Page 64 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
Gabrielle
The last two weeks at home with Damon and Laurel were ones from hell. They alternated between being incredibly sad, then angry with me, then angry with Maverick. Mostly with me though.
I didn’t lie to them. I never lied to my children.
I told them that Maverick got a clean bill of health from his doctor, and that I had told him that he would regret not going back and playing with his team.
Because that was the truth. He would regret it, and like Kirby said, ultimately, resent me—resent my kids—for keeping him here.
Maverick needed to decide on his own, with no extraneous factors weighing in, whether he wanted to continue playing professional hockey or not.
And I knew that if he came back to the island, he would choose to stay.
I could see it in his eyes after that last Sunday night before he left, when we ate another beautiful meal as a family, and things felt wholesome and perfect, that he would choose us.
The love and contentment on his face told me that without a shadow of a doubt, he’d give up his dream for us.
And I couldn’t let him do that.
So I sent him away.
I told him to go.
Then I hung up the phone and sobbed like I’d never sobbed before.
Because fucking hell, I was in love with him.
As hard as I tried to fight it all: the attraction, the chemistry, the longing, Maverick Roy went and made me fall in love with him, and now my heart was broken.
So were my kids’ hearts, and that was what was probably the most devastating part of it all.
I warned him. I warned myself that it was more than just my heart at play, and we tried to keep it light and casual, and drive home the impermanence of his stay.
But the heart doesn’t listen to that kind of talk.
It just absorbed all the wonderful things about him, the way he made me feel, the way he made my kids feel, and it went and fell in love with him anyway. All of our hearts did.
And now they were shattered.
I could function with a broken heart. I taped it up, slapped on a smile, and pretended like everything was okay, because that’s what moms do. My kids, on the other hand, were devastated.
I could try to blame Maverick for their pain, but ultimately, it was my fault. I let him into our home, into our hearts. So their ache was because of me, and the guilt over that was downright debilitating.
It was Friday night and the Portland Storm was playing a home game against Colorado. It was one of the last games before the playoffs and the Storm were on the edge of even qualifying. This game would determine if they’d be among the elite sixteen teams vying for the Stanley Cup.
It was also the first game Maverick was going to play since getting the all clear from his doctor.
He’d been going to the games, sitting with his team, but his coach kept him benched until Maverick trained and practiced with them a bit.
At least that’s what the sportscasters said when Damon had the games on.
Once in a while, the camera would pan to Maverick sitting on the bench with his team in his suit, chatting and smiling with one of his teammates.
When he caught the camera watching him, he’d throw a half-hearted smile or wave at the fans, which just caused the stands to erupt into cheers and claps.
I was sure tonight’s game would be met with a deafening welcome as his skates hit the ice.
Five minutes to the five o’clock puck drop, and I was stirring a big pot of white bean turkey chili on the stove as Laurel sat in the corner of the sectional, reading.
Damon chewed on this thumbnail and leaned forward on the couch, watching with intensity as the players and fans sang the national anthem with a Portland choir singer.
Laurel lifted her head from her book. “You see him yet?”
“No,” Damon murmured, inching forward a little more until he was barely perched on the cushion at all.
“There!” He leaped up to his feet and pointed at the television just as the camera panned across the faces of the Storm.
All the players stood in their gear, hands over their hearts, helmets on as they sang The Star-Spangled Banner.
I know it wasn’t actually the case, but Maverick looked right into the camera, and I could have sworn he was looking at me as his gaze turned serious and a little dark.
I swallowed, and my insides tightened.
The national anthem ended, and the teams skated off to their benches.
“Holy cow, they’re starting Maverick,” Damon exclaimed, slowly sitting back down. “They need him more than ever on their first string now that Franks and Henderson are out.”
It was more than just Henderson and Franks that weren’t on the bench though.
Since Maverick left and the news about the Bingo card hit mainstream media, four other Portland Storm players were charged with sexual assault and rape.
Rhys Dellenbaum, their backup goalie; Cortland Smythe and Bjorn Hanson, two defensemen; and Lindsey Ward, a third-string center.
The Storm was at the center of a media frenzy with the team apparently hyper-polarized in the locker room.
I read one article that said many players didn’t feel safe around Maverick anymore because of his podcast, and it was like he was on a witch hunt, while others were speaking out and saying Maverick was in the right and they all should have said something sooner.
All I could say to that was, if you’re innocent, there’s no reason not to feel safe.
The puck dropped and like one of those black and white swirly things spinning in front of my face, I became hypnotized.
I never lost sight of Maverick, or the number twelve on his jersey, as he got the puck first and zipped up the ice halfway to the net before passing it to Woodman who took it straight to the net, narrowly avoiding a Colorado player bashing him into the boards. He took the shot and—”
“Goal!” Damon hollered, leaping to his feet before pivoting to face me. “Mom! Did you see that? Not even a minute into the game and they scored. And Mav got the assist. Did you see that?”
I nodded, my throat tight. “I did.”
He faced the television again as the fans in the stands and the players on and off the ice went wild.
The sportscasters commented on how good it was to see Maverick Roy back in the number twelve jersey—where he belonged.
That the Storm have been missing their starting center, and in the wake of all the negative publicity, he seems to be the shining beacon of hope in this hurricane of uncertainty.
A little “1” was added to the bottom of the screen by the Storm’s lightning bolt logo. Then the puck dropped again, and they were off.
Maverick got the puck again first, but this time didn’t hesitate before whipping it across the ice to an open Woodman, who skated only a couple of feet before passing it back to Maverick, who immediately passed it to his left-winger, Guillam Berengar.
Berengar took it up the ice further, then passed it back to Maverick, who instantly handed it off to Woodman.
For whatever reason, Colorado could not stay on them, or keep track of the puck, and before anybody knew it, Berengar was taking a shot on goal, but the Colorado goalie managed to deflect it.
Only, Maverick was right there with the rebound and knocked it into the net.
Damon was up on the couch cushions this time, grabbing his hair, then throwing his arms in the air, then facing me, then the television. “Two! Two goals in under five minutes. Two!”
I smiled, seeing how happy my son was, and the way the entire world seemed to tremble. So many people were cheering for Maverick.
Horns blared, announcers went crazy as Maverick got swarmed by his on-ice teammates, all of them patting him on the back or helmet.
The puck dropped again after everyone settled down, and this time the center for Colorado got it first, taking it straight up the ice.
But Maverick was on him, and he had no other choice than to pass it to his left-winger who had a terrible shot, but took it on the net anyway.
Silby—the Storm goalie—blocked the shot easily, passing the puck to Garver, the team captain and Storm defenseman.
Garver took it to the center line before passing it back to Maverick.
But Colorado was out for redemption at this point.
Two goals in less than five minutes. They knew they’d been asleep at the beginning and were wide awake now.
They kept the puck out of their defensive zone for a solid ten minutes, and when their left-winger hooked Maverick, he was sent to the box for a two-minute penalty.
This gave the Storm a man advantage, and with just one minute left in the first period, Maverick had another breakaway that he took up the ice nearly to the net.
Even I held my breath when he lifted his stick, appearing to prepare for a slapshot, only to pass it to Woodman at the last second.
And it was a smart move too because Woodman had a better shot and was closer.
They took the goalie by surprise and got it in the net just behind his skate.
Damon had to decrease the volume on the television. The horns and cheering were so loud. My son peeled away from the couch and raced around the room. “A hat trick! A hat trick in the first period.” He gripped his sister by the shoulders and shook her gently. “A hat trick!”
Laurel snorted and glanced over her shoulder at me, a smirk on her face.
“All right, during intermission, come have some dinner,” I said, having placed the big pot of chili in the middle of the table ten minutes ago.
Damon stayed glued to the TV in the few minutes it took for the buzzer to sound, signaling the end of the first period.
“I’m still sad he left,” my son said, scooping more chili into his bowl, then topping it with sour cream, grated cheese, and diced cilantro, “but it looks like he was ready to go back.”