The hometown crowd is on their feet, cheering wildly, Montreal players celebrating. I look over at Gunner, who had no chance on that goal, and he slams his stick against the goalpost. I don’t blame him.
Jammer and I are still tangled up and I have to loosen my lace from his skate to be able to stand up and skate to the bench. Jesus fuck.
I don’t play at all the remaining four minutes of the game. I can practically see the steam coming out of Coach’s ears. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack. I’m going to hell for thinking that, but it would take the attention off me. I know this is not going to go well.
And Jammer. He’s more of a target for Coach than I am. Fuck.
The horn sounds and we all trudge back to the dressing room. The mood is heavy and my gut is a mass of knots, waiting for what whooping Coach is about to deliver on our ass. I can handle it. It was an accident, a fluke, a one-in-a-million stupid thing to happen. He can blame us for it, but everyone knows it was just shitty luck.
As expected, Coach is irate and Jammer and I are in his focus. “What the fuck was that?” he yells. “You left their top scorer open right in front of our net!”
Jammer and I exchange glances. He doesn’t realize what exactly happened?
“It was a freak accident,” I start. “My—”
“Freak accident?” He glares at me. “It was fucking garbage defense!” His head swivels to direct his glower at Jammer. “What were you thinking?”
“Coach, my skate lace—” I try again.
“I’m talking!” he yells.
“Well, maybe you should listen!” I yell back. Immediately I know that was the wrong thing to do.
He hurls his clipboard at me.
I duck, even though it doesn’t come that close and it crashes off the wooden stall.
Silence thickens the air in the room.
Coach storms out and we all bow our heads, not wanting to look at each other. I’m not on the list to talk to the media, thank God, so I yank off my skates and my equipment, handing it over to Tommy, the equipment assistant. Then I hit the showers. I should cool down on the bike and stretch but I’m way too wound up to do that. I just want to get the fuck out of here.
The bus is waiting for us in the tunnel. We’re going straight to the airport from here. I find a seat at the back in the dark and slouch down in the seat. I can’t think—everything in my brain feels stuck. A giant band is tightening around my chest and I’m sweating even after my shower.
Gradually other guys board the bus. Normally there’d be a lot of noise—trash talk and laughter, even after a loss. But tonight, things are quiet.
Cookie slides into the seat across the aisle from me. “You okay?”
I give him a look, then slide my gaze back to the window. Outside, there’s lots of activity. The equipment guys are loading up the luggage compartment and various arena staff are running around.
“Talk later,” Cookie says.
I nod half-heartedly.
It takes a while for everyone to show up since there were a lot of media interviews scheduled for guys like Bergie, our captain, and Nate, Murph, and Gunner, who played outstandingly, even though we lost. I can only imagine the tirade Coach went on when they interviewed him.
With a reasonable man as coach, he’d watch the video of what happened and see it as the fluke it was, then shake his head, say “shit happens” and maybe even apologize to me. But I know that won’t happen.
Then we’re on the road to the airport. I avoid Coach while we go through the expedited customs process we have in place and board the plane, taking a seat at the back of the aircraft. Everyone seems to know to leave me alone. I guess I’m giving off a strong say-one-word-to-me-and-you-die vibe.
I haven’t even checked my phone, so I pull it out and see Lilly’s texts with pictures of Otis. These barely bring a smile to my face. I messaged her earlier today to make sure she was staying at my place tonight. Now I’m questioning if that’s a good idea. I’m in a fucking savage mood.
The flight’s about an hour and a half. With my duffel bag in tow, I go straight to my car—we leave them at the private terminal when we travel—and head home. I drive down the ramp into the parking garage beneath my building and take the elevator to my floor. I feel like a zombie, shut down and operating on autopilot.
Until I walk into my apartment.
I’m greeted by an ecstatic Otis throwing himself at me. And when I look up after giving him some love, I see Lilly standing in the door of my bedroom at the end of the short hall. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, a smile on her face as she watches us. I take in her attire—holy crap.
She’s wearing a nightshirt, the old-fashioned kind that buttons up the front, but only a few buttons are fastened. It hits the top of her thighs, but in the opening caused by her cocked hip I can glimpse a tiny pair of peach-colored panties that match the peach floral print of the shirt. Her long legs are bare, down to her polished toes.
Tension melts out of my muscles, only to be replaced with a new kind of tension as all my blood flows to my southern region. I slowly stand, Otis still bouncing around, and shed my overcoat, letting it fall to the floor. I walk toward her. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say simply.
Her face changes, softening, her eyes warming. She pushes away from the doorframe and takes a step toward me, opening her arms and I walk into them. I wrap her up in a tight hug, burying my face in her hair, and we stand like that for I don’t know how long.
Chapter 15
Lilly
I hold on to Easton, my arms around his waist. He’s so big and hard, so strong, yet I feel his suffering. I don’t know what happened after the game, and I’ve been hoping he’s okay, but now I know…he’s not.
If this is because of his coach, I am going to go to the arena or wherever they are tomorrow, find a hockey stick, and smack that asshole in the face.
I feel Easton’s harsh breathing against my hair, feel the vibrations of his body as he fights to control his emotions. His pain is an ache in my belly.
After a while, I draw back. I tip my head back to look at his face. “It’s okay,” I say, even though I don’t know that it is. “Come to bed.”
I lead him into his bedroom. I was already in bed, but I wasn’t asleep, I was reading. The lamp next to the bed shines softly, and I take hold of the knot of his tie and gently tug. I slide the silk fabric out from under his collar and toss it onto the chair, then start working the buttons of his dress shirt open. While I do that, he removes his suit jacket and toes off his shoes.