The pressure in my chest eases and I relax my spine. “I know you do,” I say quietly. “Thanks for understanding.”
She nods, a small smile on her lips. “I do.”
* * *
—
I’m determined to play my ass off in Wednesday night’s game against Washington. Call me spiteful, but I want to show everyone that Coach’s decision was bullshit. I’m aware that I should be playing my ass off every game, and dammit, I do, but tonight it’s even more important. Then I stop and think about Lilly’s question. Is it possible it’s justified?
Is this Coach’s way of getting me to play better?
I ask Cookie that on the subway ride home.
He gives me a weird look. “You weren’t playing bad, though. Seriously. Look at all the stats—your points, your plus/minus, Corsi, Fenwick, shooting percentage…”
I nod slowly. I’ve doubted myself in lots of ways, especially since Bryce and Dad died and Mom didn’t care enough about me to even try to keep going. But I’ve never doubted my hockey skills. Before the accident, I knew I was going to get drafted, and after the accident that was all I had left to focus on. I may have made my career more difficult because of always feeling like things are too good to be true and I’m going to get whacked so I might as well hit first, but that has nothing to do with my ability to play hockey.
“Yeah,” I agree slowly.
“I mean, nobody’s perfect and we can always do better. But you’re one of the hardest-working guys on the team.”
Right now, it means a lot to me to hear that. “Thanks.”
“He’s an asshole,” Cookie says glumly. “We all know it. And tonight, do we score any power play goals? No. None. Zip.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Red’s just not strong enough in front of the net.”
I nod. We both love the guy, but it’s true.
“Coach’s stupid decisions are making us a worse team,” Cookie adds.
“That’s just not right.” I blow out a breath and glance around to make sure no one is in earshot of our discussion. “You’d think Mr. Julian sees that. How does Coach keep his job? Aren’t we supposed to focus on winning?”
“I know. I don’t get it.”
I shake my head. “Glad I’m not the only one feeling this way.”
“Nah, you’re not.”
The loss tonight feels shitty. As Cookie and I walk along 66th Street, I think about Lilly. Once again, I feel a visceral need to see her. She sent me her usual picture of Otis when she left him after his walk. Just seeing that text from her made me smile. I wish she was waiting for me in my apartment along with the mutt. But at least I have my dog. I’ll take him out for a walk and clear the frustration clouding my head.
Back out on the street with him, I consider walking to Lilly’s place. But I can’t keep doing that. I’ll see her tomorrow when I drop Otis off. We leave on a road trip to Montreal and Ottawa.
Instead, I text her when I get home. Thanks for the pic of Otis. See you tomorrow morning.
Yep!
Are you in bed?
Yes. Why?
I’m in my bed too.
I wait, then add another line. One of us is in the wrong place.
She replies:
Then she sends another message. Are you okay after the loss?
I’m pissed as hell. We could’ve done better.
I was afraid of that.
It’s okay. Your sexiness is distracting me from my anger.
You can’t even see me.
I’m thinking about you.
Oh yeah?
Yeah. If you could read my mind, you’d be having an orgasm.
Maybe I am having an orgasm…because I’ve been thinking about you.
Lilly…fuck.
I wish.
I groan. Maybe sexting was a bad idea.
* * *
—
I drop off Otis in the morning, on my way to the airport. Poor Otis. As usual he’s a roller coaster of emotions—overjoyed to see Lilly, then crying when I leave. I know he’ll be fine; Lilly keeps me very well informed about all his activities, including pooping. She even sends little video clips. If she does that for all her clients, she must be popular. She knows how hard it is for people to leave their dogs, I guess.
“We get back around one in the morning Sunday,” I tell her. “Is that too late to pick him up?”
“That’s way past my bedtime.”
She’s teasing me.
“Okay,” I say. “Here’s an idea. How about you stay over at my place Saturday night? I’ll try not to wake you up when I get home.”
Her eyes widen. “Um, really?”
I lean in closer until our noses are almost touching. “I mean, I could wake you up. If you wanted.”
I love the smile that curves her lips. “Well, normally I don’t like having my sleep interrupted, but I might make an exception for you. But maybe you’ll be tired after your trip.”
“Never too tired for you, babe.” I move that last inch and brush my mouth over hers. “Sleep in my bed.”
She swallows. “Okay.”
“Take care of the pooch.”
“I will. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
—
We squeak out a win in Ottawa, four–three, then move on to Montreal. This is a big game, not necessarily because of the standings, but because it’s Saturday night in Montreal, which is probably the craziest hockey city in the world, and which means hockey night in Canada and tons of media attention.
Which is perfect for one of my most humiliating hockey moments.
It’s late in the third period, and we’re down a goal and trying to tie it up. We’re going hard to the Montreal net, but they get the puck on a rebound and take it back. In front of our net, Jammer and I are trying to cover Montreal’s leading scorer, Grekov, when Jammer goes down, taking me with him. What the fuck?
I look down and see that my skate lace is caught in the guard on the back of Jammer’s skate. As I see this, as we’re both lying on the ice, Grekov is totally open and scoops up the puck, firing it past Gunner.
I close my eyes.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jammer curses. “What is happening?”