Page 4 of Wake Me Up (New England Bay Sharks #5)

Five Years Later

D uring practice, I stand in front of the goal, just as I always do because it’s practically my second home. When Logan Sterns attempts to get one past me, I stop it. A slight pain radiates in my hip, but I ignore it because that’s just part of my body now. It exists, just as I do.

“Not today, Logie Bear,” I mumble as playfully as I can possibly muster, and instantly, I see his bright smile through his shield.

He’s the best of the best when it comes to the ice, but he’s like ten percent serious and ninety percent goofy, despite how good he is at hockey.

I wish I could loosen the fuck up from time to time, but that’s not something that comes easily to me because I’ve always been afraid to slack off at all, scared I’ll fuck up my career.

Because for a long time, making it here—to the NHL—was the only thing on my mind. I ate, slept, and breathed to make it to the top. That didn’t leave time for fucking off, and now that I’m here … well, I guess muscle memory has me being a grumpy, serious asshole.

“Yeah, yeah,” he tosses back, wearing his signature, no-shits-given grin. “I’ll get one past you, you handsome devil. You just wait.”

If anyone can get a puck past me, it’s him or Ryder Cambridge. I wouldn’t say it to their faces—they’d think I was having a medical episode because … it’s me—but the two of them are insanely talented players. And even from the goal, it’s pretty cool to watch them work.

I’ve been a Bay Shark now for eleven years, and truth be told, my body isn’t happy with me that I’ve been playing professional hockey for this long.

Though I will say, I consider myself damn lucky that I’ve spent my entire career as a Shark, wearing that navy and light blue jersey, and they’ve never traded my ass somewhere else.

Ryder skates toward me as practice comes to an end and pulls his helmet off. The dude is a weapon on the ice, but he looks like he just walked out of an American Eagle catalog.

“Don’t forget, it’s you and me this weekend at the skills clinic,” he says with a grin. “Try not to look too scary. These are kids we’ll be working with.”

Skating away from the goal, I groan, “Don’t remind me.”

I know the clinics that the team has been putting on once a month are for a good cause.

I mean, shit, it gives the opportunity for young players who might not get the chance to attend trainings to work with some of the best coaches and a few NHL players.

It’s an amazing program. But it means I have to work with kids, and I don’t know the first thing about them.

This will be the first clinic I’ve volunteered at.

Ryder’s, too, but he’s a talkative, charismatic guy.

Me? I come off as a dick, but it’s just my face.

As I head toward the side of the arena, planning to do some cool-down stretches, Ryder stays beside me. “Oh, cut it out. You’re not fooling me after all these years. I know you’re a marshmallow inside.”

“Oh, yeah. The squishiest,” I utter. “I’ll be there, Cambridge.”

“And you’ll look friendly?” Ryder asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “Remember, these are kids we’re talking about. They get scared easily.”

“I’m not an asshole, you know,” I say quickly, a bit offended. “I do know how to communicate with people.”

Flashing an amused look, he smirks. “Well, all righty then. Put on your happy pants and be ready to teach some kids, motherfucker.”

“Oh, I’ll be ready,” I utter as he skates off, heading toward Walker James and a few others.

Once he’s gone, I drop down onto the ice and start some stretches, and instantly, I fight a wince when a pain shoots across my hip.

Coming out of nowhere, Kolt Kolburne steps onto the ice. He’s in his sneakers because of an injury a few weeks ago that took him out of the season early.

“You know, eventually, you’re going to have to stop ignoring the pain, fuckhead.” He keeps his voice low, making sure nobody hears him.

Kolt is quiet, like me. Or I guess I should say, we just aren’t as loud as most of the dudes on our team. Even though he’s quiet, he sees absolutely everything.

Kolt is sort of the voice of reason on the team, even though he’d roll his eyes if we told him that .

“I’m not ignoring it, asshole. I go to PT multiple times a week. I’m just getting old.”

“Is that why you’re so ugly?” He smirks, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve been wondering for a while now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t be jealous, Kolburne,” I say and give him the finger. I continue stretching, not giving him the satisfaction that it hurts as bad as it does. Wear and tear—that’s all it is. I’ve been playing at this level for a long-ass time, and my body is tired.

“Well, be careful making those faces while you’re stretching, big guy,” he mumbles. “Coaches see that, and that new, fresh, young goalie they’ve got coming in may be taking your place.”

He says it as a joke, but I know there’s a hidden message. Kolt and I don’t have to come out and say how we’re feeling; we’re so much alike that we just pick up on shit that our teammates would miss. So, I know Kolt is telling me that if I don’t get it together and fix my body, I will be replaced.

He doesn’t realize part of me wants that.

“Anyway, a bunch of us are going to Cambridge’s after practice to watch the football game. You in?”

“Since you asked, handsome, I’ll be there,” I say, and he gives me the slightest head nod before exiting the ice.

These guys are my family. I can’t imagine what life would be like if I wasn’t around them every single day.

I glance up at the clock, noting that I have roughly six minutes to finish frosting these cinnamon buns before I need to leave to pick up the kids from school. Which would be okay for anyone who can frost messily, but that is not me.

My grandfather moves some things around in the case, no doubt taking inventory in his head of what we need to restock tonight.

He may be eighty-two, but he’s here working every single day.

My grandmother passed away a few years back, and he’s worked himself to the bone every day since.

I guess I can relate because it’s been five years since Jamie passed away and I still can hardly stand to sit idle for too long.

“The apple fritters were a hit today,” Gramp says, still with his head down toward the bakery case. “So were the éclairs.”

“Strange because, last week, we didn’t sell many of either of those,” I toss back, putting some icing on the last two cinnamon buns as carefully as I can with the time I have left before chucking the knife in the sink.

“Don’t forget that tomorrow is the day that hotshot hockey player comes in and buys all of our doughnuts,” my grandfather says, shuffling over toward me. “Let’s be sure we’re prepared.”

“Already on it, Gramp,” I say with a smile, thinking of the famous hockey player, Smith Sawyer, who comes in weekly, buys all of our doughnuts, and then takes them to the homeless shelter, even though he doesn’t admit that he does it.

“The kids had a late start this morning because of a pipe issue at school, so they came in and helped me before you got here.”

“Of course they did,” he says proudly. “You’d best be going now.” He nods toward the window. “The traffic is looking thick out there.”

I wash my hands quickly and peel my apron off before hanging it on the worn shelf. Leaning forward, I kiss his cheek. “Love you. See you tomorrow.”

“You know, you can take the day off. We have that dipshit working a few hours tomorrow,” he grumbles. “I’ll be fine.”

I roll my eyes, heading for the back door. “That dipshit’s name is Jasper, and he’s a nice kid.”

I shake my head at my grandfather. He loves to pretend he’s the biggest asshole, even though he has a heart of gold.

“You know, Frey, you can tell a lot about the path a fellow is headed in life judging by the direction of his hat,” he says, still grumbling. “I’ll give you a hint: Jasper wears his backward.”

I don’t even laugh because I’m used to the ridiculous sayings he comes up with, and I don’t bother to tell him that Jasper is a sixteen-year-old kid. Of course he wears his hat backward. Hell, I see a lot of grown men doing it, and some of them even pull it off too.

Smith Sawyer, for instance. When he comes in for his doughnuts with his hat backward and his sweatpants … hell yes, he pulls it off.

“Bye, Gramp,” I say, ignoring his last comment. “See you in the morning. ”

Walking to my car, I unlock it and open the door.

Tonight is a rare night when the boys have no practices or games going on, and we can all actually relax. Tomorrow, on the other hand, is a different story.

But keeping busy is good for all of us. The past five years have been packed full of hockey, basketball, and baseball practices.

Swim classes, dance lessons, and so much more.

If we had time to stop and think about how much we missed the way things used to be, it would probably kill us. So, busy seems to be the best medicine.

At least, for me it is. And as long as my kids are happy, that’s all that really matters.

I stare across the table at my daughter. “What do you mean, you pushed him?” I can’t even believe the words coming from my mouth.

At seven years old, she has never been anything but sweet. Well, mostly.

Aviana Hale has been dealt a pretty tough hand of cards.

Her dad died when she was two. She has epilepsy that we control mostly with medications, but even that sometimes doesn’t work.

So, I have a hard time believing she’d let a punk kid in her class get under her skin enough to shove him, but when I arrived at school pickup not long ago, I was met by the principal.

Who was apparently just seconds away from calling me because a few minutes prior, my daughter had decided to shove a boy onto the ground.

“He deserved it,” she says matter-of-factly, slouched down in her chair and avoiding eye contact with me.

“ Aviana ,” I say in warning. “Why would you say such a thing? No one deserves to be shoved.”