Page 65 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)
“I just don’t like that he left without saying goodbye,” Laurel added with a frown.
“Maybe he’ll come back once the playoffs are done,” Damon said with a shrug. “I mean, if he plays the way he’s playing now, he could take them all the way through.”
A ping on my phone on the kitchen island pulled my attention, but I ignored it.
But when a series of two more pings happened right after it, with a sigh, I got up to retrieve it. They were messages from my cousins, all the same link.
I clicked on the link and was nearly blinded by the headline: Rebel Roy, defenseman for the Minnesota Muskies, and son of Hockey Hall of Famer, Kirby Roy, charged with three counts of sexual assault and luring a minor to his hotel room for sex.
I gasped and my hand flew to my mouth before I could stop it.
Both kids turned to me.
“What’s wrong?” Laurel asked.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
She narrowed her dark brows. “Mom, don’t lie. What’s wrong? You have that look in your eye like the world is going to explode.”
With another sigh, I joined them back at the table. “Maverick’s older brother, Rebel, was just convicted of similar stuff as Mav’s other teammates. Even some worse stuff.”
Damon’s eyes went the size of dinner plates, and he reached for my phone. “Crap,” he breathed.
“Poor Mav,” Laurel whispered.
“Hopefully nobody shows him this until after the game,” Damon said. “He doesn’t need this on his mind as he’s playing what might be the best game of his career.”
I had the exact same thought. Maverick had already gone through so much, he didn’t need his brother’s screw ups affecting his career.
Rebel made his own bed. Now he could lay in it.
We all knew Maverick wouldn’t stand behind his brother and come to his defense.
He had too strong of a moral compass for that.
After Damon handed me back my phone, I read a snippet of the article, not just the headline, but I couldn’t stomach reading the whole thing.
Rebel had been conversing with a fifteen-year-old girl on the internet and lured her to his hotel room during an away game in Boston.
Only, it wasn’t a fifteen-year-old girl that showed up, it was a Fed.
The FBI had apparently been building a case against Rebel for a while now, just waiting for the right moment and enough evidence.
His chats with the girl were quoted where “she” said that she was fifteen, a virgin, and nervous.
He assured her that he would be gentle and make sure her first time was enjoyable.
Then, when the FBI arrived to his room, there were condoms, a video camera set up, ecstasy pills, and the date rape drug.
Add in the women that came forward—some of age, others not of age at the time they were with Rebel—and the FBI had a solid case against Maverick’s brother.
He’d be going away for a long time. Not even his hockey millions would be able to save him.
The second period started, and it was easy enough to see that Maverick had indeed been told about his brother.
The pain on his face, and the fact that the camera kept panning to him and doing close-ups, not to mention the sportscasters remarking about it, was enough to make me want to put in some earplugs and just watch the game, but not listen.
The coach ended up pulling Maverick for a large portion of the second period because it was easy enough to see he was not in the right headspace. At one point, it actually looked like Maverick asked his coach to pull him, sending out Hank Lee—another center—in his place.
Colorado managed to score three times on Portland during the second period, evening the score. And a few fights broke out, with both Lee and Allard getting two-minute penalties—not at the same time.
Maverick didn’t start in the third period, even though he was clearly the superior center.
The enormous blond Norwegian center, Jakob Dahl, was a decent runner-up, and he dominated the ice, keeping the puck mostly out of his defensive zone.
He wasn’t as liberal of a passer as Maverick was, and seemed a touch too aggressive for my liking, but when he saw that Allard was open and had a shot, he did what was best for the team and passed to the French Canadian who chipped the puck into the net over the goalie’s left shoulder.
Rather than celebrate like he’d won the lottery, Damon collapsed back against the couch. “’Bout time Dahl passed. Almost lost the shot. And it’s normally Allard that’s the showboater taking shots when he should pass.” He shook his head, sending his shaggy brown hair to and fro.
Now the Storm led by one.
Dahl was called back to the bench and Maverick went out in his place to face off with Colorado.
The puck dropped, and it was like he’d been injected with adrenaline or something.
He shoved all those negative thoughts about his brother from his mind and focused on nothing but the game.
On nothing but his team. He snagged the puck almost before it even hit the ice, then like lightning, he raced toward the net, with players chasing after him.
He dodged the left-winger from Colorado, then the left-defenseman, circling around the net only to pass to Allard at the last second, and the Frenchman flicked the puck into the net.
Damon was back out of his seat, leaping up onto the couch again. Ordinarily, I’d have told him we don’t jump on the couch, but these were extenuating circumstances, and I’d pretty much do anything to see my teenage son this animated and excited.
It took a fair bit of time for the crowd to settle down before they could drop the puck again, and just as Maverick was on his second breakaway, the center for Colorado zipped up behind him and hooked his skate, sending Maverick flying to the ground.
I was busy putting away all the dinner dishes in the kitchen, and the bowl in my hand slipped, shattering almost in slow motion on the kitchen tile.
Both kids turned around.
“You okay?” Laurel asked, getting up from the couch.
I crouched down, my hands shaking as she retrieved a broom and dustpan from the pantry closet.
“Did you cut yourself?”
I checked my hands, but there was no blood. “N-no. I don’t think so.”
“Here, let me,” she said, gently nudging me out of the way and starting to sweep. It wasn’t that big of a mess, a few big shards, but not too many small ones. She had it tidied up in seconds, then grabbed the stick vacuum to double-clean the area.
“Thank you,” I said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. She gave me a look that said she knew how I felt.
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Collins got two minutes for hooking, but Mav hasn’t gotten up yet,” Damon said, panic in his voice. “Coach is there. Paramedics are coming out.”
I wasn’t sure I could look.
“Oh, hang on,” Damon went on. “He’s getting up. He’s nodding that he’s okay.”
Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and a sob clutched my throat unexpectedly. I slapped my hand to my mouth as rattled breaths stuttered out of my nose.
The fans in the stands clapped and cheered like Maverick had just scored the winning goal as he gave them all a wave and skated back to the bench as the paramedics left the ice.
He chatted for a moment with his coach and the ref.
“Turn it up,” I said to Damon.
“… Maverick Roy is playing the game of his life tonight. The twenty-six-year-old center is on fire, which is just outstanding in the wake of his extended time off due to a back injury. But it looks like Roy is not only healed, but maybe the doctors gave him some kind of superpowers when he had his surgery. Like they filled Wolverine’s body with adamantium,” one sportscaster commented.
“Yeah, but the only way they could do that was Wolverine’s mutant ability to heal quickly,” said another sportscaster. “I doubt they injected Roy with adamantium.”
“You know adamantium isn’t real, right?” said the original sportscaster.
“God, these guys are idiots,” Damon said, shaking his head.
Laurel and I both snorted as we joined her brother on the couch.
“Well, real or not, Maverick Roy is playing like a superhuman tonight,” the second sportscaster said. “And just as the disgusting news about his brother, Rebel, has come to light.”
“I don’t think it will come as any surprise, given how outspoken Maverick’s been about his own teammates and their behavior, that he won’t stand behind his brother.”
“The house of Roy will be quite divided, I’m guessing,” said the second sportscaster again.
“And it looks like they’ve had their discussion, and Roy is going back out onto the ice. Team captain, Shane Garver, gives Roy a friendly little bop on the helmet before skating back toward the net.”
“We’ve only got eight minutes left in the game and the Storm are leading, four to three. It’s anybody’s game at this point.”
The puck dropped again and with Woodman on his right, and Allard on his left, Maverick was the perfect conduit for the three of them to take it up the ice.
The passing was beautiful; it was like watching burly men in uniform ice dance.
They reached the net and Allard took a shot, but the Colorado goalie blocked.
Maverick tried to get the rebound, but a Colorado defenseman was on him and managed to commandeer the puck away from Portland, he shot it up the ice toward Portland’s defensive zone where the Colorado’s right-wing snagged it and took a shot on goal. Silby blocked it.
The collective gasps and sighs of relief in the crowd mimicked the ones going on in my home.
The other Storm defenseman, Stanley Price, snagged the puck and knocked it up the ice to Allard, who passed it to Maverick. Maverick passed it to Woodman.
“Is Woodman going to take the shot?” the sportscaster asked. “He’s got the opening.”
Woodman passed it back to Maverick, nodded at him, and Maverick hesitated for just a second before lifting his stick up and shooting it into the right of the net, just under the goalie’s arm.