Page 18

CHAPTER 18

JETT

The Bears’ sweet winning streak continued, and yours truly had been a fucking scoring machine. Seriously. I’d scored a goal at every game since our weekend off…and my trip to see St. Clement’s with Malcolm.

And get this, I’d had a hat trick in a nail-biter against Granville last night. An honest-to-God hat trick.

I was on fire!

Holiday season hockey could be a little distracting with family obligations and an uptick in parties. For me…it was the same as usual—with the added bonus of marathon text sessions with Malcolm, who’d gone home to be with his family.

Ty’s folks had invited a few of the guys to join them for Thanksgiving dinner at a fancy restaurant in town. It had been a nice night with easy conversation. When the meal was over, I’d spent the rest of the evening messaging Malcolm. All in all, a decent Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, it was harder to avoid my parents at Christmas. I’d flown to Michigan for a fancy meal at my dad’s where we’d all dressed up and worn plastic smiles. Then I’d headed for Toronto to hang out with my mom in front of her television eating Chinese takeout in my sweats as she’d sipped vodka from a coffee mug and tearfully reminisced about the good ol’ days.

I couldn’t wait to get back to Smithton.

While my teammates recounted funny exploits with long-lost cousins and lamented eating five pieces of Grandma’s apple pie, I worked on my shot. I slammed puck after puck into the net, hoping to block out tense conversations with my dad about my career— You know you can’t live on an ECHL salary, right? —and my mom’s bitter musings: I wish I’d done things differently. I wish I’d listened to my instincts about your father.

There was no point in telling my dad I’d find a way to make it work if I were offered a contract, and that with any luck it would lead to the AHL. He’d say I was a dreamer, completely oblivious to real life. And it never did any good to remind my mother that she’d been divorced for fifteen years, Dad had moved on, and maybe she should do the same.

Depressing shit. I’d spent the whole fucking holiday wishing I was with Malcolm.

I’d lived for his rambling texts about binging holiday movies and being coerced into playing Monopoly with his folks and his normally trustworthy sister he was now convinced was a merciless boardgame cheater. I’d read the familial affection in every eye-roll emoji and wished I could be a fly on their wall. I’d give anything to know what it was like to hang out with the Maloneys.

Since I was alone most of the time, I concentrated on staying fit, healthy, and focused. I exercised like a madman but took care of my knee with massages, ice baths, soaks in the hot tub, and acupuncture. I kept my mind active too, reading and catching up on movies I’d missed instead of partying like a rock star. I wasn’t asocial. I still showed up to a couple of Langley’s keggers…but I left after a beer or two. I’d become an expert at detaching myself from clingy puck bunnies.

I couldn’t wait for Malcolm to get back.

Yeah, fine…fuck off. It was true.

Two weeks apart had felt like a small eternity and I’d missed the hell out of him. We’d made up for lost time when he finally returned, screwing our brains out for days on end. He’d slept over every night this past week, and that might be something he’d have to explain to Layla, but for now…it was all so good.

And the fact that the Bears were winning was icing on the cake. By mid-January, we were number three in our division. Number fucking three. All I needed was for Randall to come through with a contract.

In the meantime, we had another game to win.

We were up 3 to 1 against Central with two minutes to go in the third period. Earlier in the season, we’d had a tendency to play keep-away at this juncture. No reason to tempt fate and risk giving up a point. Play safe, not sorry. Not anymore.

I drove into the right line, signaled to Langley. His pass was a thing of beauty, perfectly executed and unreachable for anyone but me. I raced for the goal, aware that I had two defenders on my tail. I had to dump it. No…not yet . Brady was coming. I had to be patient… Hold it, hold it.

And there he was. I slung the puck to Brady, who snapped it between the goalie’s pads. The lamp lit and the fans cheered as the Bears gathered at center ice, hooting and tapping sticks. I whooped and pivoted to join them just as my knee buckled.

A piercing pain sliced across my kneecap, pulling me to a stop.

Shit.

Okay, this happened every once in a while. No need to panic.

I hobbled to the bench, gritting my teeth under my smile. I couldn’t remember ever being more grateful for a line change. Ice and rest would do the trick.

The mood in the locker room was electric, and Coach’s speech about finding our rhythm at the right time resonated.

“You’re out there to win, and I saw that spirit in every damn one of you,” Coach Beekman bellowed. “Let’s keep it up, boys. Oh, one more thing. We have a visitor—Walker from What’s New, Smithton? asked for a quick postgame interview and PR thinks it’s a good idea.”

We turned on cue to the bubbly redhead in the doorway aiming his cell at the locker room. The cheers were replaced by mild jeers.

“Be nice, boys,” Coach warned. “On three…Bears!”

Someone yelled, “Three, two, one!”

“Bears!”

The lockers rattled at the resounding whoop . My knee wasn’t even bugging me now. I was riding a sweet high that couldn’t be dampened by irritating things like the overeager dude shoving a microphone in my face.

“Hi, there. I’m Walker and I gotta tell you, I’m a huge fan.”

“Thanks.”

“I know this is your final season at Smithton. Any idea what comes next?”

I shook my head as I pulled my pads off. “No.”

His smile faltered, but he rallied. “What’s your favorite postgame snack?”

“Now, that’s a good question. Bear Depot’s fries are awesome. Oh, and a friend of mine makes a good brownie. Out of a box, but still tasty.”

Walker held his hand up for a high five. “Thank you for your time. Ty Czerniak, mind if I ask…”

I snickered at Ty’s put-upon expression and continued undressing.

“Erickson, I want to see you,” Coach barked from the exit. “Take a shower and meet me in my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

Was that odd?

Yeah…kinda.

Coach wasn’t the type to hold back positive or negative critiques in a public forum. But I wasn’t worried. I’d been playing like a beast, and that last assist tonight had been a master class in patience. Whatever he wanted couldn’t be bad.

Wrong.

“I want an MRI on that knee.”

“Coach?”

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t notice, did you?” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and narrowed his eyes. “I thought better of mentioning it in front of a guy who wants to share some insider hockey gossip with the entire damn school, but I hear you’ve been in for massages, asking for extra tape, and icing the hell out of it. If you have a tear?—”

“I don’t.”

“Or a sprain,” he continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “You gotta deal with it. What are you afraid of? A little rest never hurt anyone, Erickson.”

“I can’t rest yet. I don’t have a contract.” My pulsing knee mocked me as I chewed on my lower lip. “I’ve had a few setbacks, but I’m doing better now and?—”

“Get the MRI. Schedule it with the trainer. We’ll talk Monday.”

Fuck.