Page 50 of Game Misconduct

twenty

. . .

Nick

My blood hums through my veins, and it’s not all the game-time adrenaline keeping me buoyant. I’ve been on cloud nine ever since Bex and I shared dinner last week. We made it through an entire meal without sniping, even if the banter died down after she left to take Elsy’s call. She was back in a few minutes, though, and we even ordered dessert before calling it a night.

My game has never been better. I’m scoring goals left and right, my passes are crisp and clean, and my hits are harder than ever. That next night, I earned first star of the game honors, and the national broadcasters are talking about me—and not just criticizing me. Actually complimenting me. It’s wild. I never want this to stop.

During games, she’s high up in the booth with the video coaches, an eagle-eye concussion spotter. As glad as I am to have her on the road with us, I hope she never has to make those calls. That none of my teammates get injured.

Life doesn’t work like that. Hockey doesn’t work like that. Still, I can hope.

We’re home tonight, and Dr. Palmer should be the spotter, but Bex is on shift tonight. I overheard her say something to Vanessa about a migraine, and since my redhead joined us for the pregame meal, I’m guessing it wasn’t her needing to be shut in a dark room for a few hours.

In the intermission between periods two and three, Gonzo looks over at me with awe on his ruddy face. “You’re on fire tonight.”

We’re up three to one, and I’ve got a goal and an assist. I’m more than pulling my weight out there. If I had any doubt this signing is paying off, tonight would seal the deal. It shows on the stats board every night.

“Ate my Wheaties.”

He snorts. “Yeah, and it has nothing to do with⁠—”

I clear my throat. Glancing around the room, I confirm everyone is doing their own thing, but there’s no telling if or when Bex will come down from the stands to join us. So far, nobody else has clocked my obsession with her, and I’d like to keep it that way. Keep the team drama-free.

“All right. Fine. But you’re telling me everything later.” His teasing smirk tells me I’m not getting out of this.

Still, I can try. “What is this, middle school? I’m not telling you shit.” I grin at him to take the sting out of my harsh delivery.

He rolls his eyes. “I want to know everything.”

“I’m not gossiping.”

Not about this. Not about her.

“Who’s got the tea?” Sinclair shouts over the music. Heads swivel in our direction, clocking our teammate’s attention on me.

McKittrick, one of the assistant coaches, reaches over to turn down the stereo. He cocks an eyebrow, watching expectantly. He might pretend to be above us, but he’s just as hungry for the news as anyone else in this league. We played against each other for over a decade; he knows me. And he knows I don’t gossip.

“There’s no tea to spill,” I insist, with as much authority as I have. I’m older than most of these guys, some of them by close to fifteen years. They look up to me. Treat me with respect.

Moreover, they treat Bex with respect. I won’t let them make fun of her. She’s a professional, and she does her job well; she deserves to be shown courtesy. Not gossiped about.

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” Henry says. “You’ve always got the deets. Share ’em.”

“There’s really nothing.”

It’s not like my dream girl asked me to marry her. She was joking, of course. She doesn’t actually want to marry me, not when she can hardly stand to look at me. Besides, she has a boyfriend.

We spent about ninety minutes together without hostilities, and it went well—mainly because she was in her own head. I did my best to help distract her, but I could only do so much. Ever since that day in her office, I’ve been keeping a closer eye. I don’t want to crowd her, though.

Elsy isn’t wrong to be concerned. This version of Bex is a lot more fragile than I think either of us expected. The woman I remember was bold and brash. Confident. And now… she’s broken. A shell of herself.

Did I break her? If I did, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.

Coach Turner cuts into the thoughts swirling through my mind with his pump-up speech. It’s effective, riling up the team, but instead of hyping me up, I’m lower than low.

I’m distracted as I head back onto the ice. My legs feel like they’re skating through molasses, each stride more difficult than the one before.