Page 20
Story: Man Advantage
CAM
I appreciated that Jenni and Kristina wanted to include me in the spouse’s suite even though I wasn’t a player’s partner, but I really didn’t want to chance any friction with Bryan.
And by the time the twins and I had settled into the owners’ box, I’d made the decision to stay here for every game rather than joining the wives.
The tension between Bryan and me wasn’t exactly subtle, and I didn’t want to cause problems.
So… I’d stay out of their suite tonight and going forward. No point in making everyone in there uncomfortable.
That, and butting heads with him seemed like it was just asking for him to drag Trev to court and fight for full custody. I was not going to be the reason Trev lost his kids. With that in mind, staying away from him as much as possible seemed more than prudent.
What could I say? Working at a high-end gym with a ton of drama between divorcing high-society members had taught me a lot about conflict avoidance.
And anyway, it turned out, the owners’ box was swanky as hell. Cushy leather seats. Free drinks of the alcoholic and non- alcoholic varieties. Tons of food. A handful of devoted staff members.
The view wasn’t half bad either. We were sandwiched between the upper and lower bowls—a better view than the nosebleed section, but not quite as good as if we were down by the glass.
The boys were thrilled by it all. They were even happier when they found out one of the staff members would get them some snacks from the concessions downstairs—pizza for Zane, a hot dog for Zach, and sodas for both of them.
“They didn’t do that for you last season?” I asked.
Zane shrugged. “Dad always took us to get snacks last season.”
“Oh. We can do that at the next game if?—”
“No way!” Zach grinned. “This is cool!”
I chuckled and let it go. I could talk to Trev about it later.
Make sure he and Bryan were okay with this rather than expecting the boys to go through the concessions line like everyone else.
Not that they seemed to have any issues with waiting their turn, in line or otherwise; I’d been to a handful of stores and restaurants with them, and they were always patient when they had to wait.
They’d also been polite when they’d placed their orders with the staff member, and they thanked her profusely when she arrived.
I was probably overthinking things. Having someone run out of the luxury suite to pick up their game food was probably just a cool novelty for a couple of six-year-olds.
For an inexperienced nanny who really, really needed this fucking job, it was something to sweat bullets over.
Yep. Definitely overthinking.
I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake off the nerves.
This wasn’t my first outing with the boys, but it was the first where I was truly on my own.
I couldn’t reach out to Trev if I had a question.
I could theoretically reach out to Bryan, and I certainly would if there was an emergency, but if I went to him over something stupid, I’d never hear the end of it.
Or I’d never have to worry about watching the boys at a hockey game again, since I’d be on my way back to Seattle.
Breathe, Cameron. They’re fine. You’re fine. Bryan’s not here to try to catch you doing something wrong.
Which… now that I thought about it, I was kind of surprised he hadn’t come up here to be with the boys. He preferred to stay in the spouse’s suite instead.
Because he wanted a break from being a dad? Because he wanted to hang out with the partners he knew? Because he wanted to give me a chance to fuck up so he could convince Trev to fire me?
I didn’t know. I probably didn’t want to know. At the end of the day, he was in another suite, I was in here with the boys, and I wasn’t looking that glorious gift horse in the mouth.
While the boys ate their snacks, the pregame montage kicked on. The sellout crowd went nuts, roaring their enthusiasm as the clock ticked down to puck drop. After the montage, there was a brief segment by the sports commentators, which I couldn’t hear very well.
Normally, the players would return to the ice, and then there’d be the national anthems, followed by puck drop.
Opening night, however, began with player introductions.
They were introduced in numerical order, each skating out onto the ice to the cheers of the crowd as their photo came up on the Jumbotron.
“From Seattle, Washington,” the announcer’s voice boomed, “number forty-seven—Trevor Allen!”
Zach and Zane cheered for their dad, and my balance went a little wonky as his face appeared on the big screen.
I was still not used to how attractive Trev had turned out to be.
The thirty- year-old version of him decked out in his hockey gear, sweaty with finger-combed hair? It wasn’t fair how smoking hot he was.
The announcer continued down the roster as each player skated out to the circle. When he was done, the players saluted the crowd, and then they moved to the bench or the blue line for the national anthem.
After the anthem, I asked, the boys, “So besides your dad, who’s your favorite player?”
“Hoes,” Zach said without hesitation. “He’s Dad’s linemate.”
Zane nodded. “I like Hoes. But Petrovich is my favorite.” He grinned. “I like goalies.”
I chuckled. “I thought that was just soccer.”
“No.” He shook his head as he reached for his soda. “All goalies.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
I was a little surprised neither of them had mentioned Tim. They seemed to like him well enough. I left that subject alone, though.
Besides, the game was starting.
A couple of minutes in, someone broke off for a line change, and Zach pointed as he exclaimed, “Dad’s coming out!”
I craned my neck, and sure enough, Trev had just gone over the boards. I shivered, and not from the coolness of the arena. Fuck, but I loved watching him in his element. Practice was fine and good. Playing at this level? When it actually counted and everyone was at full-speed? So hot.
He’d barely been out for a few seconds before he was engaged in a board battle behind Boston’s goal. There was some fierce jostling and digging for the puck, and finally, Trev got it free. He sent it flying around the boards to where Bell was waiting, completely forgotten and unprotected by Boston.
The rookie immediately fired on goal. The sharp ping off the goalpost was audible even from up here, prompting an “oooh” from the crowd. So close!
Hoes caught the rebound and shot it… right into the netminder’s glove.
The whistle blew, and everyone set up for an offensive zone faceoff. My heart was pounding from the short but intense play; I loved this.
Trev’s shift ended. The fourth line came out, and they kept the action in the offensive zone.
They didn’t make much effort to score—Trev had told me once that the bottom six forwards were often tasked with tiring out the opposing players.
They kept the players moving constantly, and never gave them any opportunities for line changes.
It worked, too. After a solid minute, the other team was utterly gassed.
One got the puck and tried to pass it to another, but they were both so tired, it didn’t work.
The puck didn’t go straight to the player it was intended to reach, and the recipient couldn’t get to it in time.
It sailed down the ice, and the refs blew the whistle.
The “goddammit” was palpable from the exhausted men on the ice. Since they’d iced the puck, none of them could go to the bench for a line change.
Pittsburgh’s players, however, happily skated to the bench and let some fresh bodies come out.
Seconds after the faceoff, Pittsburgh’s captain, Martin, scored the team’s first goal of the season.
The crowd went wild, flying to our feet and screaming as the guys exchanged high fives and the fatigued Boston players finally managed to leave the ice.
The action continued. Trev checked someone into the boards hard enough to make the glass flex, and the boys cheered. A moment later, he was on another player, trying to get the puck away when?—
A whistle.
Play stopped, and even from this far away, I knew from Trev’s body language that he’d been called. He shouted something at the ref and waved his arm. The ref shook his head and gestured toward the penalty box.
“Ooh,” Zane said in the earnest voice of a six-year-old seeing someone getting in trouble. “Dad’s getting a penalty.”
“Stupid refs,” Zach muttered.
I chuckled. “You don’t even know what the penalty is for yet.”
Zach shrugged dismissively. “Still stupid.”
Trev apparently agreed, because he shouted all the way to the box while the ref skated out to announce the penalty.
Ignoring Trev’s protests, the ref blandly said, “Pittsburgh number forty-seven. Two-minute minor. Slashing.”
The crowd booed furiously.
On the big screen, there was a slow-motion replay. Trev skated up alongside the other player, and he used his stick to try to get the guy’s stick off the puck. If I squinted hard enough, I guess I could see him graze the glove.
I rolled my eyes. Zach might’ve been incensed about any call against his dad, but I had to agree with him on this one. It was stupid.
The camera switched to Trev, who was not happy. He flailed his hand and shouted at the ref, and I hoped the boys weren’t as adept at lip-reading as I was. Or if they were, they didn’t quite understand what he meant by “That’s fucking bullshit and you know it. Jesus fucking Christ.”
I smothered a laugh and stole a glance at the twins. They were the sons of a hockey player—they’d be fluent in all the conjugations of the word “fuck” before they got to second grade. God knew their father had been an expert by the time I’d met him in third.
The Rebels’ penalty kill took to the ice, but Boston’s power play unit made mincemeat of them. Less than thirty seconds into the power play, they’d scored.
I watched Trev coming out of the box, and my stomach knotted.
He usually took penalties gracefully (after he’d said his piece to the refs, anyway).
Even when they were trash, he shrugged them off and moved on.
But when the camera focused on his face as he crossed the ice, he looked pissed, but also…
disappointed? In himself, maybe? He wouldn’t make eye contact with his teammates.
Not even as they smacked his back or arm and undoubtedly told him, “Don’t worry about it—we’ve got plenty of time to tilt the ice. ”
It didn’t get better, either. During a shift later in the period, he’d taken another penalty, this time for tripping.
The twins had been furious over that, but Trev had been far more subdued this time.
He’d hung his head on the way to the box, and he’d been staring down at his gloves instead of watching the replay.
Judging by the replay, it was a legit call. I remembered being livid when he’d taken a tripping penalty in high school, since the other guy had tripped over Trev’s leg rather than Trev deliberately tripping him.
“Doesn’t matter,” he’d told me afterward. “Tripping is tripping, whether it’s deliberate or not.”
“But that’s garbage! What’s to stop someone from tripping over you or your stick on purpose?”
The response had been a wicked grin. “What makes you think we don’t?”
Point taken.
At least no one scored on Trev’s tripping penalty tonight, and in fact the Rebels had come incredibly close to a shorthanded goal. That had done wonders for the team’s morale and momentum, and it wasn’t long after the penalty that they scored. All’s well that ends well, and all that.
But Trev still seemed distracted and off-balance tonight.
His passes weren’t as crisp as they usually were.
His rookie linemate set him up for a beautiful opportunity to put a one-timer on goal, but Trev bobbled the puck.
That had resulted in a breakaway that would’ve been costly had one of Pittsburgh’s defensemen not stolen the puck back.
This wasn’t like him. Especially not since he’d started playing at this level.
Come on, Trev. Where are you tonight?
I didn’t know. I had a feeling he didn’t know.
But a few minutes later, he was on his way to the penalty box.
Again.
Table of Contents
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