Page 29 of The Poster Boy (Love The Game #3)

Jay

I ’d done it to myself. But being fully aware that it was my fault Marek wasn’t speaking to me didn’t make me feel any better. Self-awareness was a real bitch sometimes.

But as much as it sucked, I tried to tell myself that this was a good thing. That I could go back to focusing on the game, on making it to a nice old age of thirty-seven before I hung up my skates. Then I could worry about things like love and—fuck.

I loved him. That was the real kick in the ass. It was only supposed to be sex. A way to blow off steam in a way that wouldn’t make him go viral again. How had it so quickly become more than that?

“You’re an insufferable jackass, do you know that?” Boone asked me. Kind of. It was more of a statement than a question.

I rolled my head to the side to look at him.

He’d just showered and was already in his dress pants.

The rest of the suit would follow soon before we went to the arena to get ready for the game.

It was the first game of our post-Christmas road trip and for the first time in my history with the sport, I could think of somewhere I’d rather be.

“Get off your ass and get pretty for the cameras.”

Dragging myself to my feet, I grabbed my garment bag and tossed it on the bed. I’d showered and shaved before Boone, and I’d meant to already be dressed, but then I sat down and ended up lost in my head.

Boone waited until I was dressed and ready to go before speaking to me again.

“Have you talked to him?”

Boone had figured out that we’d had a fight when he came home that day, and I was far grumpier than usual. I was tense on the flight. Marek, however, was calm and collected. His happy-to-be-here, golden retriever mask had slid back into place. It didn’t even slip when he looked at me. Through me.

“He won’t answer my texts.” I’d deleted more than I’d sent, but I’d still sent an embarrassing amount of them.

I was a love-sick teenager again, all tangled up in knots over some boy I’d never be able to have.

Only… I’d had Marek. For a split-second in time, he was mine.

But I was too terrified of change to reach for him.

To ask for something I wanted. Instead, I’d let fear guide my actions, and I’d hurt him.

I didn’t deserve him. But that didn’t stop me from wanting him.

“Did you want me to talk to him?” Boone checked the time on his phone and flashed me a sympathetic smile when his alarm went off. “We have to head to the bus now. I can pull him aside before the game.”

“No. Leave him be, Boone. The offer is nice, but I think this is something that I have to sort out on my own.”

“Well, you better do it fast because he’s starting goalie tonight.” He frowned at his phone. “Church has food poisoning. He thought he could manage it, but he’s too under the weather.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, he’s going to stay here at the hotel and try to get it out of his system.”

By the time we reached the lobby, the rest of the team had gathered there, except for Church. I admired the way Marek managed to look like a last-minute change was no big thing. He might not deal well with real life changes, but when it came to the game, Marek was a machine.

More than ever, I was glad that he’d made fast friends with most of the team.

It was a credit to his character that he won everyone over in a short amount of time.

It also made it impossible to get near him before the game.

Andrew stuck to him like glue, as usual.

The two of them reminded me of a couple of teenagers, goofing around in the back of the bus all the way to the arena.

But when the bus stopped and we filed out, they were all business again. Not that I’d been obsessively paying attention to them or anything. Once we hit the locker room and started stripping our suits off to get into our gear for warm-up, Boone sidled up next to me.

“Are you going to talk to him?” He kept his voice low and even and let it get drowned out by the noise around us.

“Not before the game. Maybe after. Maybe never.”

“Jay—” He sounded almost sad for me.

I was sad for me too. Sad that I was a dumbass and had hurt someone who had come to mean a great deal to me.

I hadn’t meant to. Of course I hadn’t meant to, but intent didn’t matter more than impact.

The fact was that I’d been careless, and Marek had paid the price.

I’d skated all over his feelings without meaning to because I’d put my comfort ahead of his feelings.

Marek had been right. I didn’t have to ignore him when we were safely tucked away with the Weimer’s.

It wasn’t as though any of them were going to run to the tabloids with illicit pictures of me talking to a teammate or sitting next to him.

I’d have loved to kiss him under the mistletoe, but I’d thoroughly missed that window of opportunity.

He hadn’t been asking for much. He’d wanted me to acknowledge his presence. He’d wanted a share of my time and my attention, but out of fear that I’d give him everything, I gave him nothing instead.

“I’ll try to talk to him after the game,” I told Boone, who let the subject drop and went back to being team captain.

He liked to make the rounds and check on everyone before a game. He was a lot like his mom. They were both naturals in a leadership role, and they both took the responsibility seriously, but with an ease that was enviable.

I felt no better by the time the game got going, but at least I had an outlet.

The other team wasn’t the most beloved in the league.

They were known for dirty hits, bad checks, and bullshit chirps on the ice that crossed the line from friendly hockey banter into what the fuck did you just say to me territory.

It wasn’t the whole team, but it was enough of them to make me hate them all indiscriminately.

I’d had a long-standing beef with one of their power forwards.

Mats Foster was a first-rate jackass and from the minute he stepped onto the ice that night, he’d been a nightmare.

Dirty hits. Hooking. And us with a couple of blind refs.

Three minutes into the first period and I already wanted to kill the smug bastard. We ended up by the boards, battling for the puck. He slammed an elbow into me and tried to stab my body with the back end of his stick.

“Getting soft in your old age, Brookbank,” Mats chirped as we tried to get the puck out of the corner.

“At least I’m not soft in the head. You’ve taken one too many hits if you think that was a good insult.” I won the battle for the puck and passed it back to Andrew, who passed it forward, dodging an attempted interception by the other team.

Our guys battled down in their end for a little bit before the other team put the pressure on and forced play back down into our end. We went back and forth like that, both teams getting increasingly frustrated by the lack of scoring chances.

Things got ugly in the second period when Marek made a particularly pretty save, shutting them down again. No matter what had gone on between us, Marek was on fire tonight. We might as well have fastened a sheet of plywood over the front of the net as far as the other team was concerned.

Boone was on the ice, and they managed to take the action down to the other end, but then Griffin missed a pass, and Mats intercepted. The crowd roared to life as he got a breakaway. I skated my ass off trying to catch him, but Mats was a fast little fucker.

He tried to get the puck past Marek, but even with a fake-out, Marek was faster. When it became clear to Mats that Marek wasn’t fooled, he skated faster, heading straight for Marek as he geared up to shoot the puck.

When bad shit happens, people say that everything slows down, but for me it was the opposite.

I saw the way Mats violently crashed into Marek.

Mats slammed him backward into the net, knocking it off its post and before the whistle could even blow, I was there, my suddenly ungloved hand grabbing Mats by the front of the jersey.

I got two shots in before he realized what was going on and started to fight back.

I heard nothing but the roar of blood in my ears.

There was no crowd. No game. Just me and a jackass who needed to eat his teeth.

Mats might be fast on his feet, but he definitely wasn’t someone who threw a lot of punches in the game.

By the time the refs arrived, Mats had a split lip and a bloody nose.

My hand would hurt later when the adrenaline wore off, but for now I was too worked up to feel anything.

“Don’t touch my fucking goalie,” I hissed at Mats as the refs pulled us apart.

“Come on, Brookbank. Time to cool it,” one of the refs said to me.

“He had it coming. Asshole crashed the net. Fucking coward. Did you see that shit he pulled?” I spun and tried to go after Mats again, but then Marek was there, blocking my path.

He stared at me, his blue eyes steady and calm. “Let it go, Jay.”

“He crashed the net.” My pulse had yet to recover, and I was struck with the stupid urge to rip my helmet off and kiss Marek.

“Let it go, Jay. We have a game to win.”

“That little shit is going to pay for that,” I told Marek. “No one fucks with you.”

There was so much more I wanted to say, but Marek motioned to the ref who was still tugging on my arm.

“Be a good boy for the nice referee, Jay.”

Marek skated away from me, and this time I let the ref steer me toward the penalty box. At least in hockey, I knew how long I’d be in the sin bin for. I had no idea how long Marek was going to stay mad at me.

I had to win him back. I flexed my hand, staring at my bloody knuckles. My hand was already starting to ache a little, but it was worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucked with my goalie.