Page 208 of Pucking Around

“Yeah, Tyler just asked me to take point tonight. He’s dealing with Davidson and his possible broken finger.”

I set Morrow’s blade back in the box. “Davidson broke his finger? When—is Mars okay—”

“He’s fine,” she says quickly. “They’ve got Kelso changing now. Ilmari’s good. He’s in the zone. I usually just try to avoid him pregame,” she says with a shrug. “Honestly, I’m avoiding them both tonight. Jake is in a major mood. Did something happen?”

“Leave him alone,” I mutter, my attention focused back on the blades in my hand as I try to remember how to breathe. Fuck, she’s got those eyes and that face. She’ll press with questions. I can’t talk about this now.

“Why?” she says. “Cay, what’s wrong—”

“Drop it,” I say, cutting her off.

She balks, leaning away in surprise at my harsh words. “Caleb…”

“Look, he’s got bad blood with Toronto, okay? Just—the sooner this game is over, the better.”

She looks up at me, those dark eyes so open and honest. I don’t even realize her fingers are brushing down the tatted sleeve of my forearm. I have to shut her down, or she’ll tear me open.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

Fuck, I’m in love with this woman. She’s not pressing, not forcing. She’s asking. She’s offering me her hand. She’s making it my choice. She’s always giving me the choice to do more, take more, have more.

I shake my head. “Just leave it. Please—” I don’t even know what I’m pleading for.

Please go away. Please stay. Please hold me. Please make it stop hurting.

“What do you need from me?” she says. Again, with the support, the unquestioned loyalty. She’s shredding me without trying.

“Nothing. Look, I’ve gotta finish these,” I say, gesturing at the box.

“Okay.” She drops her hand away, stepping back. She’s giving me the space I’m clearly asking for but fuck if I don’t also want her to jump me like she did that first night we met. I want to feel her everywhere—her scent, her warmth, the soft silken texture of her hair. I want the essence of her to blot out the stain of this stressful night.

As she steps away, I call out for her. “Hey, Hurricane…”

She turns, glancing over her shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Wanna fuck like animals in the shower later?” I say, finding the will to give her the smile I know she originally came looking for.

She snorts, smiling back at me and damn it if it doesn’t make it a little easier for me to breathe. “I thought you’d never ask. See you around, Sanford.”

I nod, watching her go before I turn my attention back to the blade sharpener. Flipping the switch, it hums to life. The sound helps drown out the hammering of my heart in my chest.

An NHL game is sixty minutes. Three periods of twenty minutes each. With three pairs of D-men in constant rotation, that’s about twenty minutes of active play for Jake—more if he and J-Lo skate well tonight. Twenty minutes in sixty that he’ll be out on that ice. Twenty minutes in sixty, during which time my heart will cease to beat.

Twenty minutes…my own life was changed in just over seven.

91

Something’s wrong with Jake. Usually he’s the life of the party in the dressing room. He’s always distracting me—asking questions, stealing my tape. Before Rachel, we kept our conversations limited to hockey. Now he asks me whatever the hell comes to his mind.

How do you say hippopotamus in Finnish?

What’s your favorite kind of sushi?

Not tonight. He was silent as the grave tonight, quietly going about his pregame prep—wrapping his sticks, gearing up, stretching, taping his shin guards. Now he’s out on the ice, circling like a hungry shark.

I like to watch horror movies. This is the moment in the film where the audience gets the inkling that the hero may have been possessed by some dark force. As I go through my stretching routine down on the ice, I keep glancing over at him, expecting to see the whites of his eyes.

I know Rachel has noticed too. She’s standing in the corner of the bench, tablet in hand, watching him skate with a worried look on her face. I wish there was something I could do to ease her fears.