Page 43 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SEAN

I ’m changing into my training camp warmups—compression top, practice jersey, and team-issued shorts—next to the only other guy at eval camp over twenty-two.

Fortunately, my phone buzzes with a selfie from Kayla right before I turn it off.

Excitement pricks my chest. And then I laugh.

She’s got dirt on her face and a leaf in her hair, and a shirtless Lucas Fischer is in the background being walked around by none other than Eunice and Loretta.

KAYLA

You want selfies of your smoke-show wife, you got ‘em.

SEAN

Still hot.

KAYLA

Sigh. I’m *too* attractive, aren’t I? I should have known I’d distract you with thoughts of my intense beauty.

SEAN

Nah, it’s not a distraction, it’s motivation. The sooner I impress these guys, the sooner I get home.

KAYLA

Miss you! You’re going to be amazing!

“Who’re you texting?” one of the guys calls from the next row of lockers. He’s still pulling on his socks, tall and wiry, his cheeks red from our early morning conditioning test.

He’s 22, just finished a college season with the lowest goals-against average in his conference. Now he’s here trying to prove he can hack it at the next level—the AHL, maybe even the NHL if he shows well enough.

Or if I don’t.

“My wife,” I say. And because Kayla really does look that good covered in dirt and leaves, I tilt the screen toward him.

His eyes go wide. “Wow. You bagged a real hottie, Coach.”

My eye twitches. “She’s definitely hot, but I’m not a coach. I’m here to be evaluated.”

“No way.” He shuts his locker and grins. The name tag above it reads RYAN HALL. “How old are you, man?”

“Thirty-three. Played with the Arsenal last year on a professional tryout?—”

“No way!”

“Yup. Got the call-up during playoffs. I’m here to earn a full contract.”

Hall lets out a low whistle. “Good luck, bruh. You got any advice for a rookie?”

He holds out a fist to bump, and I oblige, even though part of me hesitates.

This kid’s eager. Quick. Talented. The kind of goalie coaches love to groom.

I should probably be guarding my edges.

But I’ve never been great at playing it that way.

“Stay square and make the saves that count. They don’t care if you’re flashy, they care if you win.”

Hall nods like I’ve just handed him an answer key during midterms.

And I try not to let it bother me that I’m giving tips to my competition.

On the ice, Otto is standing with the Camp Coach, Trevor, a former assistant coach who’s been bumped up to player development. I met him at the end of last season, and he was a solid guy. Blunt and no-nonsense, but he always looked at me like he was waiting for me to put my foot on the gas.

“All right, boys,” Trevor says when we all get to the ice. “Or should I say men?”

A few of the guys look at me and chuckle.

I try to laugh with them.

“Now let’s find out who’s ready to play and who showed up for a free jersey.”

Trevor leads us through warmups, but I’m still stiff from the drive this morning and from two nights of not sleeping so I could soak up the feeling of Kayla next to me. My knees have been feeling good all summer, so I’m not as worried about them as I expected to be only a couple of months ago.

But I’m slower than usual.

And it shows.

The first few drills go worse than I want to admit.

I stumble over a cone during an agility drill, then get turned around during a two-on-one rush and fall for a fake I should’ve seen coming. The puck slides right past me, clean as day.

I mutter a curse into my mask.

Meanwhile, Hall bounces into drills like he’s got springs for legs. He’s fast and eager, with energy that’s a little too boundless. He makes plenty of saves, but he slips too far on one play. On another, he charges the puck too aggressively and overshoots, leaving the net wide open.

The kid’s got heart. Just no brakes.

Yet Trevor nods like he likes what he sees. “Good energy, Hall. Keep it up.”

When I make the next stop with perfect form—read the shot, track it, stop it—I expect at least a nod from Trevor.

I get nothing.

We keep going. And after a couple of hours, I finally find my groove.

Hard shot from the top? Glove save.

Traffic in front of the net? They can’t fool me.

Sneaky play off the boards? I block and clear it without blinking.

For a few minutes, I feel like me again. Not the guy trying to prove something. Just the guy who gets things done.

Then I catch sight of Otto and Trevor talking at center ice. Helmets off, heads close.

Their voices carry just enough.

“Hall’s raw,” Trevor says. “But he’s got instincts. Guy like that could be ready in a year, maybe two.”

Otto nods. “High ceiling.”

Then Trevor asks, “And O’Shannan?”

Otto shrugs. “Dependable, as always. We know what we’ve got there.”

It’s like someone tore open my chest and dumped a bucket of ice into the cavity.

Dependable.

Maybe it’s meant to be praise, but all I hear is: expendable.

Not essential. Not indispensable.

The guy you use up while you’re waiting for that guy to be ready.

My whole life, it’s felt like I have a beacon flashing over my head saying, “Only use in case of emergency.”

And that’s all anyone will let me be, no matter how much I ache to be more.

But if that’s what they want, I’ll show them just how dependable I am. Shut out my emotion. Be cold, steady, and solid.

But I won’t put my heart in it.

I can’t.

I’ll be the safety net, holding the line till Hall is ready for his debut.

And nothing more.

The final drill is a shootout. One player at a time, coming in fast.

I lock in.

First shot—poke check.

Second—pad save.

Third—glove.

Not a single puck gets past me.

When the last shooter coasts away shaking his head, a few guys clap their sticks on the ice. One yells, “Old man’s still got it!”

I skate off breathing hard, sweat dripping, a flicker of pride trying to build in my chest.

Then Otto walks up. Pats my back.

And passes me to talk to Hall.

“Good work today, kid.”

The flicker of pride goes out.

My chest goes cold.

I know why I’m here, and I won’t let myself get caught up in wanting more.

In the locker room, the guys are riding high from their first day—music blasting, tape balls flying, energy turned up to eleven. I sit on the bench with my back to the wall, heart still thudding, disappointment lingering in my gut like bad takeout.

I breathe in the stench of sweat and skate oil.

What am I doing here? I’m too old to still be hanging onto teenage dreams.

I take off my skates one at a time, slowly, deliberately. Not because I’m sore—though I am—but because I’m in no hurry to face more of this tomorrow. If I move too fast, I might break open, showing camp more than they bargained for.

I put my skates in my locker, and Hall plops down beside me. “You were on fire out there, Coach.”

“I’m not a coach,” I say, annoyance creeping into my tone.

“You could be. You see like a coach. So cool out there, no wasted energy. It’s like you can read the ice.”

“Thanks,” I say, but my brain is saying something else.

What good is it to read the ice when my book is already out of print?

I shower more slowly than the rest of the guys, mostly because I need the heat to loosen my muscles.

I’ve been keeping sharp all off season, but there’s a difference between weights and off-ice drills and getting shoved in a scrum.

In the locker room, the guys are talking big dreams—social media followings and endorsements, deals and scouts.

These dreams feel like a memory of a different life, one I never got to live.

Don’t say “got” like you were forced out of the NHL. You chose it. Dad needed you, but you chose it.

Patty, Dad, and I watched a movie when I was in eighth grade.

I don’t remember what it was called or a thing about the plot except for the main character.

He was living a boring life, but there were hints of something dark and exciting from his past. When he got a desperate call, his whole aura shifted.

He said something like, “I’ve been training my whole life for this. ”

I can still remember the desperate call I got. The urgency in the tone of the paramedic who called me after my dad’s accident—head-on collision, total paralysis from the waist down.

And that exact quote in that exact weathered, determined tone came to mind:

I’ve been training my whole life for this.

I had finished my second season in the AHL and the Bruins had just called me up. I was supposed to report to Boston the next week—but I never got on the plane.

Patty was on the road, touring. He offered to hire a full-time nurse, but I said no. I imagined Mom would stay this time and that we’d tag team taking care of Dad.

Then the pressure of becoming a full-time caretaker overtook her and she left.

I was the only one who could take care of Dad.

My NHL dreams were shattered.

I frown, running my hand through my soaking hair as I wash out the shampoo. Something doesn’t line up …

Is that timeline right? When did I call the Bruins to let them know I couldn’t accept their offer?

It has to have been after Mom left, right? After it was clear no one could help Dad but me?

But if that’s the case, then why do I remember the beeping of hospital machines? Why can I still remember the look of the speckled gray vinyl floor—ugly and shiny, like wet concrete pretending to be clean—when I called the front office and told them I couldn’t take the spot?

They said they understood. To call them back when I was ready …

Wait.

Did I ever call them back?

Did I really abandon my own dreams before Mom ever left?

Mom tried. She really did. But eventually she packed a bag, kissed Dad on the cheek, and turned to me with tears in her eyes.

“You’re just better at this than I am,” she said. “He listens to you. He trusts you.”

I remember nodding, like I was willing to make whatever sacrifice they needed me to make.