Page 11 of Famous Last Words (New York Thunder #1)

CHAPTER 11

ROBBIE

I can’t remember the last time I ever worked my ass off as much as I have in this game. I’ve fucking near killed myself, and for what? For the Wolves to come in and tear us apart in the third. We were actually winning, 3-1. Now we’re tied in overtime because Rusty Morris can’t control a puck to save his goddamn life. Dude should’ve retired fucking years ago.

With twelve seconds left on the clock, I take a heavy hit, smashed up against the boards and pinned there by two of the Wolves’ third line goons. As their left winger breaks away and rounds the crease, I manage to shake off my opponents, spinning around just in time to see Dallas save a slapshot, every player scrambling to secure the puck.

It’s knocked out of the scrum and secured by the Wolves’ center who must not see me approach because he stupidly passes it to their right winger, giving me a chance to intercept.

There’s a moment of clarity, as the deafening roar of the crowd fades into nothingness, my thudding heartbeat and ragged breaths all I can hear. It’s now or never. With three seconds remaining, I secure the puck between my skates and my stick, cradling it as I break through two Wolves’ players launching at me.

Taking off down the ice, I skate with everything I have toward the net, and then, from the top of the circles, I send the puck sailing the rest of the way with a trademark Robbie Mason danger shot, holding my breath as the Wolves’ goalie throws himself in front of it, a fraction of a second too early, the lamp lighting up nanoseconds before the final siren sounds.

Done .

Satisfied, I turn to skate back to our bench, when I’m inundated by my teammates swarming in, jumping on me until I’m taken to the ice and piled upon in the kind of celebration you’d expect from a championship win. And it’s in this very moment, seeing the unshed tears in the eyes of my teammates, catching a glimpse of the crowd on their feet cheering, the emotion in the air palpable, that I realize something; so far in my career, I’ve scored the winning goal in countless games, so often that it somehow became expected of me. And without realizing it, it was that expectation that took the joy away. Just another goal, just another win, and onto the next. But here, tonight, scoring the winning goal in my first game with a team that hasn’t won a round one game in three seasons, I finally understand what I lost over the last year, what I’ve been missing—passion for the game that I love. And man, it feels fucking good to be back.

Shrugging on my button down, I stifle a groan, my body objecting to the movement. I look down, running my fingers over the angry purple welt bruising the skin below my ribs.

I spent more time against the boards tonight than any game I’ve ever played. Charged at, cross checked from behind, high-sticked. It wasn’t until I was blatantly speared in my gut that the ref finally called a penalty, and only because the footage was being shown on the Jumbotron at the time.

“Mason!”

Jumping, I pull my shirt closed, covering my injuries before turning to find Coach looking at me with that same scowl of disdain he wears so well.

“Yes, Coach?”

He says nothing, just looks at me long and hard, brow furrowed with an angry crease, lips downturned in a perma-frown.

With my jaw set tight, I don’t back down, keeping my chin held high. I mean, I won the fucking game. What can he possibly have to bitch me out about now?

“Good game,” Coach mutters, nodding once before turning and disappearing into the adjoining office.

I stare at the space he just occupied as I button my shirt, wondering for a moment if I just imagined that whole interaction. Was that a compliment? I’m pretty sure it was, despite it looking as if he wanted to punch me in the dick.

“Unfortunately, that’s as good as it gets, my guy.”

I turn, finding Josef, our second line winger grinning at me from his locker as he towel dries his long blond hair.

“Huh?” I tip my chin at him, confused by the cryptic comment hidden within his thick Icelandic accent.

“Draper.” He laughs. “He’s a hard ass. But him telling you good game? It’s basically the equivalent of him telling you he loves you.”

“Oh, yeah…” I manage a light laugh, grabbing my suit jacket. But I’m stopped by what sounds like an argument starting in the showers, my ears pricking at Dallas’s Texan accent uncharacteristically raised.

“Don’t tell me how to do my fucking job when you can’t even do your own, bro!”

A humorless laugh follows, and I’m pretty sure it’s Rusty. Great.

“My six-year-old daughter could’ve stopped that goal!”

Tossing my jacket back into my locker, I hurry through to the shower s to make sure everything’s copacetic, but when I see Dallas and Rusty standing toe to toe, surrounded by the rest of the guys, my brows knit together. What the fuck is going on? And I know this is the shower room, but why the fuck is Dallas just standing there, butt-ass naked?

“Maybe learn how to control a fucking puck.”

Someone laughs and Dallas grins, casually drying his dick with a towel.

Rusty scoffs, glancing back at the crowd they’ve garnered, his eyes spearing me through the steam, and narrowing in a way I’ve become accustomed to. Here we fucking go.

“Yeah, well, maybe if our new star D-man could pry himself off the boards once in a while, Koslov wouldn’t have even made it over the blue line.”

I snort because yeah, whatever bud. You try having three men target you for the best part of an hour and a half and see how you do. I say nothing though, because I’m in no position to be starting shit with my new captain, considering my recent history.

Dallas throws his thumb in my direction. “You’re talking about the D-man who scored two of our four goals tonight?”

Rusty says nothing.

Dallas scoffs. “The fact that half their team was too busy cornering Mason should’ve meant that you could get through their line easier. Instead, you kept fucking up, turning over the puck, and now you’re doing what you do best—” Grin still in place, Dallas leans closer, his face less than a few inches from Rusty’s as he continues, “Blaming everybody else.”

Rusty pushes Dallas in his chest. His naked chest. And frankly, there’s so much skin on display, it’s starting to get weird up in here. And since no one else seems to be stepping in, I decide to take the lead, shouldering my way through the barricade of onlookers.

“Come on, you guys.” I stand next to Dallas, offering his dick an unimpressed glance and quirking a brow at him which he tha nkfully takes as a hint, wrapping his towel around his waist.

I throw my hands in the air. “We won. Quit your bitching, and let’s focus on Monday’s game against the Bucks.” I spear Rusty with a pointed look because he’s the goddamn team captain and should know better than to be fighting with his naked goalie.

“Whatever,” Rusty mutters, turning to step into one of the shower stalls.

Dallas looks to me, eyes incredulously wide as he shakes his head. I turn, leading the way back out to the locker room and he follows.

“A guy can’t even enjoy a post-game shower without assholes trying to blame him for their own fuck ups!” Dallas says behind me, and I can tell by the tone of his voice he’s saying it loud enough to get a rise out of Rusty. I roll my eyes.

“You coming for a beer?”

I stop at my locker, shrugging on my suit jacket, trying not to wince at the pain in my side. “Nah. Can’t. Curfew,” I remind him.

“Dude!” Dallas guffaws, slapping my arm. “It’s our first game one win in like… forever . I’m sure they’ll let you off just for one night, considering we wouldn’t have won without you.”

I shake my head although he’s probably right. But the truth is—the truth I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Andy—I’m sober. I have been for more than a month. Not that I ever had an issue with alcohol. Although the media chose to tell a different story. Drugs. Alcohol. Women. You name it, they wrote it. I am the prodigal bad boy of hockey, after all. But what they don’t know, what no one knows, is that I stopped drinking after everything went down because there was one night, when I was drunk and alone, that I found myself standing on the Wabasha Street bridge, staring down at the Mississippi, contemplating shit I never want to think about again in my life. I can’t risk getting to that state of intoxication again; my mom needs me.

“No can do.” I shrug, hitching my bag onto my shoulder, ready or not for the big reveal. “Actually, um, my girl's here. Gonna have a quiet night in, if you know what I mean.” I wink suggestively, trying so hard to keep a straight face when the actual idea of doing anything even remotely suggestive with Fran fucking Keller is both nauseating and laughable. Although, I must admit, seeing her tonight on her feet, cheering for me, was kind of cool. And her face up on the Jumbotron when I pointed my stick at her? Fucking priceless.

“Your girl ?” Dallas spins around, eyes comically wide, gawking at me in a combination of shock and disappointment. “Wait! You have a girlfriend ?”

I can’t help but laugh at the tone in his voice when he says girlfriend like it’s a dirty word, as if the sheer notion is absurd and disgusting.

Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I nod.

Dallas’s lips twist to the side momentarily before he asks, “She got any hot friends?”

I snort, shaking my head at him. Dude is such a man whore.

“Good game tonight, bro,” Dallas says, clasping his hand with mine and pulling me into a side hug.

I’m fully aware that he’s still only wearing a towel, but I allow it. It almost feels like I’m making a friend. And if I’m being honest, it’s been a long time between friends. Real friends, at least.

The second I step out of the locker room and into the tunnel, I’m inundated by kids. Kids fucking everywhere.

“Robbie? Can I get a photo?”

I’m temporarily blinded by the flash of a camera.

“Robbie, will you sign my jersey?”

Sharpies galore are thrust in my face.

“Robbie!”

“Robbie!”

“Robbie!”

My heart rate increases, and it’s suddenly stifling. It’s not that I don’t like kids. I love them. Their excitement is genuine. Hell, I used to be these kids. But sometimes it’s hard to feel like nothing more than an object.

I go through the motions, signing what I can, smiling whenever I see a phone shoved in my face, but I’m not really present, and I hate that. These kids wait around all night to see me, and most of them probably live out of the city. I owe it to the kids; they’re the reason I’m here.

Just as I’m getting done with the last of the adorable little hockey wannabes, I’m mid-autograph on an oversized Thunder foam finger when I glance up, doing a double-take when my eyes land on Keller. She’s oblivious to me, talking animatedly to a hot brunette I’ve never seen before, and something unfamiliar stirs in my chest. Strangely, it’s got nothing to do with the hot brunette and everything to Fran Keller. What the hell?

As one of the kids says something to me, I’m not even listening; my attention is wholeheartedly captivated by the bane of my existence, standing there wearing my jersey. I know I told her to wear it. But seeing her now is doing something to me that I do not fucking like.

I don’t know. Maybe I took more blows to the head tonight than I remember because, fuck me, with those tight jeans hugging her thick thighs and curvy ass, her blonde hair cascading down over shoulders, and my name adorned across her back… call me fucking crazy but does she look… hot?

At that moment, as if she can hear my thoughts, Fran turns her head, her big blue eyes meeting mine. And the genuine smile I saw on her face seconds ago immediately falls. And thank God, too, because it’s like a refreshing slap to the face; she’s still the same old stick-up-her-ass Keller, the girl who made me shit myself during my first game with Belmont Prep when I was seventeen.

I release the breath I’ve been holding and hand the Sharpie back t o one of the kids’ parents, smiling down at my fan club of fourteen-year-olds before stepping around them and closing the distance between me and my fake fucking girlfriend.