“I don’t have an interior design degree? I don’t know how to do all the things I’d want to do, even if I didn’t have that type of degree.”
“So go back to school. Get an apprenticeship. Figure it out.”
I set my fork and knife down, lean back in my chair, and cross my arms protectively. “I just go back to school? Just figure out how to do it?”
Baden’s eyes hold me with a boldness that says he’s right about this. “Isn’t that what people do when they figure out what they want to do in life? They learn how to do it?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he growls affectionately. “Tomorrow, get online and figure out what you need to do to accomplish your dreams.”
I could argue with him. I could tell him there’s no way I can go back to school as I’m still paying for that English degree. Or that since I have bills to pay now, learning a new career would be a luxury.
I don’t bother because I know Baden would find a way to talk around each problem and would push me harder toward this. So I make a half-hearted promise to look into it.
Before he can push me further, I change the subject. “Today I spent some time looking at houses and condos based on the parameters you gave me. I came up with six that look promising. I’ll email them to you.”
Last night before Baden went to bed, we discussed what type of abode he was interested in. He gave me his price range and allowable distance from the arena, and told me he didn’t care if it was a house or a condo. I actually found way more than six potentials, but I narrowed it down to ones that were the most perfect given their age and amenities.
“Think you could arrange to look at them with me?” he asks. “I can go on Sunday afternoon.”
I blink at him in surprise but readily accept. “Of course. I’d be glad to.”
“I don’t have an eye for stuff like that, but you clearly do,” he adds.
I try not to preen under the praise.
“Just let me know what time, and I’ll be ready,” I assure him.
“Good.” Baden smiles, but then his eyes darken, somber for a moment. “But I have a more important favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Would you come to our first game Friday? It would be nice to have a friend there. My parents were going to come, but my father has the flu, so they’re going to try for the next home game.”
I’m shocked and touched, because he’s not inviting me to be polite but because he wants support. His family can’t be there, so he wants me. This is his big debut in his new career, and it doesn’t take a genius to understand he’s probably nervous beyond belief.
“And I can get extra tickets for you so you can bring someone,” he adds quickly, a very pointed allowance due to my fears. “Your parents or maybe Frankie.”
“Frankie,” I say without hesitation. “She knows nothing about hockey, but she’d come just for the excitement of getting me out of the house.”
“And after the game, maybe we can go out and get a drink or something.”
“You’re really pushing me out of my comfort zone, aren’t you?” I tease.
“Frankie and I would be with you, so it should hardly be uncomfortable,” he counters.
“Point taken.” I laugh and pick up my utensils again, cutting into the prime rib. “You’ll love Frankie. She’s one of those people you can’t help but love, and she’s been so supportive since the attack.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.” Baden pauses to sip his water.
My utensils halt, and I look across the table at him. “Do you have someone else like that… since Wes died, I mean?”
Baden nods and smiles fondly. “Riggs Nadeau. We became close the last few weeks I was with the Vengeance.”
Without hesitation, I drop my utensils and reach out to rest my hand on his. His gaze drops to where we’re touching and then lifts back up to me.
“I’m so sorry about Wes.” I squeeze his hand, holding it tight. I know I’ve told him that before, but I want to say it again. “I’ve never lost anyone like that, so I don’t know the right words to say. I’m just really sorry.”
Something sparks in Baden’s eyes, and the lustrous warmth returns. His other hand covers mine. “Those are the exact right words. Thank you.”
Our eyes lock, and for what seems like an eternity, we just stare at each other. But then, as if by silent agreement, our hands slide apart, and we pick up our utensils to continue eating.
“So, tell me about these houses you found for me,” Baden says. That’s a safe enough subject for us to discuss so we can finish the meal without further charged interruption.
CHAPTER 14
Baden
You are not a fraud.
I stare at Sophie’s text message, a response to my admission that I was feeling like a fraud because I’m truly not a goalie coach.
She says I’m not a fraud, and I decide to take her at her word. This last message from her is the tail end of a string of texts we’ve been exchanging all afternoon.
Tonight is the rebuilt Titans’ first game. Face-off is in less than an hour, and I’ve been here all afternoon with the team, preparing. The ritual is the same pretty much anywhere I’ve ever played.
Food is provided—professionally catered and nutritionally sound—and players spend the afternoon eating all the right stuff for energy, doing light warm-ups and stretches, meditating, or just hanging out.
The difference today is an underlying current of almost electric emotion that seems to be coating the words and actions of everyone in the locker room. The normal pregame banter isn’t happening. The players don’t know each other well enough to engage. On top of that, I’ve learned there are some men suffering with emotional issues that are manifesting into anger and frustration.
Coen Highsmith seems to have developed a shitty attitude and is not the easygoing guy I’ve been told to expect.
Stone Dumelin is withdrawn and barely acknowledges you if you try to make conversation.
Liam Nicholson, our youngest player to be brought up from the minors, has a nervous twitch in his eye and currently has an ice pack held to it.
The list goes on and on, but we all have our vulnerabilities.
In a life I had not so long ago, I would be getting into my gear, stretching, and listening to AC/DC in my earbuds to get me jacked up for the game. Instead, I’m not doing much of anything except having random conversations with players as I run into them.
But Sophie reminded me it’s not fraudulent what I’m doing now.
Just new.
Another text chimes from her. There will come a day when this will seem like old hat. For now, cut yourself a break. Try to enjoy how monumental this evening is for you.
And just like that, I feel far more settled.
Sophie is probably here in the arena right now. I got good tickets—third row, center ice—for her and Frankie. After the game, win or lose, we’re going out for drinks.
I’m so glad she’s here. Because she’s seen me at my worst, I have absolutely no hesitation in admitting my insecurities to her. I know they’ll not be met with judgment. In that respect, she is somewhat of a security blanket for me, and I’m more than grateful to have her in my life.