Page 4

FOUR

carter

“There he is!”

An excited voice jolts me from my thoughts just before I can push open the locker room doors.

My head snaps up to find a young boy, probably about eight years old, jumping up and down in a pair of red, white, and blue Jordans, his cheeks flushed.

He grins at me, pointing his finger.

“It’s him! VK!”

A smile lifts my lips and all the bullshit plaguing me fades to the back of my mind.

Because this kid has just made my night and he doesn’t even know it.

I walk over to the kid and the guy with him, his dad, I’m guessing.

The kid’s mouth drops open as he stares at me, wide-eyed.

Cute as hell with a smattering of freckles on his nose and a baseball cap that’s too big for his head.

“Look, I’m wearing your number,” he says, turning around and sliding his coat off his shoulders to show me.

“You were always my favorite player, even when you were with Washington. I can’t believe I get to see you play here! ”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.” I drop to one knee in front of him.

“What’s your name, bud?”

“Christopher,” he says, sneaking a gleeful look up at his dad.

“He was thrilled to find out you were coming to northern California. He’s followed you since he started watching hockey. We used to be Washington fans. Now it looks like we’re all about Oakland.” The man smiles and holds out a black Sharpie.

“Would you mind signing Christopher’s hat?”

“It’d be my pleasure,” I say, taking the marker.

Christopher pulls off the hat and hands it to me.

I scribble my name along the bill and hand it back to him.

He stares at it for a long second before looking back to me.

“This is the best night of my life. And don’t worry. I know you guys will win the next game. You’re gonna win the Stanley Cup, VK. You and Jack Larson together. There’s no way you can lose!”

“It’s always good to have big goals. We have a long season so it’ll mean putting a lot of hard work in.”

“You can do it. I know you can. You were awesome in Washington and you’ll be even more awesome here.” He beams so bright, he almost blinds me.

I force a smile, ruffle his hair, and straighten up.

“You play hockey, Christopher?”

He nods.

“Yes. I mean, I’m not very good yet but I try real hard. I want to be just like you.”

Jesus, this kid is adorable.

And even though my mind is spiraling right now, he just reminded me why I’m here, why I work my ass off, and why I can’t let any of this crap with Larson weigh on me.

I have the best freaking job on the planet.

That’s what I need to remember.

Fuck whatever happened in the past .

I don’t need to prove my worth.

I don’t need to question a damn thing.

I’m here because I deserve to be.

Nobody will change that.

And nothing will distract me from the goal of getting a Cup.

Whatever I thought I felt back in that tunnel a few minutes ago won’t even be a thought going forward.

As of right now, any lingering, inconvenient feelings I may have thought I had about Jack all those years ago are hereby permanently squelched.

I won’t be resurrecting even an iota of concern over him outside of the ice rink.

“I bet you’re gonna be better,” I say, pulling the cap back off the Sharpie and scrawling my name on the flat side of my hockey stick.

He gasps when I hand it to him.

“Are you serious? Your hockey stick?”

“Yup. When you grow into that stick, you use it, and every day, work as hard as you can to be the best. And I know it’ll happen for you.”

“Wow!” Christopher shakes the stick in his hand.

“Dad, look at this! I’m going to be a star just like VK!”

The smile stays plastered on my face for a few minutes while I watch Christopher and his dad disappear around a corner.

The locker room is empty by the time I push through the double doors.

Piles of sweat-drenched laundry sit in bins on either side of the doors as I pass through.

I toss my helmet onto the bench and drop down next to it to unlace my skates.

Gritting my teeth, I see Jack’s locker open a crack.

But none of his stuff is in sight.

Maybe the latch didn’t close properly when he left.

I fist the sides of my hair.

Dammit, I let him creep under my skin again.

Again.

What a joke.

I’m kidding myself in thinking that he ever really left.

I heave a deep sigh and scrape my hands down the front of my face before falling forward onto my hands.

All the good fan feelings that lit me up only seconds ago fizzle away like dying embers.

It’s taken me years to make a name for myself outside of Jack’s shadow.

I finally have everything I want, respect of my teammates, loyal fans, fame, glory.

I’ve worked so hard for all of it.

And now he barrels back into my life and threatens it all because he’s got my head spinning like a blender on high speed.

I’d managed to avoid him for the weeks leading up to this game.

It was easy to do during practice when everyone was focused on the workouts, and once practices were over, he always pulled a daily disappearing act.

My skin prickles, a chill shooting down my spine.

I shrug it off, glaring down at my helmet.

I grab it and hurl it against the wall of lockers.

It doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’d rather have hurled it at Jack’s gorgeous face instead.

Tonight, he showed everyone on the planet what I already know from experience.

Jack Larson is a self-absorbed bastard who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

How the hell could Enver bring him out here?

Years later, and he’s still the same fucking guy.

Individual players don’t win Stanley Cups.

You need a team effort.

And everyone needs to have heart.

He might have won a Cup with New York, but the Raptors have more heart in the tip of a hockey stick than Jack has in his whole body.

A championship can’t be just about him, and that’s the only way Jack Larson operates.

He puts himself on a pedestal and everyone around him is a prop.

My ringtone blares out from inside of my locker.

I pull it open and fish my phone out of my bag.

Masterson.

I click to answer the call but he doesn’t even let me speak.

“How much longer are you gonna torment yourself with punishment pushups?” he asks with a chuckle.

Seems like news of my ritual as followed me from Washington.

But tonight, pushups were the last thing on my mind.

“Punishment is over. I’m heading into the showers now.” My face relaxes into a smile.

“Where’d you guys go?”

“The Penalty Box, bro. Get your ass over here, okay? This is our ritual.” The noise in the background tells me there are lots of people swarming.

Christ, socializing is the last thing I want to do right now but I’m the new guy.

And like I said, we win together and we lose together.

And either way, I guess we drink together.

“I’ll see you in half an hour.”

I toss the phone back in my locker, peel off the rest of my uniform and gear and walk into the back where the showers are.

My brow furrows when I hear running water.

That’s weird. I figured I was alone since there’s no sign of anyone else being here.

And from the noise surrounding Masterson, I’d swear everyone on the team is already at the bar, drowning their sorrows.

I pad over the cool tile floor and stretch my arms overhead, wincing when my back cracks.

Shit, I really could use a rub down?—

My brain chokes on the thought before I can finish it and I stop short in the darkened enclosure.

Jack stands under the spray at the far corner of the space, his back to me.

Soapy water spills over the cuts of muscle on this back, ass, and legs.

My breath catches. I can’t look away.

I’m suddenly back in our room at camp, panic flaring in my chest at the rush of sensations that coursed through me.

Seeing Jack like this just ripped the lid right off Pandora’s box.

With a throbbing pulse, I rake a hand through my hair, my leg muscles tensing with the need to flee the room before I’m completely exposed.

Everything I kept hidden away is now back to haunt me.

Like the way he smelled.

The way his lips tasted.

The lies I told everyone afterward because I couldn’t face the truth staring me in the face.

I still can’t, even now.

The shower spray stops and I take in a sharp breath.

Jack grabs his towel, but before he secures it around his waist, he turns slowly.

His chiseled features tense when he sees me but he doesn’t rush to tuck the towel around his waist. His thick cock hangs low between his legs and fuck me if my mouth doesn’t water.

“Look, if you’re here to lecture me again, save it. I’m not in the mood. I just had my ass chewed out by Enver. He told me I need to be the bigger person to resolve whatever is going on between us ’cause you’re the golden boy even as a goddamn newbie on the team, and apparently you can do no wrong.”

I finally find my voice and choke out words.

“Is that all?”

“No.” He stops right in front of me, finally covering himself with his towel, and folds his tattooed arms over his chest. My eyes skim over the intricate swirls of black ink, my fingers tingling with the need to trace over them, to study them and what they might mean.

I swallow hard, forcing my eyes toward his.

“He didn’t trust me to fix things on my own. So he’s forcing us to room together for our away games this season.”

My heart slips into my stomach.

Alone. In a hotel room.

With Jack Larson less than a few feet away from me.

And all these crazy, unresolved feelings now swarming my mind.

Forget punishment pushups.

Rooming with him will be torture of the worst possible kind.

It’ll make the punishment pushups feel like a Swedish massage in comparison.

And I’m supposed to be Enver’s golden boy.

What kind of fucking irony is that?