. I know it was out of line. I know that.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure why I did it, though. I think I went into some kind of trance or a skewed version of fight or flight, who the fuck knows, but the end result was the same.

I fucked up.

Since then I’ve kept my head down and my mouth shut.

It wasn’t that hard at first. I was glad to see Heart keeping his distance from me during the first three weeks of the season. Our cubbies being next to each other meant that I couldn’t avoid him sometimes—though I did my fucking best—but something changed at the start of November when he started smirking at me whenever I caught his eye.

It’s fucking infuriating, and worst of all, no matter how much I ignore him or how obvious I make my hate for him, he always greets me. He wishes me a good game, he tells me goodnight when he leaves, and then he’s fucking back the next day with his stupid smirk on his stupid face.

Regardless of how many times I ignore him, he just keeps doing it.

I hate it the most when the dimple on his left cheek shows because it makes him look harmless, and he’s the furthest thing from fucking harmless.

Thanks to him all of my teammates look at me differently now. Thanks to him I can no longer be myself with the only family I have left. Because he’s just always there . I feel like a caged animal, surrounded on all sides.

I’ve spent more time in my suite at the Winner resort these past months than I did all last year for fuck’s sake, and let’s not even get into how much time I’ve spent with my friends and their families—not enough.

I saw little Ava and baby Adam—Jules’s kids—up at Gab’s suite before the damn game started and I feel like Adam grew a few inches since I’d last seen him.

And the most fucked up thing of all is I see how my guys aren’t really as inviting to him as they would be normally. It makes me feel good sometimes, seeing him walking alone to the exit, or having dinner with the guys when we’re on the road and seeing he’s not there. Other times, it makes me feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever exist.

But then I only need to remember his words from all those years ago, his cruel smile, his sadistic chuckle.

Why did he bring them? It’s pathetic and fucking embarrassing.

The instant the memory flashes through my mind I’m fueled with all the hate I have in me again.

I come back to the present, where Milkman is staring intently at me. I’m about to ask him what he wants but he shoves a bottle of water at my chest. I look down and away after I take it then squeeze a mouthful through my guard.

It’s more than likely he offered me the bottle more than one time and realized how damn out of it I am. I don’t mind that he can tell when I’m not in the moment, but it does worry me.

Milkman is a great player, but he’s so fucking young. He’s only been with us for three seasons, and I don’t want his game to suffer in the slightest because he might be worried about me.

So after I throw the bottle back to the assistant holding a basket of them behind the bench, I turn to look into his dark eyes and smile gratefully at him.

Then we’re off to the ice once more.

The two minutes Laney warned us about go by in an instant while we do exactly what he asked of us—defend like our lives depend on it and don’t take the offensive unless the opportunity is presented to us on a silver platter .

It’s been fucking illuminating and groundbreaking, the way Laney has been playing with the shifts of the lines since he took over. He does it like no one before, and the proof that it works is in the three Stanley Cup rings I have at home. I’ve won the three of them with Laney as our leader, but only one while he was a player.

Since I trust that he wants another win just as badly, I follow his orders and bite down on my mouthguard to keep quiet when I go over the boards and see Heart take my place on the ice.

Carolina also brings out a new line, and I pay close attention to Pat Quinn—a brute of a defenseman—as he makes his way toward Eagle, who’s handling the puck and racing for the net.

Eagle looks back for a fraction of a second, then sends the puck to the other side of the ice, to Heart, who gains the attention of Quinn.

On the one hand, Eagle just gave everyone the impression that he doesn’t want to be in the crosshairs of Quinn—which I can’t really blame him for, but that’s a bad look. If Quinn remembers this for the rest of the game, then he won’t leave Eagle alone for the whole three periods.

On the other hand, I know Eagle is smart, I trust his instincts, and since I know how well he can take a hit, I trust that this is something he’s thought through.

Heart passes to Jules, who sends it over to Mater, Benny, back to Heart who’s right up by our bench, and then? —

“That’s a dirty fucking hit,” Bates hisses from next to me.

It absolutely was, but I keep my mouth shut, waiting for the refs to tell Quinn he’s going to the sin bin for five fucking minutes.

Nothing happens, though, it’s as if they’re fucking blind, but then it gets worse.

“Disloyal motherfucker,” I hear Quinn mutter at Heart, who I have to say, keeps his cool. Not like me.

Without deciding to do so, I’m standing, and I feel Bates do the same next to me. We keep watching how our guys play keep away from Carolina, and when he turns to face us while he keeps fucking battling Quinn, I see there’s blood on Heart’s cheek, right where the end of Quinn’s stick jabbed him.

It’s familiar, the ball of justified resentment and rage in my gut. I’ve felt it many times over the years whenever a teammate takes a dirty hit, especially when Jules does, and the refs do nothing.

I look to my right to see the rest of my line is standing with Bates and me, and the next second, when my eyes clash with Laney’s, I can tell he sees everything I’m thinking instantly. He nods almost imperceptibly, then calls the first line over for a quick change, and I’m over the boards the second Heart’s leg goes over it too.

I waste no time heading over to fucking Quinn.

I hear Laney shout at Heart to get his cheek looked at, but I’m already barreling toward the defenseman who hurt him. I feel my line come onto the ice as I watch Jules frowning over at the bench, and when I’m within reach of Quinn I don’t hesitate for a second. I slam the left side of my body against him and smile evilly at how he stumbles.

Yeah, it’s different when you mess with a man your own size.

And I know Charlie’s no weakling, but Quinn and I both have three inches and probably about thirty pounds of muscle on him.

I see Quinn hesitate, but then he focuses on the game again. Yeah, you do that, I think as I follow his every move.

Carolina’s left wing makes the mistake of passing the puck to Quinn, and then it’s a free-for-all as far as I’m concerned.

The second the puck touches his stick, I slam him against the boards, hard , and without even pretending to go for the puck, I barrel into him again so he fucking flies.

“Fuck,” he growls, right before I shove him for good measure.

I don’t know where the puck is, but I feel two players on my left side, so I guess they’re battling for it. In the meantime, I take Quinn’s white sweater in my hands and pull him up none too gently.

“You better pray you don’t take another dirty hit on any man on my team because I’m coming for you.” I release him as soon as I’m done, and skate away. I don’t need to listen to his fucking excuses or bullshitting, but then he pushes my back so hard that I wonder if he jumped on me .

It’s only the fact I’ve been in skates since I was three years old that saves me from face-planting on the ice. I turn, anger fueling every bit of my heart, and then I go for him. I take off his helmet with my left hand and clock him on the jaw with my right fist. He punches me in the ribs before I can get in another hit, and I scream in fury.

It’s not the pain, it’s the audacity that this kid has, challenging me. Me .

I punch his stomach and then put all my weight into a shove that would’ve put him on his back if one of his teammates hadn’t caught him.

“Stay in fucking line you dirty piece of shit.” Arms pull me back while I shout at him and I know it’s Bear by the silence. His unyielding arms don’t let me go until I’m turned around and facing the bench. “I’m good now,” I mutter at him, and he lets me go.

I skate to the bench and sit down without looking anyone in the eyes and without saying anything.

Max

Are you okay?

I have to force my jaw to relax when I read the text. No reason to be angry over it. It is what it is.

I delete it, like I have every other text that reminds me he watches my games, and sit in front of my cubby, take my skates and gear off, and then just... sit there.

I need a moment.

Loyalty.

That’s all it comes down to.

I can say a lot of shit about Charlie Heart, and I have, but I can’t say he’s not loyal. The man stayed with a shit team for fourteen years when—no-trade clauses or not—he could’ve left at any moment. He only retired once his contract was fulfilled, not a second before.

It might be the one thing I respect about him. He’s clearly also very loyal to his family; he’s always brought them into the limelight with him proudly. So yeah, he’s a dickhead and a cruel bastard, but he’s loyal.

He’s also now, like it or not, one of my teammates, and I’m also an unbreakably loyal man, so even though I still hate him, I’m not going to let anyone talk shit to him on the ice.

No one but me.

I cover my face with a towel, pretending to dry the sweat when in fact, I’m just taking a moment to scrub my mind of the last three hours.

I feel a tap on my arm and move the towel to see Jules. He’s also been low-key avoiding me since the first game of the season and I suspect it’s because he’s mad at me and because he thinks I’m mad at him for being welcoming to Heart.

I’m not .

As our captain, Picard has always done right by us, and I’m never going to condemn him for it.

“Are you okay?”

I shiver a little at the reminder of the text. It’s the exact same question but it feels damn different. I clear my throat then look up at his patient green eyes.

“I am,” I tell him honestly.

“You wanna come for dinner?” he asks quietly and crouches down in front of me. “Jamie made lasagna... a new recipe.” The smile on his face seems more like a grimace for a second and I can’t help but laugh.

“I would love to. Thank you for the invite.” He nods seriously at me then chews his lower lip as he straightens. I shake my head. “Everything is okay, Picard,” I reassure him. He nods, looking just slightly less unsure, then walks to his own cubby.

The night feels like a return to normal.

I laugh as Sterling and Jamie bicker like siblings, and shake my head, bewildered, when I see Jake, the GM of the Pirates who fell in love with Jamie at first sight, be all lovey-dovey with her.

He’s a hardass at work and doesn’t let anyone think he’s not on top of things. I’ve known him a damn long time. He was climbing the ladder at the Pirates when I was drafted, and I’ve witnessed the progress of how he became the force to be reckoned with that he is today.

It’s weird to think I’m proud of him, since he’s older than me, but I am .

I’m delighted to see him brought down a peg or two by Jamie, though.

The kids love me—an awesome upside of my nickname—and I hear everything Ava has to say about Christmas being just around the corner.

At the end of the night, when he walks me out to my car, I know Jules is struggling with what to tell me, but I clap his shoulder and speak before he can.

“Never apologize, and never think you are wrong for doing the best for the team, Picard. You are the captain for a reason.”

I squeeze his shoulder once until he looks up at my eyes. I nod, and try to communicate everything I can’t seem to say with my eyes.

He stares for a long moment, then nods. Only then do I step back. I try to smile like I always used to. I try to walk like I used to, but I’m not sure I pull it off.

I arrive early at the practice rink, because I want to go see the PT for a routine massage on my left shoulder and get him to check out my ribs from yesterday’s punch, but I’m stopped from going in when I see Laney and Heart just outside the locker room.

Fucking Christ, I can’t escape him.

I keep walking, determined not to change my plans, but Laney kills that dream pretty quickly .

“Oh, you’re here,” he says like he was expecting me. I frown at him because he wasn’t. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming in early. “Suit up, I want you on the ice in two minutes.”

That’s all he says before walking away. I want to ask Heart what the fuck is going on, so badly, but I bite my tongue and just go do as Laney says.

It’s a bitch of a thing that Heart comes in just after me, and he gets suited up as well. And then dread starts to fill the pit of my stomach.

“Did you come in to get your ribs looked at?” Heart asks, and stops all my movements. It’s the incredulity that froze me.

Does he honestly think I’m going to talk to him now?

Just because I defended him as my teammate doesn’t mean I want to talk to him all of a sudden.

I unfreeze and just hurry up and get to the ice before Heart does, ignoring him once more. I move like my ass is on fire, and tell myself it’s mostly so I can hopefully get off Laney’s shit list, but I find the ice empty, Laney nowhere to be found. There’s a puck on center ice, so I figure, why not? I skate lazily to it and start handling it without any care, just by feel, working on doing it all without looking down the way my coach taught me twenty years ago.

“Yeah, go on,” I hear Laney’s voice and decide to stop fucking around. I really don’t want Laney angrier at me.

Heart steps onto the ice with trepidation all over his face, which tells me he knows more about what’s happening, but if I had to guess based on how well I know Laney, he doesn’t know all of it, just like me.

“What are we doing?” I ask, trying to hide my impatience.

“One-on-one drills. You start by the net,” he says with no mercy. I look to see Heart’s shocked face right as the whistle blows and nearly leaves me deaf.