Page 5 of Whirlwind (Seattle Blades #4)

W aking up this morning was like a rebirth, as fucking dumb as that sounds.

I don’t know if it was my chat with Coach, or with Cillian, or just having a great practice with all the guys.

Whatever happened yesterday was the reset I needed that allowed me to get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months.

Like every morning, I roll out of bed and onto my yoga mat.

Twenty minutes, the same routine, no variations.

Like the good, weirdo hockey player that I am.

The great thing about Calvin’s house is that there is a small sunroom off the primary bedroom, just big enough for my mat.

Which means, I get to do my morning stretches with a view of the lake.

And Kit’s house, apparently. Moving into the warrior pose, I watch her as she takes her Pomeranian out for his morning wee.

She’s either an early riser or the dog can’t wait any longer, as the sun is barely up. She laughs as Nightmare zooms around the small yard, jumping as high as he can, which isn’t high at all.

Maybe I should get a dog. Nah, that’s a horrible idea. I’m away from home way too much. Still, it’d be nice to come home to someone who is excited to see me. To wake up to someone excited to see me. Other than the random nameless woman who I then promptly kick out.

Kit bends to pick the puppy up, but he darts off before she can nab him. Her hands find her hips, as if she’s annoyed, yet the smile still clearly stays. Nightmare runs back to her, bouncing until she grabs him, then he starts licking her face.

Suddenly, I feel like an epic creep staring at them as I stretch last night’s tension out of my body. Thank fuck she didn’t see me.

After finishing my yoga, I jerk off, shower, and eat some breakfast. Another routine.

One part I’d like to switch up is my meals.

I’ve known players that hire a personal chef; I’m considering doing the same.

You get accustomed to the monotony of it all in favor of your career, but when you see top performers doing just fine while also enjoying variation, it gets harder to avoid.

There’s no reason I need to be eating the same shit all the time. And I have more money than I know how to spend, with so many of my expenses covered by the team or the league. Plus, I have a damn good agent who’s gotten me a couple of very lucrative endorsements.

One of which, I lost due to my tabloid scandal.

I’d already made a large amount of money off it, so it sucked, but it could have been worse.

Not holding up my end of any bargain makes me feel like an incredible asshole.

I wish it had turned out differently. But I don’t really make apologies for the things I’ve done, either.

Management has asked me to run into the offices this morning; I guess they forgot to have me sign some paper or another. With the stack of documents we got through, I’m not surprised something was missed. It’s not like I don’t have time, either, with no social life to speak of in this city.

It’s game day, though, which means, I’ll get some shit done early, then I’ll come back to video games and a nap before running to the arena.

I get to the right building, and as I’m approaching the elevator, it starts to close.

“Hold it, please,” I say, and see a hand reach out to stop the doors. When I see who it is, I smile. “Are you following me?”

“Considering I was here first, I think I should be asking you that. Besides, I already think you’re a Peeping Tom, might as well add stalker to the list,” Kit says.

“It’s not my fault your yard is under my window,” I say. Guess she saw me this morning, after all. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“For the Blades?”

“Yep.”

“Doing what?”

“Are you always this nosey?”

“No, but I am always curious. It also seems fate keeps sticking you in front of me. I’d like to know why.”

“Fate?” She crinkles her nose again, the same way she did yesterday. “You probably have a nightstand lined with crystals. Are you into horoscopes and fortune telling, too? You know a study in 2017 came to the basic conclusion that zodiac sign stereotypes are bullshit?”

“No.” I laugh. “Would you please indulge your nosey, stalker neighbor by telling him what your profession is?”

“Statistician. Or data analyst, here, I guess. It’s a new position with the team; we’re trying some things out.”

“Are you working on our stats?”

“Yes. Sort of. I’m diving deep into how well certain plays work. How well do they work against specific teams and players. Or with certain members of our team. That sort of thing. From purely a numbers standpoint.”

“Building a database that can be fed to coaches in real time,” I muse.

She shrugs. “The groundwork is already there; the Edge system helps with a lot of that. This is just more personalized. More customizable for the team.”

“That makes sense,” I say as we step off the elevator. “Players and coaches often run on emotion or gut feeling. It’s nice to have real data to go along with that.”

“That’s the idea, anyway,” she says, giving me a little salute. “Have a good day, Mr. Murphy.”

“Wait. What’s your last name?”

“Ashcroft.”

“Got it, thanks for the escort, Ms. Ashcroft.”

After I find the right office and sign the right paperwork, I find a grocery store in my new neighborhood and stock up on a few things.

There’s a small pet store next door, so I make a pit stop in there, as well.

When I get home, I run across the street, drop the new purchase on Kit’s doorstep, then make myself lunch and settle in front of the television.

My Xbox powers up, but before I start playing a game, I search for Kit’s ridiculous gamertag.

It pops up and I look at the list of games she’s played.

It’s extensive and the achievements attached to them show she doesn’t play any of them casually.

We have several titles in common, some I’m honestly surprised by.

For some reason, I figured she’d play cozy games, like Stardew Valley or whatever.

I sure as hell didn’t expect to see a collection of the most hardcore horror and shooting games on her list.

Who is this woman?

And why is she consuming my day?

It’s stupid. She’s in Isla’s orbit and I’m too close to that as it is. Besides, Kit doesn’t seem like the one-night stand kind of woman. She owns a house and a dog, which tells me she isn’t one to shy away from commitment. That isn’t something I find interesting right now.

I hit the friend request button, then back out to the main menu. Shooting some aliens on Destiny will take my mind off everything, and that’s what I need for the next two hours. Mindless entertainment before a good nap.

Then, it’s time for my Seattle debut, which somehow feels a lot like my NHL debut.

We take the ice and much like this morning, there’s a lightness about me.

Like I’m breathing fresh air for the first time.

The pregame compadre in the locker room was a vibe, all the guys get along so well.

They know who to leave be and who likes to fuck around.

Letty and Blom are the biggest goofballs, while Fane stays relatively quiet and focused.

Wylder is a good leader, says the right things without being too wordy.

Coach was similar. He came in for the last few minutes, gave us the rundown for the game. Then said, “Set the fucking tone, boys.”

That’s exactly what we do. Within the first four minutes of play, we have eight shots on goal, with Wallin landing one of them in the net off my rebound.

“Fuck yeah,” he yells as we collide in celebration. “Nice play, Pretty Boy!”

“Great shot, Wally,” I tell him as we skate off to the bench.

Maybe fans think we take all this for granted, being that it’s what we do each day. But we don’t. Every damn goal is a big deal. No matter how many years we’ve been doing it. No matter how good a player you are. It takes so many shots before you get one in.

I wonder if Kit knows how many?

The thought comes quickly, and I smirk as I push it away. Game time isn’t for thoughts about anything but the game.

During the next run on the ice, a guy on the opposing team, Brance, hip-checks me. It’s unnecessary contact as I’m nowhere near the puck.

“Fuck off, fourth liner,” I say, shoving him as I skate past. There’s nothing wrong with being on the fourth line.

They’re a needed part of the team, allowing the other lines time to rest. But Brance is a veteran in the sport, probably should have retired a season or two ago.

He rarely scores now and is more of a menace than anything.

Some guys are goons from the start, but Brance wasn’t.

He was a goal maker. Turning into a pest before retirement is a hell of a way to go out and it’s not the path most would choose.

“You fuck off, slut,” he bites back, and I laugh while in my pursuit of the puck.

We don’t score any more in the period, but neither does the other team. They do tie it up in the second, however, and we head into the final period with a clear directive.

Score.

Brance continues to dog me every time we’re on the ice together.

Who knows why he has such a hard-on for me tonight.

There isn’t always a clear reason. It’s hockey, there doesn’t need to be anything more than they’re currently losing.

I can’t say how many times a little fight made the difference in boosting your team’s morale enough to go on and score a goal.

I sweep check their winger and gain control of the puck, pumping my legs down the ice to their net. Brance is hot on my heels until Fane flies in and ties him up, allowing me the breakaway I need.

There are a few high anxiety moments in hockey. Breakaways are one. Even if the net is guarded by the goalie, like now. Or if he’s been pulled in favor of an extra player on the ice, you’re desperate to get the puck in and you know every eye in the arena is on you. And you alone.

This time, luck is on my side. The puck gets the height and speed I need for it to sail past their goalie’s shoulder and fly into the net.

Nerves rattle me as I prepare to walk into the family room. It’s not my family I’ll be seeing. It’s Wylder’s. It’s the family I once hoped to be mine.

I know the reality of the situation; there’s no delusion on my end. That’s not the problem. My issue is that it’s the first time seeing Isla and Sadie since before she got back together with Cillian. If I let any of my emotions come to the surface, what happens then?

Is Cillian still going to be understanding? Does it push my position with the team to the outskirts of the inner circle? Most importantly, I don’t want to confuse Sadie.

From the way the guys all chatter in our downtime, it’s clear they’re all close to the Wylder family. Like me, they’re as enamored with Cillian’s daughter as I always was. I don’t want to be the lone player that can’t be around as much because his personal issues get in the way.

Isla and Sadie were never meant to be mine. My head is clear on that. I’m not sure I can trust my heart to understand it yet.

Steeling myself, I push through the door. Before I can scan the room for them, Sadie is running toward me.

“Tyson!”

“Hey, shorty,” I say, catching her in my arms as she vaults herself at me.

“You’re here! Now, all my favorite players are on the same team,” she says, her tiny hands landing on my cheeks.

“What about Ryan Nugent-Hopkins?” I ask in disbelief. She used to say she was going to marry him.

“I’ve outgrown him.”

“It’s about time,” I say.

Laughter behind her catches my attention. It’s Isla, I’d know her laugh anywhere, like a permanent tattoo on my skin.

“That’s what my dad says, too,” Sadie says.

“He’s a smart man,” I say, finally looking past her shoulder to nod at her mother. Isla smiles at me, and my heart clenches.

“I’ve missed you,” Sadie says, mustering a stern tone. “You never visit anymore.”

“I know, sweetheart,” I say, setting her on her feet and kneeling in front of her. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve been real busy trying to find my way here.”

The words mean more than she’ll understand. Maybe more than even I understand just now. One glance at Isla and I know I’m not over her. Or, at least, not over the idea I had of her and me. The dream of starting my own hockey family dynasty.

“Well,” Sadie says, biting her bottom lip and scrunching her brow in thought. “I guess it’s okay, because you’re here now. And part of the best team ever.”

“Yes, I am. You’ll see me lots more now, more than before, even.”

“That’s good. You’re the only one who doesn’t let me win pancake eating contests.”

She releases a heavy sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Everyone else lets you win?” I pretend to be aghast.

“Yeah, it’s so re...rid...”

“Were you going for ridiculous?”

“Yeah, that.”

“All right, next time we’re around pancakes, I’ll make sure I win. Again.”

“It’s a deal!” She runs off to say hello to some others and I’m left face-to-face with her mom.

Isla, it pains me to say, is more beautiful now than she was when we dated. There’s a happy glow to her that wasn’t there before. Fuck me, I love that for her. Even as I hate that I wasn’t the one to put it there.

“Hey, Freckles.”

“Hi, Tyson,” she says, taking a step closer. “Thanks for that, she’s been dying to see you since the trade was announced. Well, before that, but you know…”

“She doesn’t understand the dynamics, I get it. It’s good seeing her. And you…you look happy.”

“I am,” she says.

“I’m glad. I mean that.”

“I know you do.” She smiles crookedly and it feels like the goodbye I never got before. “I hope you find it, too. You deserve that, Ty.”

Do I? Am I a good enough man for that? It’s easy to feel undeserving.

Easier than feeling worthy, for sure. Is it enough to simply exist?

To live each day in an unfulfilled rut waiting for a cosmic event or divine intervention to put the love of my life in front of me?

No, that doesn’t make me deserving. Surely there’s more for me to do.

Maybe I should ask Cillian, since he seems to have figured it all out.

“Thanks, Isla.”

“You’re welcome. Good game, tonight.”

I nod my thanks and find my way out of the arena, where I can be alone with all these damn feelings.