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TWELVE

declan

“How much longer?”

“Twenty-four days,” I answer Gideon.

“I don’t know how you guys do it. Away games are bad enough for me and Maggie.”

“Her tour was supposed to be over by the time the season started,” I say, sulking. Gideon nods in understanding.

“Listen up,” Coach says. “We have a new team photographer.” A man steps out from behind Coach. He’s tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than me, but he’s muscular. His build plus the burly beard and long dark, curly hair make him look like he lives in the mountains and chops a lot of wood. “This is Ben Miller. We poached him from New York.”

“Are you the guy that takes those shots from crazy angles? Your work kicks ass,” Davis says. He’s a d-man on my line and usually pretty quiet.

Ben smirks and nods.

“Unlike the other photographers, Ben is going to be around as much as possible. He’s going to be getting pictures of practice, games, travel, you idiots dicking around in the locker room, you name it. Management wants to make this team all anyone can talk about.”

“I don’t think Monroe’s ugly mug is going to help with that,” Slava says. I throw the wadded-up ball of stick tape at him.

“That ugly mug pulled a smoking hot wife,” Martinez says.

“Dude, quit hitting on my wife!” I complain.

“It’s got him to stop hitting on my wife, so I’m all for it,” Oliver Bouchard, our goalie, says as he shrugs on his practice jersey.

“Get your asses on the ice and try to look impressive,” Coach says, leaving us with Ben.

“Do you have a wife?” I ask Ben.

“No. Never will.”

“Husband?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says, but his brown eyes are pinned to me, waiting for my reaction.

“Can you get one so my wife isn’t Martinez’s target?” I ask, smiling.

Ben smirks and looks over at Martinez, who shrugs. “I’m an equal opportunity instigator.”

“What’s the plan?” Gideon asks, nodding to the camera slung across Ben’s chest.

“I’m going to get some shots of you guys getting ready. Some close-ups of you tying your laces, strapping on pads, things like that. Keep your compression shirts on and the bottom half of your gear, and I’ll get some candids of you talking and laughing.”

“You don’t want shots of our abs?” Martinez asks, seeming genuinely shocked.

Ben shakes his head. “This isn’t about thirst traps. We’re going for teamwork, friendship, family friendly, that type of angle.”

“Can you send me some good ones to send to my wife?” Gideon asks.

“Me too,” I say. “But mostly me. My wife isn’t able to go to as many games as his wife.”

“Wait. My wife is filming a movie in Greece right now. I want pictures to send her,” Bouchard complains.

Ben raises his hands. “All photos that aren’t being used by the team are going into a drive that you will all have access to. I’m sure you can find something there.”

“Alright. Get dressed and let Ben work his magic,” Gideon says.

The mood in the locker room lightens significantly with the promise of action shots for our wives. Most of the guys are either married or have girlfriends they want to show off to. We’re coming off of a tough loss to Dallas last night, and we have to go straight from this practice to the bus to travel to Pittsburg, so the break in moping to take pictures was really needed.

I’ve done what Finn asked and thought about how I feel about Willa. I can’t keep denying that there’s something there. Something more than the deep friendship we’ve always had. But I’m not getting that same feeling from her. I want to ask her on a date when we’re both back home, but I’m starting to doubt she’d accept.

I pour all my frustration into practice. I shoot on the net like we’re down by one and the clock has seconds left. I go through the drills like I’m trying out for the team and trying to impress Coach. Sweat pours down my body, and I’m breathing heavily by the time Coach calls an end to practice.

“You didn’t need to go that hard for the camera,” Ben says from behind the lens as he snaps pictures of us filing back into the locker room.

“I was just working through some stuff, so I didn’t take it with me to the game tomorrow.”

“Did it help?” he asks, aiming the lens at Slava, who is taking his shoulder pads off.

I sigh. “Not really.”

“Monroe!”

“Yeah, Coach,” I say. I just walked into the hotel with the rest of the guys, so I can’t imagine what I could’ve done wrong already.

“You’re rooming with Ben for the rest of the season,” he says, handing me my room key.

I turn around and look for Ben. “Sweet. I got an upgrade.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Marcus Wells says. He’s a rookie and the alternate goalie. I got stuck rooming with him because I was the new guy. The dude snores so loud it’s like trying to sleep with a weed whacker right next to your head.

“Let’s go, Benny boy. I need to call my wife before I pass out for the night.” I start walking and I feel him follow me.

“What’s that like?” he asks.

“Having a wife?”

“No. Just the distance part. How do you make it work?”

I shrug. I don’t want to give him bad advice since my marriage isn’t exactly conventional, and I’m really not sure I’m making it work. “We met when we were kids. We’ve been friends all these years with an entire country between us. There’s always been distance. We make sure to call each other as often as we can. And I plan to keep her to myself the moment she’s home.”

Ben nods and swipes the key card on our door. I follow him in and claim the bed next to the window.

“What about your guy? You dealing with the distance?”

Ben sits on his bed and sighs. “We’ve been apart for a while. I don’t think the distance would matter. I just haven’t been honest about some things, and I don’t know what that will do to our relationship. If we even have one.”

I nod in understanding. I have no idea what my relationship status is. Other than married to my best friend that I may or may not have more than friendly feelings for and who may not return those feelings. I can’t tell Ben that, though.

“Honesty’s the best policy.”

Ben throws his head back and laughs. “You sound like my mom.”

I laugh with him. “I sound like my mom too.”

“Here, give me your number. I’ll text you a picture I think your wife might like,” he says, handing me his phone. I quickly type my number in and hand it back. My phone pings moments later with a picture message.

“Fuck yeah. Thanks man,” I say.

“You got it. I’m going to shower while you call your wife.” He heads to the bathroom while I look at the picture he sent. It’s from right after practice ended. He got a closeup with a lens that must be crazy expensive with the amount of detail I can make out in it. My hair is wet from sweat and sticking up in every direction after taking my helmet off. You can even see the steam coming off me from the temperature difference between the ice and my body. I’m smiling at something Gideon said and looking just past where the camera must have been. It’s a fucking great candid. I send it off to Willa immediately.

You have time to talk to this sexy beast?

Princess

How could I not? Look at him. He’s smoking. Literally.

I call her, and she answers immediately.

“Hey, hockey boy. That’s a great picture of you. Who took it?”

“We got a new photographer. His name’s Ben. He’s also my new roommate.”

“Does that mean you’ll actually get some sleep?” she asks. I’ve been complaining about how hard it is sleeping on the road with Wells.

“I fucking hope so.”

We chat about our day, which has become the norm these past few weeks. I feel like Willa is pulling away, but I have no evidence of that other than just a feeling. So I never bring it up or mention that I can’t sleep when I’m home either because thoughts of losing her keep me awake all night.

Ben gets out of the shower and climbs into his bed, keeping his back to me like he’s still trying to give me privacy.

“I have to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Good night, hockey boy. Kick Pittsburg’s ass tomorrow,” she says, her voice insanely cute when she’s sleepy.

“I will. Good night, Princess.”