Page 99 of Tough Call

We’d wound ourselves into knots about the worst-case scenarios, but we’d landed on our feet. The League—despite its best efforts, I had no doubt—couldn’t actually find a reason to fire me or prevent Madars from signing. Vancouver cared more about his talent than his love life. When the next regular season started, we’d have to be apart more often than not, but we’d still be together. We’d still have our careers.

Madars would still have a second chance in the North American League.

“I can’t believe it worked out,” he finally whispered.

“Neither can I,” I murmured against his neck. “And you don’t have to give up your contract.”

“And we can live on the same continent.” He squeezed my tighter and kissed beneath my ear. “We’ll still have to do the long-distance thing, but we won’t be as far apart.”

I closed my eyes and pushed out a long breath. He was right.

In the end, he hadn’t had to give up his PTO to be with me, but I wouldn’t forget that he’d been willing to. That he’d looked at what we had and decided it was worth making sacrifices. Huge sacrifices.

I would never forget that.

And I fully intended to spend the rest of my life doing everything I could to be the man who was worth the sacrifices he’d been willing to make.

EPILOGUE

MADARS

One hockey season later

“Shoot! Shoot!” the crowd bellowed all around me. On the ice before us, Edmonton had a power play, and they were cycling the puck to wear down New York’s penalty kill. Everyone was on the edge of their seats, myself included, shouting at the players to shoot, shoot, shoot the fucking puck already.

A New York player lunged, trying to block a pass, in the same moment an Edmonton player reached for the puck. The Edmonton player’s stick tangled in the other guy’s skate, and the New York player went down.

Before he even hit the ice, a whistle blew. The shouts to “shoot!” turned into deafening booing.

Unbothered, Connor leaned down and made a gesture across his own shin—tripping.

A moment later, with the culprit in the box, Connor turned on his headset so the whole arena could hear his voice.

“Edmonton, number thirty-six. Two-minute minor for tripping.” He repeated the across-the-shin gesture.

The New York fans in the crowd roared their approval while the Edmonton fans—the majority here tonight—booed even louder.

I wasn’t particularly invested in either team, but I was hoping Edmonton pulled it off. Why? Because tonight was game six of the Cup finals. Edmonton had a chance to win it tonight. New York had a chance to force a game seven. The sooner this goddamned series ended, the sooner Connor and I could be together without interruption.

Though I was still disappointed that I wasn’t playing in the finals myself, I was here, loving the energy of the game and letting that motivate me to win next season.

So, I was cheering for Edmonton tonight. It didn’t hurt that I hated New York (fucking dirty players and dickhead coaches), and Edmonton was on the verge of completing one hell of a comeback season. They’d lost a goalie to a career-ending injury two weeks into the season. Three of their top six forwards were injured before the playoffs. Both of their top defensemen were here but pushing through injuries that would probably take the entire off season to rehab. The team had started the season as a toilet bowl team, losing their first eight games in a row. At Thanksgiving, they were seventh out of eight in the division, with most analysts saying they didn’t have a prayer of so much as a wild card spot.

Three fired coaches, four major trades, and one massive push later, they’d finished second in the division, mowed over every team they went up against in the conference, and wound up here.

If they won tonight, it was all over, and their story would become legendary.

If not… Well, then there’d be one more game.

For Edmonton, for New York… and for the on-ice officials.

Including Connor.

I wanted our off season to start, and I wanted it to start tonight. I needed my man. I needed the summer we’d planned—a couple of months in Spain, followed by a couple of weeks with each of our families in Canada. I needed all that to start now, damn it.

The long-distance thing was hard, but it was easier when we were on the same continent. Though it took some work, we managed to see each other between games. Like a few months ago when he was officiating a game on Long Island the night before I played in New York. As soon his game was over, we’d met up in his hotel. There hadn’t been anything physical—he was exhausted and I’d been banged up from a game two nights earlier—but we got to spend time together. Later, when he was officiating in Pittsburgh two nights after I played there, he flew in early, and I got permission to fly back to Vancouver on my own instead of with my team.

No, it wasn’t easy, and no, it wasn’t nearly enough time. And yes, there were moments when the separation got to me or when I was afraid he’d say enough was enough.