Page 38

I wind my way down the hall toward the locker room, doing my best to look focused and unbothered for our team photographer and other media staff. I’m surprised to see Amelia, one of Violet’s coworkers, camera in hand and a look of concentration on her face. She’s sitting on the floor, her camera angled up, and she’s set a row of lights along the wall behind me to create an interesting backdrop for walk-in shots. It’s a more elaborate setup than I’m used to. Her camera clicks away as she twists and turns in a crouch.

“Did you get what you need?” I ask, nearing the bend where I’ll disappear from view. I turn back over my shoulder, checking she’s satisfied with the photos. She clicks through, and I see a smile bloom as she continues. She practically bounces on her toes.

“Yeah,” she calls back. “Thanks, Crosby.”

“You got it. This is new, yeah?” I turn fully to give her my attention while gesturing at everything.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been wanting to try this for weeks,” she looks at her camera screen, cheeks pinking slightly as she pushes some buttons to make adjustments. She turns it for me to look at the picture. With the exposure, lighting, and angle, I definitely look more intimidating than I am. She’s great at her job. I give her a thumbs-up.

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “I can’t believe you haven’t done it this way before.”

“I’m finally allowed to.” Amelia bites her lip like she let something slip. She takes a step closer, another secret spilling from her. “Ethan never let me.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod at her, even though I’m rocked a little by her admission. Maybe Violet wasn’t the only one dealing with problems. Instead of trying to unravel it in the middle of walk-ins, I squeeze her bicep and pivot the conversation.

“Are you going to be rink side tonight, too?”

“Yeah! I’m so happy I’m leading on this tonight. The closer we get to the end of the season, the more exciting the games get. Even with everything this week, I have a good feeling about tonight!”

“Me, too!” I reply as she steps back, kneeling in her preferred spot, readying for another shot as one of my teammates approaches. With my head turning over the information Amelia gave, I blindly get to the locker room and begin changing into my gear.

Halfway through, Gus nudges my shoulder.

“Did Midnight Mary show up in your room last night or something?”

“What?” I blink at him. He pops his retainer out, storing it away in his locker before giving me a gap-toothed look.

“Either you saw a ghost, or you’re about ready to puke. What’s wrong?” He sits on the stool next to me.

“Just something Amelia mentioned on the way in,” I lower my voice and lean closer to him. “You know that cool setup she had tonight?”

“Hell yeah. She showed me the pictures. I looked badass.” He gives a little flex of his arm.

“Anyway, she said she’s been wanting to do it for weeks, but Ethan wouldn’t let her.” I let the implications hang between us. Gus nods in understanding.

“That sucks,” he says, securing his shoulder pads. “I wonder how many others would say the same thing. I wonder how long it was going on for.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever truly know, but it makes me happy he’s finally gone. Even if it means dealing with all this shit.”

“It’s over now, right? Let’s celebrate by fucking some shit up out there tonight!”

“Save it for the game.” I laugh, pushing aside the uncertainty of the NHLPA complaint. But for the first time in weeks, the fog that’s been permeating my brain has lifted. I pull on my pads and smile. “Tonight’s going to be a good fucking game.”

Tex hears me and calls back from a few stalls down, “Fuck, yeah!” The energy in the room intensifies. Everyone around me begins to talk animatedly, and I sigh in relief. An excitement hums under my skin as I finish suiting up and settle in for pre-game announcements. Coach comes in, his usual solemn expression firmly lodged in place. He stands at the head of the room, careful to keep his toes off the edge of the logo in the carpet.

The room quiets, the team sitting down, waiting patiently for him to speak. He looks around at all of us, his eyes holding mine a fraction of a second longer than the rest before he looks down and taps his leg with his thumb.

“It’s been a fucking time of things, hasn’t it?” he starts, easy and soft. The guys all lean in a little from their stools. “Team’s sitting high in the standings because of the tremendous amount of hard fucking work and deep fucking commitment over the season. Unfortunately, every single one of you has had to deal with things that don’t belong in this fucking game, instead. Some of you are being asked stupid fucking questions that take the focus off what we do.”

I drop my head, my guilt rising. I don’t feel blamed, but there is an unshakable sense of responsibility I carry for how the last few days unfolded. It twinges that I haven’t stopped to consider that everyone in here still has to face public scrutiny when they do press for the game or see notifications on their phone from social media.

“It’d be understandable to let it distract us. To let it bury us,” his voice begins to build, momentum shifting as he amps up. I swallow down my emotions and focus in, letting my coach guide me back to where I need to be. “Maybe it has,” he begins a slow loop around the logo, hands in his pockets. “Maybe with every fucking microphone, every fucking comment… every fucking disgusting opinion shared, we’ve had another shovel of dirt thrown on us.”

There’s a shift as Coach deepens his analogy. I look around at my friends to see if they feel it, too. My leg begins to bounce as the energy builds.

“Shovel after fucking shovel until we’re buried six-feet under.” As he passes me, his hand lands softly on my shoulder pad. It’s brief, but the feeling of his support will linger the entire game. “It’s just too bad they forget who they are trying to bury.”

“Yes, they fucking did!” Tex unleashes. Coach smiles darkly. It’s unusual for our captain to interrupt, but I can tell they are on the exact same wavelength, and I love being swept up in it.

“Midnight?” Coach asks of us, looking around again, the familiar prompt causing all of us to stand before answering in unison.

“Rise!”

It’s our most decisive win since before All-Star Weekend. Nicky shuts out Boston, and we scored six. All traces of distraction vanished when our blades hit the ice, and every period had us growing stronger, more confident—and ultimately—more dominant. Boston sits above us in the standings, but we have the advantage by winning our matchup. It could mean a lot when the playoff picture comes into sharper focus in the next week.

The locker room is loud. The atmosphere feels more like we’ve advanced to the Stanley Cup than won a regular season game. But the change in morale is incalculable. I’m finally starting to feel like myself again, and while there is still a lot to face to move on, it will be easier if I can hold on to this feeling.

“You fucking killed it tonight!” Tex grips the back of my neck, shaking me in celebration. “One goal, two assists, no penalties. Damn, Wellsy.”

“What about you?” I slap at his back. “A hat trick? When was the last time that happened?”

“Hell, if I know.”

“Violet would,” I tell him. He laughs because it’s true. “She’s probably upstairs with Allison talking about it right now.”

I strip out of my gear to head to the showers. I’m actually happy I no longer have press requirements because I want to kiss the shit out of Violet. I want to wrap her up in the high I’m feeling. I want to share with her the certainty I have that things are going to get better.

I’ve just finished buttoning the last button on my shirt, rubbing the towel one final time through my hair, when Coach calls for me across the room. He gestures for me to follow him.

We slip through the hallways quickly and quietly, only offering small nods to anyone we pass until we reach a service elevator I’ve never been in. Coach pushes a floor button, and the silence continues. When I look over at him to prompt a comment, he just shakes his head, a clear request to wait.

When the doors open, we’re at the end of a long hall. Coach seems to know exactly where he’s going, so I follow along next to him. We end up exiting through a set of double doors on the level of the arena where the private suites are located. He immediately ducks into the closest one.

Inside, I see Violet, Bea, and Allison. Allison and Bea say a quick goodbye before they squeeze my arm as they pass me to leave. The door stays open, Todd slipping inside with Anthony, my NHLPA representative, behind him.

Coach shakes hands with Todd, nods respectfully at Anthony, and hugs Violet briefly. I’ve come far enough into the comfortable-looking suite not to be stuck to the walls, but I still wait for any clue about what’s going on. Violet crosses to me, wrapping her arms around my waist before popping up on her toes to kiss my cheek.

“Great game,” she whispers in my ear before dropping back down. She threads her fingers through mine and guides me to one of the supple black leather chairs that litter the upper sitting area of the suite. Everyone slips into a space before Todd speaks.

“Hell of a game, Crosby. Coach,” he turns his head to acknowledge both of us. He leans forward on his knees, letting his clasped hands hang between them. “Anthony has an update about your complaint, and I figured you’d want to know the outcome immediately.”

I blink in surprise. I wasn’t expecting the Player’s Association to come back so quickly. I don’t know if the fast response is good or bad. I steal a quick glance at Coach, but his face doesn’t give anything away.

“I’m sorry to tell you that the NHLPA has dismissed your complaint,” Anthony says. A mixture of anger and frustration flushes through my veins, but there is also a strange mix of relief. Without the league investigating, I hope it will mean the story can fade into obscurity. So what if Ahlman doesn’t have to face the repercussions for his words? I’m sure he’ll face retribution at the hands of myself and my teammates for the rest of his career. We may be forced to forget, but I know I’ll never forgive. “The Player’s Association will not investigate the claim because the player is no longer employed by the National Hockey League.”

“What?” I say sharply. Violet sucks in a breath.

“When Portland was notified we submitted the complaint, we also included the recording,” Anthony continues. “It appears Merrick Williams, their owner, was very interested in the exchange. Turns out his daughter, Lucy, is responsible for bringing Olivier Ahlman to her father’s attention. Convinced him to give Ahlman a try-out. When Ahlman made the team, he broke up with Lucy. Given his boasting on the recording, I guess Merrick was only too happy to find a way to end Ahlman’s contract when the complaint was filed.”

“Oh my God,” Violet whispers. Her shoulders have deflated like a balloon, the realization of what could have been her life—and what is the unfortunate turn of events for Lucy Williams—sucking the energy from her. I give Anthony a nod of thanks, letting him dissolve into specifics with Todd while I lean over to check in with her.

“Are you all right?”

“Surprisingly, yeah, I am.” Her voice is strong, even if I can see her still processing. Coach joins us, kneeling down in front of her, assessing her. I see their silent discussion before he stands, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead and return to the executives across the suite. “Crosby?”

“Yeah, Sparks?”

“Let’s get out of here.” She stands, reaching a hand back to me. I don’t let the offer linger, rising from my chair to tuck her against me, making a hasty exit at the approving nods of the others.