Page 8 of Home for the Holidays
With a sigh, I admit, “She’s fucking gorgeous. And now she’s staying at my place until she gets back on her feet.”
“Or you get her on her back,” Pope snarks.
Flipping him off, I look to the rest of the guys in the room. “What do I do?”
“Well, don’t bring another girl back to your place. That’s asking for trouble,” McKittrick says. As the oldest on the team, he’s usually thought to be the dad of the group. Although, considering he’s fresh off a divorce, maybe he isn’t the best to ask for advice…
“Is there a reason you can’t ask her out?” Larsson asks. “If she says no—”
“If she says no, she’ll feel awkward in my apartment, and that’s the last thing I want.” I rub my eye. “I want it to be a safe place for her. I’m not in a hurry for her to leave.”
“How long has she been there?” MacGregor asks.
“She’s moving in today.”
He snorts. “Well, bro, you’re fucked.”
“Not the way I’d like to be.”
“Send her tickets to the game,” McKittrick says. “Invite her to the bar after. If she’s going to be your new roommate, let her all the way into your life.”
“I don’t want to scare her away, either, though.”
He shrugs. “Well, if you want a chance with her, you’ve got to show her what your life is really like. Don’t sugarcoat things. Be real, or don’t bother.”
With a hum, I turn over what he’s saying. It doesn’t make sense to pretend to be anyone else. Rachel is either going to like me or she won’t. But I don’t have a chance at anything with her if I don’t show her my real, true self.
“Thanks, dude,” I finally say, and McKittrick gives me a smug smile. “Not too shabby for an old guy.”
His smile falls. “Fuck off, asshole.”
With a laugh, I turn back to my locker stall and continue getting prepped for tonight. We still have a good deal of time before we have to be out there for pre-game skate.
Fishing my phone out of my bag, I pull up my text thread with Rachel. She hasn’t responded since she confirmed the access code worked earlier this morning.
Before I can overthink it, I send her two tickets to the players’ friends and family suite, then email Vanessa in the Logistics department to get her on the VIP list.
Here’s two tickets to tonight’s game, I message her. We’re all going out to the Pigeon after the game. No pressure if you’re not interested.
The little text bubble jumps as she types, then goes away. She types some more, then stops.
“Dude, relax,” Henry says. He’s the other half of our goaltending team. “You’re going to get worked up again.”
And we all know what that means, he doesn’t say.
Instead of shutting out all goals, I let every goal pass through me like a sieve, and then he gets called in to mind the net when it’s supposed to be his night off.
Goaltending is a mentally strenuous job. It’s a physical game, but the mental fortitude it takes to stay still while vulcanized rubber discs are aimed directly at your soft tissue at a hundred miles an hour—and to do it on purpose…
But I didn’t choose to be a goaltender, the goaltending life chose me. It makes me happy.
If I couldn’t be a goaltender, I’d be fine playing on a line with other guys. I could score goals. I could bulldoze anyone who tries to cross the blue line. But it wouldn’t be the same as standing guard over the net, the last remaining line of defense between my team and a loss.
Does it feel good when I let a shot past me? No, not really. I’ve had my fair share of losing games. After all, I’ve been playing hockey since I was four and in the net full-time since I was seven. The coaches used to try to get us to switch positions every few games, but from the get-go, I knew I wanted to tend goal, and they finally let me stay where I wanted.
It’s my happy place.
When the time comes for us to head out for warmups, I take the ice with all of my usual bravado. It’s time to focus. It’s time to get to work.
