Page 21

Story: Man Advantage

TREV

Hopefully this game wasn’t an omen for the rest of the season. Not for me, anyway. The team did well for the most part.

Me, though? Christ. By the end of the night, I had the dubious honor of being number one in the League for penalty minutes this season.

Of course that wouldn’t last; this was the first night of games for the entire League, and there’d only been six games besides ours.

Martin was number one in points, too, after two goals and an assist. Bells, my rookie linemate, was second overall for hits.

By this time next week, we’d all probably be bumped down our respective lists.

None of those stats or lists meant much of anything until at least a couple of weeks into the season.

But it was still weird to be number one for PIM. I rarely took penalties. Eight minutes in one game? I mean, okay, I hadn’t deliberately tripped that one defenseman. Tripping was tripping, so it was a penalty regardless of intent, but it wasn’t exactly a lack of discipline on my part.

The first slashing penalty had been bullshit, too. The second one, and the interference penalty? Yeah, those were on me. And they’d been stupid on my part. Just plain fucking stupid.

Stupid and costly . Two of Boston’s four goals had been power play goals on my penalties.

If their starting goalie hadn’t been a sieve, we’d have been fucked.

Fortunately, he’d let in five goals before being pulled halfway through the second period, and the backup goalie had let in two more.

A 7-4 win on our home opener wasn’t bad at all. 7-2 would’ve been even better.

God, I was not happy with how I’d played.

Since when did I let myself get that distracted over anything?

The last time I’d played even close to this badly had been the day after I’d realized my husband was cheating on me.

And today, it wasn’t even anything bad—I’d just been wildly off-balance ever since I’d seen Cam in that suit, and my jaunt down Memory Lane had completely fucked my concentration.

Get a grip, Trev. Christ on a cracker.

The worst part? My boys had been watching. They weren’t even like some of the other players’ kids who’d get bored and stop paying attention. Zach and Zane were riveted to hockey games. So they’d watched every last minute of it tonight.

Fuck.

I’d had an embarrassingly terrible game a few seasons ago, but I hadn’t worried about what the boys thought. They’d just turned three—they barely knew what was happening on the ice, and they were just excited about going to games and seeing their dad at the Zamboni gate or on the Jumbotron.

Now they were almost seven. They understood the game better than some kids their age who played hockey. They’d know exactly how badly I’d played tonight, and they were never shy about telling me when I’d fucked up.

After practice one morning, Zane’s voice had been full of disappointment as he’d informed me, “You were slow today.”

“I know I was,” I’d admitted, trying not to chuckle. “I’ll be faster tomorrow.”

“Good,” he’d said with a sharp nod.

I hadn’t told him I’d been deliberately taking it easy that morning.

My knee had been bothering me since the previous night’s game, and on the advice of my trainers—and my own instincts—I’d dialed things back a little.

Better to just let my kids think I was slacking than tell them something hurt.

Their disappointment wasn’t fun, but it sucked a lot less than tipping my hand about even the slightest injury. Lesson learned the hard way.

So, as partners and kids started trickling into the locker room, I braced for my sons’ inevitable admonishments.

As I dressed, I catalogued potential explanations, looking for something that walked that fine line between saving face and showing them it was important to take responsibility for things.

Something that didn’t include “well, I took one look at your nanny in a suit, mentally went back in time, and my concentration went all to shit.”

In other words… a complete fabrication. Because that was exactly what had happened, and I felt like an asshole for letting my team and my kids down, not to mention the fans. Like an absolute dumbass for letting something like that derail my focus. I felt like a failure.

I was just pulling on my T-shirt when Cam and the boys walked into the locker room. This time, his presence in that suit registered enough to send a shiver through me, but only for a second.

It was my kids who seized my attention.

As soon as they saw me, they ran across the room and almost bowled me over. I laughed as I tried to keep us all from tumbling onto the floor.

“You won!” Zach cried, hugging me tight. “That was awesome!”

Zane was practically vibrating with excitement. “It was so cool when you guys ran away with the puck during their power play! I thought you were going to score for sure!”

I couldn’t help laughing again, and it was relief more than anything this time. Okay, they’d watched, and they’d seen all of tonight’s fuckery, but they weren’t fazed by it at all.

I guess it would take more than a bad game for me to fall from grace in the eyes of my sons. Definitely a relief.

“Hey, hey, it’s the Allen twins!” Hoes called out.

They turned, and their faces lit up again. “Hoes!” Just like that, they were gone, trotting off to say hi to my various teammates. Of course the guys fawned all over them, talking about how much they’d grown and asking when they were going to start playing hockey like their dad.

I smiled as I watched. I’d never had any illusions that I was the only reason my boys loved coming into the locker room.

But their distraction meant I suddenly couldn’t avoid my own. Especially now that I was—despite being in a crowded locker room—suddenly alone with Cam.

I turned to him, and thank God he was watching the kids and not looking at me. That way he didn’t see my nervous swallow. Or the way my heart melted a little at the sight of that fond smile as he watched Zach and Zane interacting with the other guys.

I cleared my throat. “They really hate coming to games, don’t they?”

He chuckled and turned those amazing hazel eyes on me. “Yeah. Definitely. They were just miserable the whole time.”

I laughed, which helped me find some air. “Sounds about right. What about you? Did you have a good time?”

“I did! I always loved going to your games, but League games are something else.”

“I know, right? It’s definitely not the level I used to play when we were kids.”

“God, no. I mean, even the Zambonis are shiny and new.” Cam made a theatrically disgusted face. “What the hell is hockey without a Zamboni that’s duct-taped together and has an ad for a company that doesn’t even exist anymore?”

I barked a laugh. “Oh, yeah, I remember that thing. I bet the same dude is still driving it, too.”

“Wasn’t he like ninety back then?”

“Yeah, but my coach said he was like ninety back in the eighties, so who knows? He’s probably immortal or something.”

“Well, that’s the dream, isn’t it? Gain immortality and spend it driving a rickety Zamboni with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth.”

I pursed my lips and half-shrugged. “I mean, he wasn’t the guy who had to clean the locker room toilets, so…”

Cam made a face that was unreasonably cute. “Eww. That poor guy.”

“Right?” I glanced over at the boys, who were listening intently as Hoes spoke.

He was probably telling them some bullshit story again, and they were thoroughly entertained by it.

Facing Cam again, I said, “I’m glad you had a good time.

You don’t have to come to every game if you don’t want to, but…

” I trailed off. I kind of hoped he didn’t come to every game, if only so I could get my head out of my ass and remember how to play hockey.

He shrugged. “We’ll see? The schedule looks pretty intense.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, like I said—we’ll see. I don’t imagine you want the boys to always be out this late on school nights.”

I shook my head. “Definitely not. But Friday and weekend games are fine. Just… don’t feel like you have to bring them to all of those. Or come during Bryan’s custody weeks.”

His smile made the room sway. “I don’t think you’ll have to twist my arm to come to more of your games.”

I returned the smile. I’d be fine. I’d be expecting him in a suit next time, so I’d be ready for it. I wouldn’t get carried away thinking about the past or how hot he looked in the present. I’d be able to play hockey the way I was paid to do, without my head being someplace else.

I’d be fine .

Right?