Page 5 of Never Pucking Ending

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Fairbanks, Connecticut is a quaint little city that makes Pittsburgh pale in comparison. With the area’s new NHL team, the Fairbanks Fireflies, it’s strengthened the local economy and boosted family-owned businesses. There’s even talk of a billion-dollar grant being awarded for expansion projects that would bring in more dining and shopping options for the fifteen-thousand people who live here.

While I haven’t been a resident of Fairbanks for long, I’ve grown fond of the beautiful historic downtown and the stunning scenery surrounding the residential areas. Unlike the city I called home for over ten years, this one has next to no litter or graffiti, and the street corners lack the homeless community I’d been used to stepping around whenever I’d leave our old complex.

The people here are kinder, and less rushed to go about their days. They’re more willing to have a conversation with you as you pass by their shops, rather than treat you like another customer bringing in revenue.

When Jesse told me he’d been offered a position on the Fireflies, I had no idea he was even considering leaving the Penguins. He loved that team and everything he’d accomplished with them as their captain. It wasn’t until he’d explained the details of the new contract that I saw the finality of his decision. It was short term with the option to sign on by a season-by-season basis. He’d made his mind up hoping I would understand, and I did.

I could see the exhaustion on his face, and realized I’d seen it for the past two seasons without truly acknowledging it. While I’d been busy trying to keep Belle’s Place afloat, Jesse had been the face of the Penguins and taking his team to the finals while helping me on the side. He’d had very little rest in between the two, and it was taking its toll. He’d been weighing the pros and cons of retiring and thought moving to a new team may be a good way to go out.

When I told him weeks after he’d officially signed on with the Fireflies that I was selling Belle’s Place, there’d been…tension. He wasn’t happy about me giving up my dream restaurant, no matter the reasoning.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises. “You don’t have to give anything up for me.”

The truth is, I wasn’t doing it for him. Not entirely, anyway. Sure, he’d played a part. But the end game was always for me and the future I wanted for myself. I wanted to be successful at something, the same way he was at hockey. Running a business that people raved about was equal to him winning a Stanley Cup.

Unfortunately, that sort of thing isn’t guaranteed to last. I accepted that Belle’s Place was at its end the same time he made career moves. We’ve always been in sync whether we mean to be or not.

We never broached the reason he seemed so upset by my choice to sell before we packed up our lives and left Pennsylvania for Connecticut. He had training camp to go to, a house to purchase, and I had movers to hire for not only my restaurant but also the new place. Eventually, he got over whatever bothered him as we settled into our new lives here.

My eyes go to the local realtor business card that I tucked in my purse before leaving for a short drive to clear my head. Except, my aimless adventure leads me parked in front of the same storefront with a sign in the window that I’ve driven by almost every day this week like it’ll magically disappear.

And when I see the kind older woman whose card I’ve been staring at for the past hour begin peeling the sign off, my heart drops. I’m out of my car before I realize what I’m doing, tapping on the locked door to gain her attention.

“Hi, dear,” she greets, her smile a little confused. “Is everything all right?”

I point toward the sign in her hands with urgency in my tone. “Did somebody sign the lease for this building?”

Her smile softens. “It isn’t signed quite yet, but it will be by the end of the week. We have a meeting on Saturday.”

Heart plummeting to the bottom of my stomach, I say the first thing that comes to mind without allowing myself to process it first. “I’ll give you more than them.”

The older woman, Rae I believe, blinks at me in surprise. “I’m not sure, dear. Things seem pretty cemented with the other party. I don’t like going back on my word.”

“But you don’t have a signature yet,” I point out, hopeful. “I’m good for the money. I just needed time to think.”

Except, I didn’t really think. But my gut is telling me that I shouldn’t let this go. I would regret it.

Rae thinks about it, rubbing her lips. “Tell you what,” she bargains. “I would love to sit down and chat with you and get to know you a little better. Get a feel of what you want to do with this place. Do you have time now?”

I don’t, but I’ll make time. “Yes.”

She holds up her finger and grabs her purse and phone before locking the door behind us. “I know the perfect spot. Follow me.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jesse

The voicemail I get right before practice fuels the pit of anger that’s always bubbling just under the surface and vying to get out. I’ve been able to keep a careful handle on it over the years, only releasing small amounts on the ice when it benefits me. There’s a reason why people call me the Silent Aggressor when I play, and it’s fitting.

I wish today was game day against one of our Eastern Conference competitors so I can really get it out of my system. I’ve learned one too many times that if I can’t slam someone into the boards or outskate a rival to steal the puck, the people in my personal life get an unpleasant version of me. Hockey is my outlet. It has been since I was thirteen and full of hormones that I didn’t know what to do with. It always will be, even all these years later.

The preteen version of myself who always wanted to go pro probably wouldn’t believe I’d be standing here at almost thirty-five. At the time, I’d been new to the school’s hockey team and being coached on the side by my father’s best friend who was a gold medal Olympian. Dennis played professional hockey for the NHL for two decades, winning the Stanley Cup three times, and a gold medal for Team USA in his prime. He knew what I wanted to accomplish and helped me work on my weaknesses so I could be a better player. Inevitably, it worked. I may not have been a first-round draft pick, but I was damn close. All that mattered was being chosen and proving myself, and dammit I fucking did.

I used to think everything would fall into place as soon as I had a name for myself. The money was good, the sponsorships poured in, and the fans sold out my jersey in the first week of the season no matter which team I played for. But none of that fame got rid of the feelings that simmered every single day inside of me.

It wasn’t just anger. If it were, at least it was easy to get rid of. Unfortunately, it was a cocktail of rawness that not even my own brain could quite sort out enough to solve. Some days I was pissed, some days I was numb, some days I was perfectly content.