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THIRTY

Clay

I spend the next day in shock, trying not to lose the thread of every conversation I have at the office. Luckily, it’s a day off for the players, so I don’t have to face Jethro. I don’t have to look him in the eye and remember the way I plunged into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a championship diver off the high platform.

Ugh. I’m such an idiot. I took a difficult situation and made it impossible. Right before a road trip.

Then, forty-four hours after the world’s most explosive kiss, we head to Toronto, where I can’t hide in my office.

Instead, I’m being tracked through the hallways under the arena, greeting players, answering questions, and trying to stay out of Jethro’s way. I can’t look him in the eye yet. I’m embarrassed, I guess, even though he’d been the one to make a move.

And, fine, I’m a little miffed. He should understand by now that I’ve always had more feelings for him than he could reciprocate. Kissing me on a whim isn’t cool.

Every time I think about the gross impropriety of a coach fooling around with a player, I die a little inside. Luckily, he seems to be avoiding me, too.

I can’t say the same for his agent, Bess Beringer, who’s been stalking me through the arena. She’s chosen tonight to show up and support her player. I’m pretty sure that involves yelling at me, because I keep spotting her hovering in the near distance, waiting for her chance.

So I handle it like a grownup, ducking into the men’s room when I suspect she’s about to pounce.

I’m standing at the sink, washing my hands in peace when Bess pops the door open like a red-headed poltergeist and fixes me with a stare. “When you’re done hiding, I’d like a word.”

Busted . “I’m not hiding. I’m a busy man. And I get that you’re here to support your players, but I don’t know what we can solve during the last hour before gametime.”

“Plenty,” she says, holding the door open. “Give me five minutes of your time.”

Having no choice, I step into the corridor and stand patiently against the wall.

Bess gets right to the point. “This is a pivotal moment in Hale’s life, and also in your season. It’s been more than a month, and he still seems spooked. So I’d like to know what you’re doing about it.”

The image of running my fingers through his hair springs to mind. Fuck!

“The whole organization is supporting him the best way we know how…” By letting him kiss me and then freaking out over it . “…by giving him our full attention.”

“Besides bestowing him with the sunshine of your winning personality,” she snips, “what exactly does that mean? I’d like to hear some concrete steps you’re taking. Has he gotten extra time with the sports psychologist?”

“He can have all the time he wants with Doc Baker, Bess. We ensured he had the obligatory talk with the doc, but I’m not aware Hale’s booked any follow-up appointments.”

“Make him!” she thunders. “He happens to be terrible at taking what he needs.”

He took it in my kitchen . “Fine. I’ll be sure they speak tomorrow. What else?” I’m not enjoying this conversation, but I’m glad Jethro has an agent like Bess in his corner. She’s a bulldog.

“Let’s talk about this kid you called up to be Hale’s backup this week. What’s his deal? He seems to spend a lot of time explaining to Twitter that he’s a heartbeat away from his NHL debut. Look.” She whips out her phone to show me a post by Walcott.

I see a bunch of emojis I don’t understand, and, Probably getting my big chance tonight, I heard!

“What I want to know is—heard from who? ” she demands.

Hell. “From nobody. I’m starting Hale in the net tonight, as you well know. The kid is just…” I sigh, and think of Stoney’s poster board, the one where he’s pasting everyone’s dreams. “What do they call it? Manifesting.”

Bess promptly rolls her eyes. “It’s manifesting to get a tattoo of the Stanley Cup on your groin. Telling social media that you’re a better goalie than a hockey legend is just obnoxious.”

“Agreed. I’ll have somebody talk to him before the night is out.”

“How about immediately?” She flings her arms wide. “I overheard him asking Hale if he wanted a coffee to help him stay up late enough for an eight p.m. game, Toronto time.”

For fuck’s sake . “I’m on it. Not every good hockey player arrives with passable manners.”

“Find him some manners in your equipment room, before I cover his mouth with hockey tape.”

“Noted,” I say with a sigh.

She drops her gaze. “Look, both Hale and I realize he’s underperforming expectations, and that it’s a problem. But you can’t solve it by hanging him out to dry. Nobody works harder than Hale.”

“Yes, ma’am. Agreed.”

By the time the puck drops and the game starts, I have a tension headache. A doozy. The pain climbs up my shoulders and into the base of my skull as I watch Toronto win the face-off and skate away with the puck.

Every game is hard, and some are harder than most. But this one starts out badly and quickly gets worse. Toronto scores on us about eight minutes into the game. The goal is a perfect storm—my D-men miscommunicate and lose the puck to a winger who moves it into our zone with speed, luck, and possibly even a little voodoo.

Three minutes later, the same player tries a wrist shot that Jethro can’t see because Wheeler dives into his line of sight to try to save the play.

It goes in. We’re down two in the first period.

Sometimes I can just feel a team’s momentum dropping off a cliff. And that’s what happens to my Cougars tonight. It doesn’t help that the Toronto crowd is deafening, their energy roaring through the barn every time their team touches the puck. It’s like a physical force, pushing us off the puck, throwing us off our game.

As our defense falls apart, Jethro takes a beating, both physically and mentally. His reactions are slightly mistimed, and I can see the frustration building in the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. He’s still fighting, but the puck seems to have a mind of its own tonight.

We manage to beat them back for another ten minutes, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide with a broom. Toronto’s next goal is a blistering slap shot, leaving Jethro too little time to react before it’s sailing past his glove and into the back of the net.

The arena explodes. I grip the edge of the boards, my knuckles white. We’re down by three, but it feels like thirty. My guys are skating like they’re in quicksand, their reactions always a step behind.

Jethro makes a few good saves as the period winds down, and I let myself hope that maybe we’ve weathered the worst of it. Maybe we can regroup during intermission, come out strong in the second. That’s the speech I give the boys, at least.

But hockey, like life, rarely goes according to plan.

As the second period starts, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. Toronto comes out flying, their sticks a blur, their passes tape to tape. They’re playing like they can read each other’s minds, while we’re fumbling around like strangers on the ice.

Five minutes in, they score again. It’s a deflection off one of our own players, a cruel twist of fate that leaves Jethro sprawling uselessly as the puck trickles over the line. The goal horn blares, salt in the wound.

“This is a fucking travesty,” barks the rookie goalie from the far end of the bench. “The Wall could have stopped that.”

“For the love of all that’s holy, shut your damn mouth,” pants Kapski, who’s red-faced and dripping with sweat. “You’re not helping.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself. But as the game grinds on, I find myself watching Jethro more than any other player. He’s overcommitting on shots, leaving himself vulnerable to rebounds. His body language screams desperation.

And then Toronto scores again in a beautiful tic-tac-toe play that leaves Jethro completely wrong-footed. Before I’ve even caught my breath, they score again on a soft goal that squeaks through Jethro’s pads, the kind of shot he usually stops in his sleep.

I feel physically ill as I catch Murph’s eye and give a slight nod. He knows what it means. We’ve been here before, just not with Jethro. Not yet.

As Jethro skates to the bench for a TV timeout, his eyes are distant, unfocused.

“Hale,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady. “You’re done for the night. Walcott is going in.”

For a moment, I think he might actually argue. His eyes flash with pain. But then it’s gone, replaced by a dull acceptance that’s almost worse.

He nods once, sharply, and pushes past me to the bench.

Walcott heads out to the crease, looking radiant. It’s never easy coming in cold, especially not when you’re already down 6-0. I’d bet a hefty sum of money that every player on my team would rather slap that smile off his face than work with him.

But here’s the thing—the scoreboard doesn’t care. And with a wild-card goalie in the net, my boys have to shift their focus. They’ll have to protect him because he’s a young, untested punk with more gab than sense.

They’re professionals, so they do what must be done. The third period is much more stable. The D-men pull it together just enough to turn the gushing wound of our defensive strategy into a trickle. Then Stoney gets a goal off a breakaway, which lifts morale a little further.

Walcott makes several decent saves in a row before finally letting one in. But the pendulum has swung, so the setback doesn’t ruin us. Kapski gets us another goal two minutes before the merciful blare of the horn ends the game.

I’ve never been so grateful to hear a sound in my entire life.

The team is deathly quiet as they leave the ice and trudge back toward the visitors’ dressing room. Bess shoots me an evil glance in the corridor as I pass by, but she’s too smart to try to argue the substitution.

I did what I had to do, by pulling the only lever I had to pull.

In the dressing room, the silence is deafening. Jethro sits in his stall, still fully dressed except for his skates and helmet. He’s staring at the floor, and I know he’s replaying every goal, every mistake, in his mind.

I want to say something, anything. But I don’t. I can’t. Not here, not now. Not with the eyes of the team, the media, and what feels like the whole damn hockey world on us.

“God, that was sick!” Walcott says brightly into the silence. “Talk to The Wall, Toronto!”

Abruptly, Jethro stands, sending his helmet to the floor with an angry bang. There’s murder in his eyes.

Every head turns, and my head gives a brand-new throb as I brace myself for whatever is coming.

But he merely stomps out of the room toward the coat lockers. I hear a loud crash—the sound of a fist connecting with a locker door.

The whole room winces, except for Stoney, who explodes. “For fuck’s sake!” he yells at Walcott. “Your saves were solid, but you weren’t alone out there, dumbass. Get that into your head. And I know it was you who tried to manifest your dick pic onto my mood board.”

The rookie closes his mouth, thank God, but the damage is already done. Morale is in the basement. My headache pulses, a steady drumbeat of pain that matches the ache in my chest. I hope to God that Hale didn’t injure himself trying to take out his frustrations on a locker.

I’m failing him , I realize. If I were a better coach, maybe I would have known what to say. Maybe I could have avoided this debacle.

And forty-eight hours from now, in Montreal, if we play out this drama again? I might not survive it.

“Here you go, Coach.” Gabby from the travel team hands me a key folio. “Room 1810, a junior suite. Gold level! Looks like the Fairmont upgraded you.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the key.

The Fairmont is a grand old place. One of the benefits of growing old in hockey is cashing in on travel perks; I’ve stayed in this hotel at least once a year for my entire career. They know me by now. In addition to the beautiful room on a high floor, I’ll probably find some gourmet snacks waiting for me.

As I take the elevator up to the suite, I’m thinking I’d trade away all the perks for a different outcome from tonight’s game.

I exit onto my floor with my carryon bag, sleepily studying the placards to determine how far I am from my room. I pass the Gold Lounge, which I’m way too tired to enjoy tonight and roll to a stop in front of 1810. There’s a chime for the elevator alcove, and I glance over my shoulder to see Hale stepping from a car.

His tired eyes narrow as he trudges to a stop in front of the door to 1808. “Are you lurking here in the hallway to give me pointers? I already know how badly I played tonight.”

“Just trying to get into my room.” I swipe the card in front of the key reader.

His frown lines deepen as the door unlatches. He pulls out an identical card and swipes into 1808. “Good night,” he says grumpily. He follows this with a mumbled, “If only.”

My room is as big and beautiful as I expected. There’s a fireplace on one wall and thick carpets underfoot. There’s a silver plate with three French macarons waiting beside a bottle of sparkling water.

There’s only one thing wrong—the adjoining door to Jethro’s room. It’s already hard to get any emotional distance from him, but now he’s on the other side of the damn wall.

Yay. What a shitty coincidence.

But it makes sense, when you think about it. We’ve been in pro hockey for the same number of years, and his loyalty program balances must look just like mine. We’re both Gold Level dinosaurs with our 1000 thread count sheets and our macarons.

I don’t even like macarons.

I’m so tired.

Ten minutes later I’m ready for bed and lifting the covers when I hear a knock on the adjoining door. My hand freezes on the quilt.

The knock comes again. “Clay,” says a muffled voice. “You up?”

Fuck . I cross the room, unbolt the door, and yank it open. “It’s late, Jethro. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

He stares back at me in flannel shorts and another threadbare T-shirt that shows off his muscular chest. “Do you want me to quit?”

“ What? I want you to go to sleep.”

He shakes his head, as if I haven’t heard him. “Gun to your head—do you wish I’d just retire? It’s bad enough being the guy that Detroit threw away. I don’t want to be the guy who fucked up Colorado’s shot at the Cup.”

I blink. “Are you for real? You can’t just quit . This isn’t Starbucks.”

“I could,” he says gruffly. “You know it’s true.”

I stare. “You’d walk away from…what, fifteen million dollars? Because you had a bad game? ”

“It’s not just a bad game! Christ . It’s six weeks of shitty playing. I’m sure your GM is already calling around just in case he can find another trade. Don’t pretend like I’m the only one who ever had a crazy idea.”

I turn around and march over to the bed I was so close to getting into. I perch on the edge and put my head in my hands. “Jetty, listen. I don’t think I’m the right person to help you right now.” I’m too twisted up about him to give good advice.

“Nah, Clay. You don’t understand. You’re the only person who can give me advice. Nobody else ever believed in me. I’m not talking as a goalie, but as a person.”

My head swings up to take him in. These are not the kind of words that ever come out of his mouth. “That cannot be true.”

“No, it is,” he says, crossing the room to sit beside me. “I’m trying to look at this rationally. I don’t want to be that guy who holds onto his career with his fingernails while everyone wishes he’d just get a clue and go. You’re the only one I trust to tell me the truth.”

I take a breath. “Jetty, no. This isn’t how it ends for you. This is just the panic talking.”

“Is it, though?” he asks. “My stats have never looked this bad.”

“Yeah, that’s called a slump. Or a bad case of the yips. It happens to everyone, but you get over it, right?”

“If I thought that was true,” he says in a voice more broken than I ever thought possible, “we’d both be asleep already.”

This is new territory. Even when we lived together, we never would have had this conversation. Jethro hadn’t doubted himself like this. Or if he had, he never spoke about it.

The irony . Back then, I would have done anything to hear his most vulnerable thoughts. All I’d wanted was for him to crack open a little bit and share more of himself.

Now I’m out of my element. “Look, when you’re seventy years old, you’ll still be a better goalie than half the league. I know this, but somehow, you’ve forgotten. And no amount of yapping on my part is going to convince you. The only way out of this hole is to try to believe it yourself.”

“Fuck,” he says, clearly miserable. “I’ve never not known what to do.”

I rub the achy spot on my shoulder and try to think. “When’s the last time you remember feeling confident? When you played the game without getting up inside your head.”

He looks up, his dark-eyed gaze steadier. “That’s easy. It was three or four days ago, when I was practicing with you.”

I swallow. “All right. And the time before that?”

He shrugs. “Detroit, I guess. Right before my life blew up. The stakes didn’t feel so high.”

I think that over. “If you walked into this room ready to quit, then the stakes just got a whole lot lower. If you’ve accepted the idea that you’ll be leaving the game when it’s time, then what’s one more try? Got nothing to lose.”

He stares up at the ceiling a moment. “Yeah, I guess,” he whispers. “That’s not a bad way to look at it. I’m sorry to dump out my bag of crazy at your door. But you did trade for me.”

I snort. “And I’ve got the king-size bottle of Advil to prove it.”

He smiles, and then we sit quietly together for a thoughtful moment. Eventually, he turns to look at me again, and we’re so close together—and on a bed , for crying out loud—that my pulse kicks up. I’m not proud of it. But it’s late, and he’s all rugged muscle and stormy eyes.

I sense the exact moment when he feels it, too. Although it’s subtle. A widening of his eyes. His pulse visible at his throat.

And I need to shut it down. “Jetty…”

“What?” He sounds defiant. “I can practically hear your gears grinding over there. And then there’s this.” He sits up and squeezes the muscle between my shoulder and my neck. “I’m over here beating myself up over my failure to evolve. Meanwhile, you still have the same neck ache you’ve had since George W. was president.”

I close my eyes, because he’s right, and also it feels good. I’m so tense my shoulders are like bricks.

“Look,” he whispers. “Getting shipped to Colorado is the most humbling thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You said,” I murmur as his fingers get a better grasp and squeeze.

“It’s not just the hockey,” he says. “You’re the best person who ever walked into my life, and I can’t believe it ever made sense to let you walk out of it. I just wanted you to know that I finally realize that. And I’m sorry.”

It’s the apology I never thought I’d hear. For a long beat, I forget to breathe. Meanwhile, Jethro kneels behind me on the bed. Now both his hands find their way onto my aching shoulders.

I take a gulp of air and roll my neck to release the tension. I don’t speak, because I’m afraid what will come out of my mouth. But I can’t hold back my groan.

“There you go,” he whispers, his strong hands starting a slow massage. “I was always happy to do this. Made me feel useful, but never used. I liked how competent you were. Always knew what to do—except for this one thing. You needed me.”

I close my eyes, because it’s true. I needed him. But then he decided he didn’t need me.

“And then later on,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper as he works me over with a firm grip. “…I was just looking for a good reason to touch you. I’d rub your neck. Get you nice and loose. Your shoulders would drop. And when you were ready, you’d tilt your head to the side. You’d make room for me. And that’s where I’d put my mouth.”

He’s right. It went exactly like that. He’d lower his head and suck…

Just thinking about it makes my nipples tighten.

His hands continue to work their magic, and I’m trapped in a time warp. I’m twenty-four and desperately in love with the grumpy goalie from Detroit. And, fuck me, but the thirty-nine-year-old me can’t seem to move on.

I tilt my head to the left and hold my breath.

He doesn’t make me wait. Jethro leans down and slowly traces the sensitive skin of my neck with soft lips. His tongue finds a sweet spot at the back of my jaw, and the gentle scrape of his stubble lights me up like a flare.

He seizes the moment, his tongue in my ear. His hand sliding around to my chest. He’s several kisses in before I can gulp in a breath. “Jethro, wait.”

He stops. Immediately.

As soon my brain absorbs a little more oxygen, I feel a flare of irritation. “Why did you really come in here tonight? Was it for this?”

“No,” he says immediately. “But I wanted to see your face. I wanted you to tell me it would be all right.”

My heart gives a squeeze that’s half love, half anger. “God, we’re complicated. This is already a terrible idea, and you’re kind of a mess tonight.”

“True. But you really think I’ll be more of a mess if you let me suck you off?”

The question goes straight to my groin.

Sometimes I hate Jethro Hale. I really do.