Page 36

36

Nick

T he wait is getting to me.

The moment it was announced that I was going to be a free agent, things have been insane. Rhys has been Googling my name and telling me that some sports accounts have been mentioning me and reporting my stats, and it’s driving me crazy, because what’s going to happen now?

This may be one reason I’m obsessed with control, because when I know what’s going to happen, then nothing can disappoint me. When I knew it was going to be my last year of hockey and that’d I go to work for Dad, I expected nothing else. It was easy to wrap my head around it.

But now…

Fuck.

“Relax!” Schultz takes me by the shoulders and shakes me. Around us, the crowd roars and I feel dizzy. Closer to the end of the regular season, more people get more hyped up about the games—and since this game is going to determine whether we make straight to the conference’s quarterfinals, it feels as if the whole campus is watching.

And so is the Buffalo coaching team.

They’re up in the stands right now, and I can’t think straight. Now I know why Caleb gets agitated every time they’re around. The pressure is intense.

My stare drifts to the row of seats right next to our bench, and there’s the second reason for my nerves.

Dad’s there, with Dianne next to him.

It’s the first game of mine they’ve ever watched.

And, a few rows behind them, is Maddox with Caleb’s mother and sister. Caleb told me they were coming to this game—I just didn’t realize they’d be sitting so close to Dad and Dianne. I would have introduced them beforehand if I knew, and right before the game started, Caleb told me both our families were going to dinner afterwards. He had Maddox arrange it when he realized they were all here, saying his mom’s been asking for it.

Caleb pushes Schultz out of the way and grabs me by the helmet. He shouts over the roar of the crowd, “Chin up, babe!”

“I can’t score,” I murmur.

“Who cares? We’re up by two.”

I glance up at the stands. “They care.”

“Ignore them. Put on your stupid fake smile and play like you always do.”

“You hate my stupid fake smile.”

“Yeah, but I love you, and I know you’ve got this,” he says, and my heart thumps. I blink at him, stunned.

Rhys pushes my shoulder. “If you two are done flirting, we’ve got a game.”

Caleb gives him a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

I don’t know how he did it, but Caleb’s words successfully shock me out of whatever slump I’m in.

I love you, he said, as if he was casually telling me about the weather. Caleb outright said it in the middle of a hockey game, in front of the noisiest crowd this season, and with our families right there. Of course, they didn’t hear what he said. The words were only for me, and now my heart can’t recover.

Which, turns out, is a good thing—because when I’m not obsessing over the fact that I haven’t scored yet, then it’s easier to play like I always do.

Not that playing like I always do makes a difference. I still can’t score.

When we’re nearing the end of the game and the other team ties with us, frustration wells up in me. We can’t go in overtime. We need to end this right away.

God. I’m a mess. So much for my grand dream of going pro which lasted about five seconds before I crushed it myself. Again.

In a stoppage of play, Rhys, Caleb, and I make our way to the benches. Caleb leans close to me and asks, “You’re really that hung-up about not scoring?”

I frown and hold back a snappy reply. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He studies me for a long moment. Finally, he says, “Morgan and I are going to get you the puck on our next play, and you’re going to score. Or I’m not sucking your dick ever again.”

I choke on a surprised laugh and look around frantically. Thankfully, nobody heard him. “Caleb!”

“I’m serious. Right, Morgan?”

Rhys, who’s watching the game intently, gives him a blank look. “What’s that?”

“Say yes or I’ll fight you.”

He frowns, looks as if he’s about to argue, then seems to decide it’s not worth the effort. “Yes.”

I can’t help laughing at how goddamn ridiculous my boyfriend is, but then again, his confidence in me helps. In a moment of clarity, I realize that nobody has ever put so much faith in me like Caleb has.

Coach puts us out on the ice with only a minute left on the clock, and our score’s still tied.

The team looks bad.

Vega’s been tending the goal the entire game and I can tell he’s exhausted. He’s getting slower—if we go into overtime, we’ll likely lose.

Schultz had a hard hit during the second period. I think he’s downplaying how bad his shoulder’s been hurt and his defense has been faltering.

Sighing, I swallow up my nerves and get into position for the puck drop.

Caleb’s mouthing off to the winger in front of him like he usually is, and I can see a few heads turn his way. He’s been taunting the other team all night. As usual, he’s having the time of his life getting under their skin, and it seems to be working.

Rhys wins the face-off, then it’s a race to get the next goal. I don’t think the other team wants to go into overtime, either. Caleb struggles to get the puck to me like he said, mostly because the other team’s defense seems focused solely on him, which is stupid considering the stakes—but I think it’s because he’s been fucking with their minds all night.

I shout when he gets checked into the boards— hard— but not before passing the puck to me. His ridiculous threat flashes through my mind, and with nothing standing between the goalie and me, I get the puck in the net.

Fuck.

The timer buzzes and the crowd cheers, but I don’t celebrate because I want to make sure Caleb’s okay. I rush over to him where he’s getting up, and when he yanks his headgear off, he gives me a wicked grin.

Thankfully, he looks all right. Wired, but he’s okay.

“Told you,” he tells me, and I can’t help but smile. Caleb’s hair sticks to his face, his cheeks red and his eyes wide, and I need to remind myself I can’t kiss him here—in the middle of hundreds of people. It’s difficult to rein the urge in and I’m buzzing as the team celebrates.

We’re making it straight to the quarterfinals. We might go all the way to the championships this year.

When I said Caleb was the key to getting us there, I was right.

“Sandoval,” Coach calls, and I pray he won’t ask me to talk to the media. “Congratulations.”

I blink at him. “It was a team effort.”

He smirks and points a thumb over his shoulder, and I glance behind him. Aleks is in the crowd, and it’s easy to single him out. My heart skips a beat, because Coach congratulating me and pointing to Aleks can only mean one thing.

“We were debating telling you the good news before the game,” says Coach. “But Aleks didn’t want to distract you.”

Caleb—who I didn’t even notice was still beside me—gives his uncle a long look. “He was distracted anyway.”

Coach ignores him. “Also, you and Caleb are speaking to the press today. Don’t give me that look, Caleb. You might as well get used to it—both of you. What did you expect was going to happen once you both went pro?”

Caleb gets that look he makes when he’s about to be a smart-ass, and I nudge him towards the direction of the press before he can say anything to Coach.

And while I don’t enjoy being in front of cameras when I’d much rather be with my teammates celebrating, it gives us a glimpse of what I can only hope is our future.

Caleb and I tackle the interviewers in completely different ways. He’s much more impulsive with his answers and says whatever first comes to his mind, while I’m much more careful. Still, his charisma is amazing, and the interviewers seem entertained by his answers.

Even I am. I stare at him and smile as he talks, and I almost don’t even notice that I’m being addressed as well.

“Nicholas Sandoval.” A lady holds her mic up to me. “Is it correct you’ve signed Aleks Polinski as an agent?”

I smile. “Yes.”

“Any teams you’re hoping Aleks will help you get into?”

“Um…” I scratch the back of my neck and laugh. Fuck, I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

“What team would you like to play for?” she prods.

Caleb suddenly gets in front of me. He says into her mic, “Buffalo! No other team can have him.”

I wheeze out a surprised laugh. “Caleb!”

“What? We need to play together.”

Some reporters exchange amused glances. One of them laughs and redirects the mic to Caleb, and he grins wide at the camera and brushes his hair back. Shit, he looks so good. Not for the first time, I’m caught off-guard by how handsome he is.

“So,” a reporter says. “Your goal is to play for Buffalo, Sandoval, just like Jennings here?”

I flounder for a safe answer. “Right now, my goal’s to make my last games as a Ram count.”

“The Rams haven’t been to the championships in years.”

“That’ll change this time around,” I say without thinking. When my brain catches up with me, I grimace at my unusual self-confidence, but Caleb only bursts out laughing and knocks his elbow against mine.

The reporter smiles. “I’ve also noticed you seem much more passionate and confident recently. I like the change in you, Sandoval. But what or who inspired this?”

Smiling, my stare drifts over to Caleb, who cocks his head at me as if also curious about my answer.

“Someone important to me,” I say vaguely, and I’m sure Caleb gets who I mean with how I give him a meaningful look.