Page 7

Chapter 7

Declan

My bike rumbles beneath me, making me feel alive in only the way it can as I speed through Denver heading to the arena for practice. But it’s nothing compared to the high I’m still riding after the killer play I made at the very end of our last game—and the look I saw on Hannah’s face out in the stands after. I might not have netted the goal myself, but I told her I’d score one for her, and I kept my word.

Since it’s just a practice session, I’m sure she won’t be here, but part of me is hoping she’ll show up to the arena today so I can remind her of it. The thought brings a smile to my face as I pull into the parking lot and coast into one of the spots reserved for players and staff. But as I shove the kickstand down with my boot, my phone starts ringing in my pocket—and a chiming ringtone that I only use for my mom carries across the empty parking lot.

Shit. I hope she’s okay.

Leaving her back in San Diego was easily the hardest part about making the decision to play for the Aces. I worry about her and her Parkinson’s all the time, but even more so now that I don’t live less than half an hour away from her. If something goes wrong, I can’t just drop everything and be at her side in a flash.

It’s the constant tug of war I’ve lived with for years—chasing my dreams while taking care of the one person who sacrificed everything for me. The distance between us now only makes that tension sharper.

Concerned, I climb off my bike and tug off my helmet, then grab my phone and swipe to answer it.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she says before I can get a word out, and the sound of her warm voice floods me with relief. A smile cracks my face because she knows me so well. Anytime she calls, the first words out of my mouth are always “Are you okay?”

“Dieu merci,” I whisper, and my mother laughs.

“I was just calling to say hi and see how things are going.”

“No problems here. I just finished unpacking in my new condo, and training has been going great. I had a killer assist in our first preseason game that the whole team is still talking about,” I tell her, my smile growing wider as I recount it. “I wish you could’ve been there to see it.”

“Me too, mon c?ur . Me too.”

“I’ll have to fly you in for a game sometime, assuming you’re up to it.”

“I would love that,” my mother says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“I’ll get you the best seats in the house,” I suggest, already picturing her bundled up in an Aces jersey with my number on it, watching me play in the NHL.

“That sounds wonderful, Dec.”

“Good. I’ll get it set up and arrange for your plane tickets and all of that. Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing?”

“Oh, fine,” she says breezily, but I’m not buying it. She always tries to downplay what’s really going on, and even though she said she was just calling to catch up, I’ve had twenty-four years to learn her tells.

“What is it you always used to say about liars when I was a kid?”

“Liars often set their own traps,” my mother recites, and I chuckle.

“Then consider yourself caught. What’s really going on?”

My mother sighs, making the line crackle, and takes a second. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just that my joints have been a bit achy lately.” Her words make my chest clench, squeezing my heart.

“Well with this new contract, I can get all the best care for you. Whatever you want or need, it’s yours. I’m going to take care of you, just like I promised I would. I’ve already set up an appointment with that specialist in San Diego we were looking at. And I’ve arranged for a home health aide to come by twice a week. No arguments,” I add before she can protest. “You spent years taking care of me. Let me return the favor.”

My mother sniffles, and hearing it feels like someone is tearing my heart right out of my chest. “I know you will. But you have to?—”

“Live life for myself too,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I know. And trust me, I am.”

An image of Hannah flashes in my mind—her mismatched eyes, that smile that lights up her entire face. For the first time in a long while, I’m thinking about more than just hockey and taking care of my mother.

“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear,” my mother says.

The line falls quiet for a moment, but I can hear her breathing on the other end, and the soft sound makes me smile. For a long, long time, it was just me and my mom against the world. She’s my inspiration and my best friend, and even though she would’ve killed me if I’d tried to turn down the contract with the Aces, having several states between us for the first time in my life is hard. I miss her every damn day.

“You know, I’m crocheting you a scarf with the Aces logo on it,” I tell her finally, and she chuckles.

“Ooh!” She makes an excited noise. “I’ll add it to my collection. You know, no one believes me when I tell them you’re just as good at crochet as you are at hockey.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a man who knows how to work with his hands,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, you’re the one who taught me that focusing on a pattern helps calm my mind before big games. It’s my secret weapon.”

“Damn right it is.” Pride fills her voice.

I pull the phone away from my ear to check the time, then put it back. “Hey, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I just got to the arena for practice, so I need to get inside. Can I call you back when I’m finished?”

“Of course. Good luck!”

“Thanks, Mom. Je t’aime .”

“ Je t’aime plus ,” she says like she always does and hangs up. I grin down at the phone for a moment, feeling bittersweet, before I slip it back into my pocket and lock my helmet up to head into the arena.

When I get to the locker room, most of the rest of the team is already there and geared up, so I rush to get out of my clothes and into my pads. I finish just as the other guys are lining up to leave and hurry to join them. Dunaway isn’t playing around today because he hits his whistle as soon as we spill out onto the ice and signals for us to start our warmup laps.

Everyone else eases into it, but not me. After my performance in the preseason game, I don’t think I’m at any risk of getting cut from the team, but I’m still the rookie and that was just one game, so I can’t afford not to give everything I do out here one hundred and ten percent—even simple laps around the rink.

This contract, this opportunity, is everything I’ve worked for. Not just for me, but for my mother. For the kid I was who used to practice stick handling in our tiny apartment hallway until the neighbors complained. I owe it to her to be nothing less than exceptional.

So I streak around the ice, leaving the other guys in the dust, and although Theo makes a crack about me showing off when I lap him at one point, I ignore him. We start our drills a couple of laps later, taking different positions and formations on the ice and squaring off against each other. I do my best to keep up with the level of talent that’s out here with me, but I still feel like they’re outpacing me, and that frustrates the hell out of me.

When you’ve spent your life being the best player on every team you’ve played for, it’s humbling to suddenly be surrounded by guys who are just as good, if not better.

But that’s the NHL. That’s the level I’ve fought to reach, and I’m not about to back down from the challenge.

Dunaway’s whistle shrieks an hour later, ending practice, but as the rest of the team scatters, Coach whistles again. “Murray!” he shouts, pointing at me, so I circle back across the ice toward him at the center.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“I want to talk to you for a minute. Come with me,” he says and skates away without another word, so I follow him with my heart pumping a little faster than I’d like. My first thought is that this has something to do with Hannah, and that doesn’t do anything to calm me down. Did he catch what was going on between us?

I play a mental guessing game until we enter Dunaway’s office near the locker room.

“Close the door behind you,” he says as he heads for his desk, so I kick the door shut and stop in front of his desk. He flops into a worn office chair and points across his desk at a folding chair on the other side. “Have a seat.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask warily as I join him.

Dunaway waves a hand before folding his hands together on the desk. “Don’t worry, Murray. You aren’t getting cut from the team or anything.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’m really pleased with your playing. If that pass you made in the last game was any indication, we’re in for a hell of a season with you.”

“Thanks, Coach. I really appreciate that.”

“Sure. But just like anyone else, you still have some areas you could improve. I’ve noticed you’re a little slow on your pivots.”

I sigh and nod. “You aren’t the first person to tell me that.”

“Any idea why that’s been a problem area for you?”

“Not really, but I’m open to feedback,” I say firmly. “I want to fix it, whatever it takes. I didn’t come this far to plateau now.”

“Good, that’s what I like to hear.” Dunaway nods approvingly. “I bet hip flexibility is part of the issue.”

“Okay, I can work on that.”

“The team’s strength and conditioning coach can help, but I think you’d probably benefit from doing some yoga, too. And I know just the person to help you with that.” He reaches for a pad of paper on his desk, tears a piece off and scratches something on the paper with his pen, then slides it across the desk to me. “My daughter teaches yoga, and she’s damn good at it. Give her a call and tell her I sent you.”

I manage to keep my expression neutral at his words, although my pulse kicks up a notch. The universe has a twisted sense of humor sometimes—or maybe it’s trying to tell me something.

A grin splits my face as I take the paper from him. “Oh, I definitely will.”