Page 39 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

Luke

W hy do the days go so fucking fast when you’re having the time of your life?

Bree’s assignment in Charlotte is almost over, and that scares the shit out of me. But instead of dwelling on that, I’ve made it my mission to enjoy every second with her.

A date at an ice rink is the cheesiest possible place a hockey player can take a girl, so avoiding it seemed like the right thing to do.

But for me, there was also a mental barrier.

The ice rink is the one place I’ve continued to visit on my own because it’s where I feel most at home—the only place I feel completely at ease.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to share that part of myself yet.

Then I realized she’s the only person I could share it with, the only person I trust with the fresh, raw wound.

“Pineville Ice House.” Bree reads the sign out loud as we pull into the parking lot. “You’re taking me ice skating?”

“Did you expect anything different from a hockey player?” I ask, winking at her. The word “former” doesn’t even stick in my throat because this is Bree, the person I can be myself around.

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s cliché,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Why did you bring me here if you think it’s cliché?”

“I’m selfish,” I admit, pulling into a parking space near the back of the lot. “I want to be on the ice so badly, I skate any chance I get.”

“You skate a lot?” Bree lifts an eyebrow. I sense her disapproval, but she doesn’t hound me further.

“Six times a week,” I admit as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I lean over and quickly peck her lips. “On Mondays, I rest.”

“Ahhh, so you do rest,” she says as we both slide out of the car. She follows me to the back where I retrieve my hockey bag. “Didn’t take you as the type of guy to allow himself a day off,” she teases. Her voice is soft when she continues. “How do you feel when you skate?”

“Complete,” I say hefting the bag onto my shoulder. Before I close the back, I grab two sticks.

She wants the truth. Everyone wants the truth. Except me.

“I bet.” She laughs. “How does your body feel?”

“Better than it ever has,” I answer honestly.

I’m not blowing smoke. Between all the physical therapy and strength training, I feel like a different player. I’ve also been working with a power skating coach to help me correct a few things in my skating to make me faster and more explosive.

I kept those sessions on the down low.

As we stride together in sync as we approach the doors, I notice the skip in Bree’s step.

“Are you excited to skate?” I ask, holding the door as she slips through.

“Old habits are hard to break.” There’s a sparkle in her eyes when she glances at me from the skate rental counter. She quickly turns her attention to the attendant. “Size seven, please.”

“Can we borrow a helmet and gloves from the equipment room?” I ask the attendant.

“Sure, Luke,” the guy behind the counter says. “You know the code.”

I wink at Bree before pressing the four-digit code into the keypad on the first door in the hallway beside the rental counter.

When I have time, I help with the local youth hockey teams. I’ve held skill-specific group sessions and trained players one-on-one.

The association gave me access to their equipment room in case I need to borrow any gear for a player I’m working with.

Even though I know the code and could go right in, I still like to ask.

I developed an internal honor code after years of scamming to stay alive in DTES.

After grabbing a helmet and gloves for Bree, we lace up our skates and head out to the ice.

I rented the rink for an hour so Bree and I could skate or play hockey or make out on the benches.

It made more sense to keep our options open instead of skating in an oval for an hour with the public skating crowd.

Everything inside me jolts to life when I’m on the ice. My passion, my talent, my personality—they all pulse with every stride.

The macho, cocky side of me wants to show off for Bree since she never got to watch me play. I wish she could’ve seen me in those games just before the injury, when I was at the top of my career.

Instead of festering on the past, I hand her a stick and drop a few pucks between center ice and the blue line before skating to the corner where a hockey net leans against the boards.

As she takes a few shaky trips around the rink, I push the net into place. I’ve barely got the pegs in the ice when a puck hits my skate and slides away from the goal followed by a sharp, “Damn.”

“Is that all you got?” I tease, slapping the puck back to her. She accepts the pass with ease.

“I’m just warming up, Capper.”

She stick-handles around the faceoff circle to the left of the net, then winds back and sends a wicked slapshot into the net—top shelf, left side.

Is this real life?

I glance from her to the puck multiple times, frozen with flabbergastation—which I’m well aware isn’t a word—trying to figure out what I just saw. My brain can’t quite function at full speed after that shot.

“Cat got your tongue, Capper?” she asks.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting that.”

Bree sprays me with ice as she comes to a perfectly crisp hockey stop in front of me. “I guess it’s the California girl trifecta. Sun, sand, and slapshots.”

She starts to skate away, but I grab her wrist, holding her close. “You’re not just a former player’s daughter who learned some hockey on the way.”

“No. I was a Triple-A, top-ranked Anaheim Lady Duck before I quit to focus on nursing school.”

I stop myself from smirking at the “Lady Duck” part. My petite, granola girl has mad hockey skills.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

She looks up at me. “Because I’d rather show you.”

“I’d rather show you, too. By taking you to the sin bin and?—”

Bree laughs and skates away.

“Nice try, Capper, but you can’t distract me.” She wiggles her gloved fingers at me. “Come on. Show me what’cha got.”

It’s been a long time since I tried to play hockey with a hard-on, but here I am, going one-on-one with Bree with a massive woody.

I skate to center ice, picking up a puck on my way. As I spin around and head toward Bree, she skates backwards trying to cut my angle without taking her eyes off the puck.

“The Anaheim Lady Ducks. That’s so cute,” I say, as I stick-handle around her easily and send a soft shot straight into the net.

Bree doesn’t respond, but the force with which she shovels the puck out of the net tells me the comment annoyed her.

Maybe feisty Bree will make out in the penalty box with me.

As soon as she starts toward center ice, I’m on her tail, poke-checking with my stick to steal the puck away.

“Oh, this is how we’re gonna play?” she asks.

“I just want to be close to you,” I say before jabbing the puck away. I spin around, shoot—and miss the net by a mile. The puck slides into the corner.

Bree and I race to get there first. I reach for the puck, lose my edge and fall, slamming into the boards. A sharp pain zings down my arm and I drop my stick.

Fuck.

“Luke!” Bree looms over me. She reaches down to touch my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I laugh off the fall as I rise onto one knee. When I reach up to straighten my helmet, pain pulses through my arm. My heart speeds up in my chest.

No. No. No.

“Luke.” There’s kindness in Bree’s stern voice. The concern in her eyes is unwavering as she watches my movements carefully.

As soon I stand up, I do a few stretches my physical therapist taught me. Almost immediately, my arm stops zinging and the pain subsides.

“I’m fine.” I reach out, placing my glove on her arm. “I promise.” Then I bend over and swoop my stick up quickly to prove everything is in working order.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

For a regular guy playing pick-up hockey with his girlfriend, I’m fine.

For an NHL player, I’m fucked.

Completely and totally fucked.

The realization almost brings me to my knees again. I’ve been fighting every doctor every step of the way. I’ve been hoping someone would tell me something different.

The truth hits me like a cartoon coyote dropped an anvil on my chest.

My hockey career is over.

Tears well up in my eyes. I skate to the door quickly.

“Luke!” Bree calls after me. “Luke! Wait!”

I stop, take a deep breath, and release it, composing myself before I speak. “I just need a minute, Bree.”

She nods and reluctantly allows me to leave the ice. The door slams behind me as I shuffle to the bathroom.

When I return to the lobby, Bree is sitting on a bench unlacing her skates.

“Giving up already?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“My ego can’t take it anymore.”

“Tell me about it.” I plop down next to her and bend to untie my own skates.

She quickly drops to her knees and begins untying them for me.

“Bree, I ca?—”

“I want to help you, Luke.” Tears glitter in her eyes when she looks up at me. “Let me help you.”

I nod and swallow hard before sitting back and allowing her to unlace and remove my skates. Vulnerability isn’t easy. Sometimes, it’s necessary around the right people.

As Bree brings her skates to the counter, I return the equipment we borrowed, making sure to cover the gloves and helmet with disinfectant spray before I replace them. We gather our things and leave the rink in silence.

After climbing into my Jeep, I pause and turn to her. “I’m sorry I ruined the day.”

“You didn’t ruin the day.” She puts a hand on mine. “You saved me from looking stupid. It was cocky to think my formerly Triple-A ass could go head-to-head with you.”

I smile.

“I’ll never play professional hockey again.”

For the first time, anger doesn’t cloud my judgment. There’s a low hum ringing in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s real or the sound of complete numbness.

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

My gaze moves from our hands to her eyes. “You’ve come to the realization that you can never play hockey again?”