Page 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cam

Home ice feels good under my blades. I’ve only lived in this city for three months and been playing on this ice for less than two, but the roar of the crowd and the sea of purple make it home. Not to mention the fact that once again, the ice seems a degree or two warmer. After spending some extra time stretching while the team goofs around and takes shots on the empty goal, I head to my post, surreptitiously checking the seats assigned to me.

Sweet . Christina and a woman with blonde hair peeking out from under a pom pom topped Tornadoes toque are already in place. She told me she was bringing her college pal Nicole, and admitted her friend wanted to meet the players afterward. I’d given up trying to get Christina to come out to Chasers after games, as she worried that it would give away we were doing more than dancing together. But thanks to Nicole, they’re coming tonight and I’ll get to meet her friend and have face-to-face time with Chris to absorb my post-game energy.

We’re playing Ottawa tonight and I focus on their two star players who I’ve been watching in game film the past few days. The rest of the team rides on their coattails (or sticks) as far as I can tell.

Sure enough, I field over forty shots on goal, most of which are by those two. Every time I block one, the crowd roars. I swear underneath the thunder, I can isolate Christina’s voice cheering. But when the puck is in play, my eyes are on it.

Du Près scores in the second period, followed closely by one from Buzz, but in turn I miss one, the goal lamp blazing behind my head. However, we’ve shaken them, and they’re on the defensive. The third period is full of sloppy passes and desperate, obvious shots on goal.

The Ottawa players keep aiming for my left shoulder. I guess some game film must have shown them that was my weakest point, which is something to check later and work on. But for now, it means they continue to be predictable and the last seven minutes fly by, punctuated by du Près scoring again. Mattie’s on fire tonight.

With only seconds before the buzzer sounds, Saint has a clear shot on goal, but seems to randomly pass to du Près, who slaps a one timer between the Ottawa goalie’s skate and the goal post. Hat trick! Our fans stomp their feet creating the thunder of a tornado. blink 182’s “All the Small Things” blares as hats rain down on the ice.

After several minutes, they clear the ice of hats, all of which will be donated, and we play out the final seconds. The buzzer sounds with the puck down our end and du Près sprints toward me, hurtling us both backwards and dislodging the goal as Buzz and Saint and the rest of the guys join us. We’re all laughing and hugging or at least I’m trying with my goalie gloves and pads.

We’re only four rows below Christina. When he finally releases me to make our way off the ice, I glance back at Christina among the fans reveling in the win and du Près’ hat trick. She gives me a subtle double fist pump at shoulder height and I raise my fist in answer, still grinning like a madman.

The locker room is typically post-win rowdy. By the time du Près comes in from the press room, Jack has champagne and is alternately spraying it on him and guzzling it. I shake my head. My roommate could not be more opposite to my approach, but he’s a good guy and always upbeat.

Coach’s post-game talk is short, and we’re all headed to Chasers in no time. The roped off corner awaits us and a couple of the guys head over to Renee at the bar to get the first round. I spy a cinnamon-colored ponytail and veer off. Accepting congratulations and backslaps as I go, I nod and smile and make progress. When I’m a few feet away, Christina’s friend, who is facing me, says something and gestures to me. Chris turns with a smile.

I beckon them, wanting to get out of the fray. She shakes her head and gestures at the bar, mimicking signing a tab, then holds up one finger. I point to the corner and she nods.

Nicole murmurs something to her and she blushes, making me wonder what she’s told her friends.

I duck into the roped-off area and save them two seats with my suit jacket, taking the beer Jack points out from the end of the big booth he shares with five other players.

Du Près ambles over with his celebratory Wiser’s 18-year Canadian whisky, which he had charmed Renee into stocking for him. It had been a whole process, with him requesting Found North then contacting them directly when there were no distributors in Austin. Wiser 18 was his second choice when all that failed. I’ve tried both and can’t tell the difference, but Canadians take their whisky—never spelled whiskey—seriously. He has a hat from the ice perched at an angle on his head, his souvenir from the game.

The women arrive and Mathieu perks up, arching a brow and sliding into another seat at the table. Introductions are made and Nicole shakes my hand with a smile before raving to Mattie about his performance.

Christina takes the opportunity to lean in, saying, “Thank you again for the tickets. I loved seeing all the action up close.”

I grin, coasting on the euphoria of the win. “I can get you closer to some action in an hour or so if you want me to come home with you.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but nods. A couple of the guys come by, surprised she’s here.

Kyle is bouncing behind my chair, his voice coming over my head. “Ms. Donovan! My portfolio was up ten percent just in the last month. Do you think I can splurge on a Christmas gift for my parents?”

“I don’t know, Kyle. What are we talking about? A weekend away, or a car? Or diamonds?” Christina asks with a smile.

“Ohh…now I don’t know. Those all sound great.” He’s staring off into space when I turn to look at him.

I shake my head. “Pace yourself, rookie. Remember the goal is to save for…” I trail off and reword, as us hockey players never use the “i” or the “r” words in case they jinx us, “…the future.”

Christina tells him she’ll email him to set up a quick appointment to talk about it, reassuring him that she’ll help him find something nice. It’s another example of her going above and beyond her duties for the guys.

I squeeze her hand where it rests on the table, and she casts me a sharp glance before withdrawing it. Oops. Secret. Right.

Jack gets up for another drink and leans one hand on the table between Mattie and me. He does a chin lift at Christina and asks, “You’re hanging with us after the games now, eh? Should we invite you to the team parties at our hou—ugh! Dude, what?”

I follow my jab in his side with a glare.

Christina answers in a mild voice. “My friend Nicole wanted to come.”

“Oh yeah?” His grin is lecherous, as always, before he realizes Mattie has staked a claim, one hand on the back of Nicole’s chair, as he leans in chatting her up. He turns back to me to ask, “Dude, I keep meaning to ask. You said your AHL buddies are coming to the Chicago game. Did you want my pair for any family members? Isn’t your family from around there?”

Mattie lifts his head from his murmured conversation with Nicole to ask, “Are they?”

Ugh . Saint’s advice about opening up resonates in my head. “They’re from northern Indiana,” I tell him before turning to Jack. “I doubt they’ll be able to make it. Don’t worry about it, but thanks.”

“Cool. Just let me know if something changes.”

I nod once, my jaw clenched.

Christina notices and asks in an undertone, “Are you still following them anonymously?” When I nod again, she asks, “But you’re not ready to invite them?”

I shake my head.

“Okay,” she drops it and skims a quick hand down the outside of my thigh under the table to show support. Holy crap, this woman gets me like no other. She accepts my fears about my family, my money, and my role on the team. She sees my weak underbelly and supports me. Only my mother ever did that.

Maybe if I understand why she doesn’t want children, I can reconcile myself to that, or find another path. Dammit, there is still the optics of her being an owner of the team I want a very large contract from. Everything is working against us, but I’m falling for her so hard.

Wanting to avoid these dark thoughts, I relish my body’s reaction to her hand on my thigh and focus on what I hope will be the next part of the evening. Finishing my beer, I ask, “Can we go? Or do you need to leave with Nicole?”

“I need to leave with Nicole, but—” she skims a hand down my thigh again—“she told me to make sure she left after an hour as she has an early morning. I’ll meet you at my house in thirty.”

Perfect. My preferred kind of celebration doesn’t require alcohol.

* * * *

We have two more home games that week, splitting them with one win and one loss. For both, Christina sits in my seats. Once she brings her sister, and for the second, another friend who she tells me later is Lauren.

In between, we work on the new lifts with much of my time being spent on mastering a one-handed cartwheel. While my arm strength is more than adequate, Christina is a stickler for form. Of course, her touching me to direct my form leads to other things more often than not.

I also check in on my investments, given Kyle’s excitement about his return. I log in to the investment account Christina set up weeks ago, eager for a similar return to Kyle’s.

Instead, my portfolio is almost exactly equal to the amounts I’ve been funneling into it from each paycheck.

What the hell? She said she could outperform my savings account with a simple interest rate, but she’s lost me money.

Luckily, I’m due at Christina’s for our last practice session before I fly out tomorrow with the team. I bang on her door a little harder than normal before entering.

She’s coming down the hall from the studio and bedroom and smiles, saying “Hi Ca—”

“What’s up with my investments, Chris?”

Her chin retracts when I interrupt, but I don’t have time for niceties when I’m losing money. “Those mutual funds you put my money in have decreased in value.”

“Temporarily.” She rolls her eyes and I nearly lose my shit. “Of all days for you to look at the market.”

“I took your advice and didn’t look. But Kyle’s comment got me hoping.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, Cam. I should have warned you. There’s a little unrest in the market this week and next due to some economic indicators that are anticipated to be lower than previously expected. CPI…”

“You lost me at unrest.” I make a slashing motion with my hand, then run it through my hair, trying not to lose my shit. I’ve lashed out at her once, and I never want to be dismissive like my father, but I’m upset and I need to understand. “But how was Kyle up ten percent then?”

She remains calm when I start to pace. “First, Kyle put more into investments I recommended that have a greater upside than interest on a savings account, even a high yield one. So they had time to grow before this week’s volatility started. Second, if I looked this week, he might only be up five percent. I can’t tell you if he is due to confidentiality, but it’s why I urged him to be prudent on gift-giving this soon. By leaving more to grow, you’ll achieve greater compounding growth in the long term.”

“I can’t lose money, Chris. This is exactly why I didn’t want to put my money in risky stuff.”

“Cam, if I may say, you make a—” she pauses and looks at the ceiling “—hundred times what you lost in every paycheck. This is a drop in the bucket, and it will smooth out by the end of the calendar year.”

“So you’re saying I’m overreacting?” I grit out.

“No.” She sucks in a breath. “It can be scary to see red in an account. Believe me, I’m seeing a lot of it in our family’s accounts, too, right now. But especially when you don’t understand why something is fluctuating. I’m asking you to trust me for a little longer.”

There’s that word again. Maybe she and Saint are right and I have trust issues, especially where money is concerned after my father nearly prevented me from getting into this profession I love. “You have a much bigger nest egg to fall back on. I don’t think it’s the same.”

“It’s the same principle.” Now her jaw is clenching.

She doesn’t get it. “I don’t know. I should probably transfer it all into my interest-bearing account so I don’t lose any more.”

“It’s your money. I’ll do what you want. Look at it this way, though. When you applied to colleges, you weighed the risk—the application fee, the sense of loss—with the reward of going somewhere you were excited about. When you entered the draft your second year, you didn’t know who would pick you up or if anyone would, but it was worth it to reach for your dream.”

I smirk. “I got a scholarship to college and I was ranked pretty high in the draft.”

“Well, that explains it. You’ve never had to risk, have you? I’m not saying it hasn’t been hard work, but when you’ve put in the work, success has come to you. This is out of your control more, and it risks your hard work in a way.”

Well, fuck . Now I’m a control freak as well as having trust issues. Whatever it is, I’m way out of my comfort zone. On the other hand, her words from our initial investment meeting come back. This is what she does, and I need to respect her expertise while getting out of my own way. Hurting her feelings is out of the question. Besides, she did guarantee my capital. I swallow.

Her lips are pressed together and there is a crease between her eyes, despite her continued outward calm.

Dammit, I’ve already hurt her. Looming end date or not, I want to trust her, and I have to start somewhere. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Surprise flashes across her face for an instant before a smile blooms. That’s worth any losses I might incur.

* * * *

The team is in that lull between a light morning skate and heading back to the rink for warmups before the game. We went out to lunch in small groups based on what guys wanted to eat in Chicago—some have played here before in one capacity or another and have specific food memories they want to revisit.

I chose the group that was going to the place closest to the hotel so I can go back and rest. Jack is asleep with his phone on his chest on the other bed, but I can’t settle. Between watching my sort-of-siblings on social media and the guys expecting them to come to my game, I’m antsy being this physically close to them.

I log into Instagram to pull up my stepmother’s feed. She uses her married name—Dana Hill. I’m not surprised as my dad is not the kind of guy who would be happy with his wife keeping her own name. When her profile loads, I jackknife off the pillows to sit upright. A photo of her, teenaged Zoe, and six-year-old Robbie is posted. Both kids are wearing Tornadoes gear, although Zoe is smirking with her hand on the opened zipper of her jacket as though she unzipped it as the photo was taken. The image on the shirt under her jacket may or may not be a Chicago Icedogs logo, especially given that smirk. Brat . I’m smiling at my phone, though.

My father isn’t in the photo but likely was the photographer. The caption under the image doesn’t say either way. It reads, “Pulling the kids out one period early to head to see the @ChiIceDogs and @TxTornadoes play.”

They’re coming. They’ll be here. Seeing me play. And for whatever reason, their mom has put them in Tornadoes apparel, despite the cult-like attitude of many Chicago sports fans.

The post is neutral about why they chose to come to this particular game. I doubt my father was the driver of this, so I guess that answers whether Dana knows about me or not. I assumed she either didn’t know or wanted nothing to do with his old life, given the lack of an invitation to their wedding. But then she wouldn’t bring her children to my game. I’m confused. And how the hell his other son ended up playing hockey is beyond my comprehension. Did the old man have a change of heart? And why is the new wife coming? It’s not like she could have been a Tornadoes fan when he met her—we didn’t exist.

Chicago is another team like Detroit, with a deep bench and an even deeper history in the NHL. They’re one of the best teams in the league most years, including this one. Knowing my AHL friends will be here had me amped, but this new knowledge makes me nervous. Goalies can’t afford to be nervous. I have to do something to shake this off.

If it was a home game, I could text Saylet to find out where their seats are, but she won’t have access in another team’s arena. Of course, if it was a home game, they wouldn’t be attending, as they live in Indiana.

I’d already gotten permission to fly home separately from the team, on a commercial flight Sunday rather than tomorrow, because I wanted to support my AHL teammates. The fact that I check my brother’s league schedule is simply a reflection of being so close to him. They have a home game tomorrow afternoon. I text my friend group, saying I might be late to their game tomorrow as something has come up, but we’ll do drinks tonight after my game and tomorrow after theirs. I’ll sleep on my early flight and hope that Coach will cut me some slack if we have practice Sunday afternoon.

I have no idea what prompts me to consider driving out to see my brother play hockey, or whether I’m prepared to have a conversation with him, Dana, or anyone else. I’m still antsy, and my thumbs return to my phone screen. I hit the call button for Christina.

It goes to voicemail. Damn.

“Hey, Dancer, it’s me. I found out my family is coming to my game and I’m freaking out a little. Was hoping to catch you, but I’ll figure it out. Hope you’re having a good day.”

Belatedly, I realize she might not be answering because she’s still upset over my implied lack of trust. But here I am trusting her with my family turmoil. Hopefully, that’ll help. Or do I look like I’m using her as a crutch? I need to stop and get out of my head. This is all making my anxiety worse, not better, and I need to be dialed in for tonight’s game.

I go to the floor and move through some yoga flows, trying to find my Zen. It takes the edge off, and I replay game tape in my mind until my head is almost 100% back where it needs to be.

At the rink, we suit up and go out for warm-ups. The rest of the team starts without me as usual. As I side lunge, I watch the glass for kids in pom-pomed Tornadoes hats. When I don’t see Robbie or Zoe, I drag in a long inhale and force myself to release all non-hockey thoughts on the exhale. I’m ready to kick some puppies in the form of ice mutts.

We hold our own through the first period, neither team scoring. They’re pressing us hard, but my guys are fierce and I’m determined not to let a puck by me. In the second period, we score then they score almost immediately. That puck flew . I barely saw it, much less had time to react.

At the top of the third, they come barreling at me on all sides, but in their rush the puck gets passed behind the winger and my guys grab it. Saint and Buzz send it up on a breakaway, ensuring they’re with it before the blue line. As much speed as they can get on the puck, the ice mutts are slow on their own acceleration. Maybe it’s because they’re an older team and can make up for it with how well they work together, but for whatever reason, they can’t catch our first line. Buzz fakes a shot and passes to Saint, who lifts his stick for a one-timer, sending the puck right between the mutt goalie’s legs for a five hole. The goal lamp lights!

Now if I can keep the speedy little disk out of my net for just under sixteen minutes, we’re home free.

The final buzzer sounds and we’ve managed to win. Our team is ecstatic, celebrating on the ice, in the locker room and well into the night. My friends from Peoria get to experience how NHLers party after a win, which in all honesty is the same way AHLers party but with top shelf liquor and, at least at home, more women. To the entertainment of my past and current teammates, I stick to my usual one beer.

Jack is up and out early for the team flight. I have no idea how he can drink what he wants, eat crap food, get little sleep and still play as well as he does. I daren’t try it. This is too important.

I roll out of bed an hour later, thanking my yesterday self for sticking to my guns on not drinking more. I scan @ProudINMama’s feed for photos of the game and find a few. None have my father in them. Apparently, he’s still boycotting “playing games.” I laugh, picturing his face when he sees what Dana would have spent on tickets.

I have a voicemail from Christina from after the game. I hit play. “Cam! Congratulations! That was an awesome game. Apparently, you did indeed figure things out. Or maybe they should come to all your games?” Her tone is light. “Anyway, call me if you have time. Or I’ll see you Sunday night.”

Now that I’ve made the decision to do this, I’m on a mission. Besides, I’m not ready to contemplate my motivation too closely, much less explain it, so I don’t respond to her message.

My rideshare takes me to a car rental place and I head east to Indiana, focusing on the logistics and then the directions. I don’t allow myself to think too hard about what I’m doing.

Last night in the locker room, I borrowed Jack’s baseball cap and Mattie’s plain hoodie. The crazy Canadian wears that instead of a jacket half the time, but because team rules state we have to go home in suits and Austin’s weather is still in the 70’s most of the time, he allowed me to take it. This way, nothing I’m wearing has the Tornadoes logo.

I may want to see my half-brother on the ice, but I don’t want to be recognized. I’m not ready for questions about why I’m in a town I haven’t been back to in almost a decade. Because I was drafted, there’s enough personal information about me out there that people could connect me to this kid. He shouldn’t find out about me that way. That would be cruel. Damn, there’s a Wiki page about me that lists my mother and father’s name. They’re public record so I can’t ask them to take it down, but hopefully I’m new enough to the spotlight and Hill is a common enough last name that he doesn’t go looking.

In case Zoe is there too, I’ll have to be careful in the stands as I’m certain an angsty teen like her would choose to hide in a dark corner like I’ll be doing.

The highway driving gives me too much time to think about my reasons for wanting to see Robbie’s game. Dana’s posts haven’t mentioned what position he plays, but based on his helmet and stick, it’s not goalie. Which is fine. I’m not looking for a mini-me. Hell, I’m still in shock that he’s been allowed to play hockey after I went AWOL in my father’s eyes. Do they even say AWOL anymore? The military probably uses a new acronym…

I shake my head at myself. I’m losing the thread.

More than his skill, I want to make sure he enjoys it. And his facial expressions when he talks, as I’ve only seen still pictures of him. And the sparkle in his eyes when he grins.

I want to know him. I nearly drive off the highway when that thought arrives. Shit.

My first inclination is to call Christina again to talk through this. She says we’re a fling but she’s always happy to help me work through emotions, whether about the team or my family. We fit together so well I wish the kids issue wasn’t between us. Maybe we could be more. Even permanent. But my desire to know my brother and stepsister reinforces my craving for a family of my own. People who want me as much as I want them—forever. And Christina made it clear she isn’t looking for forever.

My phone’s GPS tells me my exit is next, and I push aside the deep thoughts to again focus on getting through this day. I’ll think about the rest when I’m home. With or without my “fling” partner.