Page 33

THIRTY-THREE

Jethro

I wake up slowly, because I don’t want to wake up at all. I’m sleeping on my side, naked on soft linens, my hand curled around Clay’s hip.

It’s perfect. Except that his phone alarm is playing a tune that’s slowly becoming louder and more insistent.

Beside me, he groans and rolls over. Blue eyes flip open and regard me through a sleepy haze. It’s like looking straight into my past. All those dreamy mornings waking up in Busker, eating breakfast in our kitchen before morning skate.

But only a moment passes before his gaze slides away from mine. He sits up, grabs his phone, and silences it. “I need another shower,” he announces.

“I’m sure you do,” I say with no small amount of smugness. We went three rounds last night. I wasn’t sure my thirty-seven-year-old body could manage a feat like that anymore. But it turns out that with Clay, anything is possible.

He doesn’t smile. The walls are already going up as he slides out of bed and pads naked into the bathroom, his hair wild, his phone in hand.

Reluctant to head over to my own room, I stare at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. A morning sports podcast comes on, echoing off the shower tiles. The chatter feels like a shield.

We can’t do this again , he’d said. I can’t argue with him about it. I can’t be the reason he loses his job. And while it’s tempting to lie here and force him to deal with me again, I’m not going to beg for his attention. I still have my pride. So I slide out of bed and go back into my own room without a word.

My body feels pleasantly used as I walk into the shower for a quick rinse. A little sexual exhaustion is both unfamiliar and nice. It feels like my soul was cleansed all the way down.

Still, I wonder whether Clay will avoid me like a disease for the rest of the season.

That wouldn’t be worth it.

Although it sure was fun.

When I show up to our team breakfast forty minutes later, several players look up from their cups of coffee to give me troubled looks. One of the rookies actually crosses himself.

For a second, Clay’s paranoia catches up with me. Why are they staring? Where is Clay?

I spot him at a table in the corner, ensconced between the GM and Coach Murphy. He doesn’t look up from the conversation.

The ugly truth hits me—my hideous performance last night has everyone spooked. Like I might be contagious. Or, more practically, that I might do the same in Montreal tomorrow night.

I fill a plate and find a seat at the table with Kapski, who’s too good a captain to scowl at me, and Stoney, who rarely scowls at anyone.

“Hale,” Stoney says. “I need something from you.”

“Is it a scoreless game?” I salt my eggs. “Take a number.”

“You never gave me anything for the vision board,” he complains. “I need a picture from everyone .”

I snort. “Just grab that shot of twenty-seven-year-old me eating Fruit Loops out of the Cup and call it good.”

“Buddy, we can’t live in the past,” he says loftily. “We need to be forward-thinking.”

“Stoney,” argues Kapski, putting down his toast. “Every photo on your board was taken in the past. That’s how time works.”

He frowns. “Maybe draw me something. That would be special.”

“I don’t draw,” I grunt, trying to drown myself in my coffee mug.

When I feel eyes on me, I glance up and spot Clay watching me from across the room. Our gazes lock for a split second, and I wish I could rewind the morning to the moment I woke up at peace in his bed.

He quickly looks away, and I go back to my eggs.

The bus leaves an hour later for a practice rink outside Toronto. After that, we review tape for tomorrow’s game, and I have a Zoom meeting with the goalie coach. Together, we painstakingly review every single error I made during last night’s horror show.

Fun times.

At four, we board the jet to Montreal. After we reach cruising altitude, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes to catch up on some extra sleep. A guy my age can’t stay up all night having sex without repercussions.

“Hale?”

My eyes fly open to find Dr. Baker standing over me. “Uh-oh,” I say. “Are you looking for me?”

He beckons. “Let’s have a chat.”

“Hell,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I was going to nap.”

“Then you should have pretended to be asleep,” the psychologist says as I follow him down the aisle toward the office. “I mighta fallen for it.”

“Next time.”

He gives me a friendly grin and holds open the door. We settle on opposite sides of the little table, and I speak first. “I suppose you’re wondering why I played so badly last night. Why I keep getting worse, instead of better. You and everyone else.”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind,” he says. “I really just hauled you back here to ask what picture you’re putting on Stoney’s vision board.”

“Dude.”

He snickers. “Yeah, I noticed you’re still struggling, and I wondered if you had any thoughts about it and how you’re feeling today.”

“Um…” Sexually satisfied, but otherwise hollow? “It’s been a rough patch. And everybody else’s anxiety about it isn’t helping.”

“I’ll bet.” He drums his fingers on the table between us. “So what did you put on Stoney’s board? Serious question.”

“Nothing,” I admit. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

He shrugs. “Fair. But let’s pretend for a second that the exercise has value. You cut out some pictures of how you want your life to look, paste them on the board, and suddenly your life will head in that direction—like a freight train on a greased track. So what would be on Jethro Hale’s personal vision board?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m asking,” he replies with frustrating calmness.

“Um…” I’m almost too tired to play these games. “A glove save? A clean sheet? Another championship ring.”

“Really? That’s all?” The words drip with skepticism. “This isn’t the team board; this is just yours to fill up. So what else is on there?”

“Um…” Just Clay’s face . And some of the meals he used to cook for me. “Black-and-white cupcakes and chili.”

He laughs. “Okay, now you’re on the right track. But a guy needs more than hockey and food. You’re thirty-seven and your current contract—which is probably your last—will end in eighteen months. What then?”

“Christ,” I curse under my breath. “Like a lot of guys, I have no idea. And are you sure this is what we should be talking about? You think staring into the void is going to unfuck my game for tomorrow night?”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “I think there’s no harm in it. And I think your personal vision board needs some work and probably always has. Maybe your core belief is that hockey is all you’ve got in your life...”

“Hockey and cupcakes,” I remind him.

He ignores the interruption. “And suddenly hockey and you aren’t working so well. Maybe hockey is fixing to dump you out on your ass. That would fuck with anyone’s concentration.”

My jaw ticks. “It’s not all I have,” I argue. “I have a nephew who needs me. His smile would be in the center of this hypothetical board.”

“Admirable,” he says. “But give me something for you .”

“Why? And how does that help me midseason?”

“The thing about the tough questions is that it’s never the right time. But they’re out there waiting for you anyway. There’s never a convenient day for unfucking your life. That’s why we have to do it a little bit at a time. So what’s the first thing you’ll do when you retire from hockey, whenever that might be. Take me through it.”

“Um…” I sigh, and I’m suddenly so tired my eyelids feel heavy. “Maybe I’ll think about going back to school.”

He perks up a little. “Really? What were you studying in Wisconsin?”

“I left to go to the minors before I had to decide,” I admit.

“Were you sick of school?” he asks.

“Nah.” I shake my head. “But I found it hard to balance academics with hockey, and my grades were always rocky. I needed to keep a certain GPA to keep my scholarship. And then my sister…” I stop short when I realize this conversation won’t do a thing to cheer me up.

“Your sister?”

“She got into some trouble during the spring term of my junior year. I left school for two weeks to move her out of a bad situation. I missed some midterms.”

“That sounds like a tough spot,” he says. “You’ve been bailing her out your whole life, huh?”

I rub my forehead. “Some people just aren’t built to survive this world. She’s one of them. It doesn’t matter. I dug myself a hole, and when my drafting organization offered me a contract in Busker, I felt like I had to take it. If I waited, they’d find some other goaltender. And I might have lost my scholarship anyway.”

Doc Baker nods thoughtfully. “So you took the contract and made the most of it. Barely a full year later, you made it to the big leagues.”

“Yeah, I did okay. Especially since I was just a kid who didn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“With a great survival instinct,” he says. “Nobody survives like you, right? Three championships is almost unheard of. Still healthy at thirty-seven. Would you say it’s still fun?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, but what else is there for you?” he asks. “If you went back to school next week, what would you study?”

“Sports management,” I say immediately. I’ve always been interested in the way teams function.

“Cool,” he says. “And hobbies? What else—or who else—in your life deserves more attention?”

“Um…” I immediately picture Clay in his kitchen, making cupcakes with Toby. And then I picture him underneath me on the bed…

Doc Baker watches me, waiting.

“Um,” I repeat. “I don’t know. I’ve been kind of busy.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But that may be why it’s so hard for you to unfuck your game—because it matters too much. It’s all you’ve got.”

Clay told me largely the same thing last night. But this conversation is exhausting. “I don’t see how this is going to help me shut out Montreal tomorrow.”

He nods. “It might not. And what happens if you get benched tomorrow in Montreal?”

My gut shifts uncomfortably. “Then I get benched. It happens. I’ll just have to sit there and watch that smug rookie start his first big-league game.”

“That will suck,” he says bluntly. “And you’ll move past it. But that’s easier to do when you have more going on in your life than trying to prove to the Detroit organization that they’re a bunch of idiots.”

I hate it when he can see inside my brain. I hate it so much.

“So,” he continues, “I want you to try to really dig in and think about what else is on the Jethro Hale vision board. A degree in sports management, maybe. A new hobby. A new relationship.”

“Now that’s unlikely,” I grumble, picturing Clay’s hustle into the shower this morning. He made it very clear that we weren’t going to be a thing.

“You say that,” he says in a chipper voice. “But I want you to visualize it anyway. I don’t care about photos and glue, unless you’re into that. Imagine yourself outside the stress of hockey. Outside your current obligations. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure,” I agree, because it might get me out of this room faster.

“Great. I’ll ask you to report back next week.”

I get up in a hurry. “See you then.” Unless the GM trades my ass before then , I mentally add.