Page 18 of Big Stick Energy
Darcy
I glance up, and my foolish heart does a stupid flip.Argh.In my defense, the human body is just not built to resist the sight of Eric Tremaine in a suit and tie, his hair still damp from the shower.
And he’s smiling at me.
Still, I keep my gaze cool. “Is there an issue?”
“Well, yeah. Hi.” He gives me a wave. “I’m the problem. It’s me.”
The corners of my mouth twitch involuntarily. “Did you just quote Taylor Swift?”
“She said it best.” He shrugs. “Here—this is a double capp with skim milk.” He hands me a cup.
I stare down at it. “That’s my coffee order.”
“I know. It’s a peace offering.”
Okay. Wow. I take a deep breath. “Thank you. That was kind.”
“It’s the least I could do.” He clears his throat. “Look, yesterdayI was a total asshole. The way I spoke to you was just plain wrong, and I’m very sorry.”
“Oh.” Something warm unfurls in my chest. Most guys on the team would rather take a puck to the face than admit they’d been wrong. Words—actual, vulnerable words—aren’t part of the playbook.
But here’s Eric, standing in front of me with genuine remorse, offering not just coffee but accountability. It’s so unexpected that I’m not even sure how to process it.
“I appreciate that,” I say finally, and I’m surprised to realize how much I mean it. “Most guys would’ve just pretended it never happened.”
“Most guys could do better, then.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’d rather face this head-on than spend the next month wondering if you’re secretly plotting to swap my hair gel with superglue.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s… actually not the worst idea.”
“See? This is why I can’t afford to be on your bad side. You’re too creative.”
I study him over the rim of my cup. The thing is, I’ve worked with athletes long enough to know that apologies like this don’t come naturally to them. They’re trained to forget their mistakes instantly, to never look back, to focus only on the next play. The fact that Eric is breaking that pattern feels significant in a way I can’t quite name.
“Well,” I say, feeling strangely off-balance, “consider yourself forgiven, Captain.”
“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m told that I tried to apologize last night, but I was in no shape. I had a lot of whiskey…”
I roll my eyes.
“I know, I know. You never should have had to deal with me anyway. Yesterday afternoon, when I saw you, I was having…” He gulps, then drops his voice to a whisper. “… A panic attack.”
Oh my God.Men.“Eric, people have them all the time. It’s not a character flaw.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m going to do better. I’ll have a chat with the team psychologist so I don’t end up snapping at anyone else or taking stupid penalties.”
“It’shockey, E-Train. Sometimes you take a penalty. But nobody thinks last night’s loss is all your fault.”
“Don’t they?” He rolls his neck. “I do.”
“Really? Even though that makes no sense? But since you brought it up, I’m more upset that I have to go to that wedding shower than I am about the game or about you snarling at me like a toddler yesterday.”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “God, tell me about it. Can you picture me dancing in front of people?”
“Actually, sure.” Hockey players usually have impressive rhythm. And all the women there will be drooling over him no matter what.
He shakes his head. “I’m not fun at parties. I can’t remember the last time I went out dancing. And making it into a contest is just weird. How does that even work? Wait—I’ll google it.” He pulls out his phone.
