Page 16

Leo

Caleb’s playing fantastic hockey. I’m in awe of his instincts and awareness of players and the puck, which makes my comment to him about needing medication all the worse. Excellence has always been a turn-on for me, and it’s difficult to tamp that down.

When I gave him positive feedback, his face lit up brighter than the overhead lights. He could light the stadium with his megawatt smile.

And he’s having fun. The crowd senses it and chants his name, filling the arena with exuberance.

I’m not sure I took the time to enjoy hockey while I was playing. Hockey was a job I excelled at and viewed as a business, not a source of enjoyment. But Caleb celebrates the small victories and the goals with his guys.

We smashed the lines between personal and professional, and finding my way back to reserved and objective is insurmountable. I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit and am hungrier than ever.

“Get ready,” I shout unnecessarily. If anything, my voice distracts him for a fraction of a second.

Mason gives me a strange glance, and I don’t blame him. I’ve preached ‘Win or lose, keep your game face on until you get in the locker room.’ My game face is gone, and I’ve never yelled or cheered at games before.

When Caleb makes another save, I clap and let out a loud whoop. I hardly recognize myself and try to tone down my enthusiasm. Next time Mason plays, I’ll have to cheer louder for him so he’s not left out of my newfound passion for the game.

It’s disconcerting to think back to how stoic I’ve been. Seeing the game through Caleb has given me a new perspective. My life has been in a rut, and it needs a shake-up.

There’s a scuffle by the goal, and the puck sneaks past Caleb, lighting up the lamp. His shoulders drop in defeat.

“Chin up. You got this.” I raise my clapping hands over my head.

He acknowledges me, and my stomach turns over.

I rub it, assuming something I ate upset it.

There’s no time to think about it because the game restarts and Drake wins the face-off, dodging O’Keefe’s stick.

They slam into the boards right after Drake passes to Lucky.

O’Keefe is slow to shake it off while Drake streaks into position to receive a pass and… his shot hits the pipes.

The second period ends, and we’re winning by three. It hits me that I’ve claimed the team as mine by thinking “we” instead of “they.”

“You were in a good position, but they screened you. Very few goalies could make that save. You did everything right, but sometimes they slip in. Keep doing what you’re doing.” My palm rests on Caleb’s back, and his eyes shine.

“Thanks,” he says around a grin that shows his teeth all the way back to his molars.

“Coach made a great decision playing you tonight.” I can’t stop the praise, finding his flush addictive.

My actions are the opposite of what we need to put distance between us. But Caleb pulls me in, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I drop my hand before I do something totally stupid like push his sweaty waves off his forehead. Our interactions make the talk we need to have more painful.

“That means a lot, Leo,” he whispers and leans in.

“Dude, you’re killing it.” Mason slaps his back.

There’s a hothead on the other team, O’Keefe.

He’s by far the best defender on the ice, but he seems to have a grudge against King.

King’s another rookie who has performed at a high level from day one.

And he’s an unassuming guy, a solid worker who does his job and keeps his head down.

It’s hard to imagine anyone having personal issues with him.

But O’Keefe is playing the man not the puck, and it’s very personal.

I don’t want to think the worst, but King stands out as the only black man on the team.

He’s never been targeted the way O’Keefe goes after him.

Ace takes King aside and gives him a pep talk from the looks of it. Austin Lapointe is a players’ captain, making sure all his guys are a hundred percent in both physically and mentally.

Since Mason’s not playing, I don’t watch the game, I watch Caleb. I can’t tear my eyes off him. His fluid motion mesmerizes me. Each movement is a choreographed dance to get in position or direct his players. He takes command of the team without realizing it.

Caleb’s so young and already proficient at an elite level. He’s going to have an incredible career.

Caleb makes an athletic save, and my stomach does another roll. Getting older, all these stomach ailments are annoying as hell.

I watch how Caleb tracks the puck, staying aware of all the players’ positions. He’s in constant motion where many goalies maintain a static, ready position. He’s a fascinating study in kinetic energy and has to be exhausted after a game.

Boston takes a low shot to the right corner, and Caleb drops down in a half split to get his body in position. He traps it under his glove and withstands sticks trying to poke it out until the whistle blows.

I adjust myself, realizing my cock has taken notice and appreciates his skill.

My mind wanders back to movie night and his naked thighs.

I imagine the way they must flex under his pads to move so quickly.

How the curve of his muscles wraps around the bone and is covered in a light dusting of hair.

I wonder if they would move under my light touch, tracing them up his knee and…

I end the thought before I get carried away and have a full-blown erection during a game.

Caleb—no matter how skilled and attractive—is too young.

Even if I took Mason out of the equation, which is impossible, nothing good will come of lusting after a man half my age. He can have his pick of age-appropriate partners who could build a life with him. Caleb has no use for a man past his prime who can’t keep up with all of his boundless energy.

I have to be satisfied with being his mentor and building his confidence to become this team’s next All-Star goalie. My legacy can live on through the next generation, including my son.

The thought hits me as if I’ve been struck by lightning. For years, I’ve been obsessed with how I’ll be remembered, and I’ve ignored my greatest legacy, my son. The NHL prizes father/son and family legacies. My single-minded focus on myself has damaged the best part of me—Mason.

I move to stand behind him, hoping he’ll forgive me. Not for how hockey will remember us, but because I never asked my son about his goals and aspirations for hockey and for his life.

“Hey, Dad.” Mason glances up at me when I grip his shoulder.

“You doing okay?” I ask, knowing it’s killing him to be on the bench.

“We’re winning, but it sucks not contributing,” he says with his eyes on the game.

“You’re having a great season, and it will only get better once your leg is a hundred percent.” I am sure of it.

“Thanks,” he replies, and I see his lips turn up—not in a full smile but something close.

Gray’s walking the length of the bench, checking in with all the players, asking about hits and aches and pains. He crouches next to Mason. “How are the stretches working out? Is the pain the same, more, or less?” He assesses Mason.

“A little less.”

“Perfect.” He slaps Mace’s knee and moves on, tending to the players as if he’s solely responsible for their well-being.

The game ends, and our fans’ cheers are deafening. Beating Boston is a cause for a citywide celebration. Mason gets up to meet Caleb on the ice. He jumps into Mason’s arms, and they twirl around. It fills my heart that they have each other and can experience the NHL together.

Caleb showers quickly and takes his seat at the table in the press room. Mason stands next to me, and I can’t help my smile.

“Don’t look so happy. You’re not forgiven yet.” He bumps his shoulder with mine, and his words are light.

I hold up my hands, palms facing him. “I’m happy you chose to stand here and talk to me.” It’s so much more than that.

“You’ve helped him.” Mason nods to Caleb, who’s joking with the media.

“I haven’t done much. He deserves all the credit,” I say truthfully.

“It’s more than hockey. He’s…” He pauses. “High-strung, and you’ve been a calming influence. That makes his life better.”

I turn sideways to face Mason. “He’s lucky to have a friend like you. You support each other, and there’s no competition, which can be rare in pro sports.”

“I don’t think I would’ve kept playing if it weren’t for him,” he admits.

It takes longer than it should to form a proper response because I know I’m the reason he would’ve quit. “Hockey and the Enforcers would miss you if you’d stopped playing, eh.”

He nods with a sheepish look and ducks his head.

“I’m so proud of you,” I declare, knowing I should say it more often.

Caleb charms the room with his cheeky answers, wide green eyes, and infectious grin.

When he stands at the end, he spots me and comes directly to where I’m waiting near the doorway.

“Excellent interview.” I reach out to shake his hand and pull him in for a buddy hug.

His amber scent engulfs me, and I push away before I tug him closer.

To anyone watching, we’re just a coach and player congratulating each other after a game.

Because that’s what we are. The only thing we’ll ever be.

“Let’s talk.” I propel him forward with a hand on his back. I prepare to explain all the reasons we can’t kiss again so he’ll understand. The one thing we have in common is that we care about Mason. He won’t want to hurt him, and we can come to an agreement from there.

“Uh-oh. That’s ominous,” he mutters.

I laugh and lead him to an empty room. “About the other day at practice…”

He backs away, turning whiter than normal. “Nope. Not talking about it. You said sorry and it was a mistake and we don’t ever need to speak of it. We can pretend I didn’t attack your lips and act like it never happened.”

“You didn’t attack my lips.” I’m confused, since I obviously initiated the kiss.

“See”—he points at me—“now you’re getting it.” He closes his mouth and mimes locking it with a key. “Never speak of it again.”

I’m about to argue, which is stupid because he’s essentially giving me exactly what I want. I’m acting like a great kiss means a commitment. As far as I can tell, Caleb has no interest in a relationship.

But deep in my gut, I’m disappointed.

“What are you guys doing in here?” Mason stands in the open door.

“Goalie stuff.” Caleb waves his hand.

“Hurry up. You’re the one who wants to go out and celebrate.” Mason beckons him.

“Heck ya. Let’s do it.” Caleb races out, leaving me alone and stunned.