Page 9 of Knocked Sideways

He pushed himself off the bench with more force than usual and headed out to the ice without looking in Remy’s direction again.

Practice went by quickly. As usual, Jed took a little extra time with the goaltending coach before exiting the rink. Also as usual, Hal was still standing by the bench talking with Coach when Jed finally stepped off the ice, and he joined Jed to walk back to the locker room.

Hal liked to have regular chats with what he called his “executive leadership team,” which he’d roped Jed into from the very beginning. Despite their apparent personality mismatch—Hal the literal golden boy, beloved by all, and Jed the mostly silent veteran who some of the rookies seemed genuinely afraid of—they had hit it off immediately when Jed joined the team.

“So what do you think about Lads?” Hal asked. “Seems like he’s going to fit in, eh? Might just take a bit.”

“Yeah.” Jed glanced sideways at his friend. Hal’s voice was teasing.

“A little intimidated by you, though, huh?” Hal grinned at him.

Jed rolled his eyes.

“Also, I can’t help but notice,” Hal continued, still grinning, “that Lads is objectively rather good-looking. What do you think?”

“Objectively?” Jed asked.

“Yeah.”

“Objectively, I think that you should fuck off.”

Hal laughed and gave Jed a look that said that was the wrong response—that Hal somehow understood exactly how much space Remy was taking up in Jed’s head right now.

“I only wanted to say, be careful with him, okay?” Hal paused outside the locker room.

“What do you mean?” Jed frowned. He’d made exactly one brief attempt at dating in Colorado, and Hal knew it. Hal had no reason to think Jed would ever get involved with someone on the team. “You know I don’t⁠—”

“I know. I mean be careful with him thinking you’re some kind of hockey god. He needs to know that he belongs here now, that you two are on the same level. Take him out to lunch or something so that he can get over it.”

“Maybe,” grumbled Jed as they entered the locker room. He was a fucking veteran NHL player whose entire life was made of discipline and self-control, and yet spending one-on-one time with Remy felt like it might test him.

He needed to not feel this way, immediately.

“Don’t let it linger,” Hal said more firmly. “Do it soon. Otherwise it will get weird.”

“Okay, I hear you, Cap.” Jed gave Hal a look that he hoped conveyed how unnecessary his concern was. “Now, leave me alone.”

As Jed had predicted, the game the next day—Remy’s first with the Blizzards—was rough. Half the team played like they were still hungover. Luckily for the Blizzards, Winnipeg didn’t play any better, and Jed didn’t have much to do in the first two periods. The Blizzards’ defense was just effective enough to keep him from getting a workout.

That left Jed with time to watch Remy—which, after all, was more or less part of his job. From what Jed could see, Remy had good instincts, but his positioning was off, maybe because he was still adjusting to playing with a new partner. Like most of their teammates, he was also a little sluggish, although Jed knew that in Remy’s case, it was due to exhaustion, altitude, and nerves.

The game went downhill in the third period. Winnipeg found some energy and got one by Jed on a power play. Dorsey scored one for the Blizzards to even it up, and for a few minutes, it looked like they were heading into overtime. But then Remy ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time on a Winnipeg breakaway, hemmed in by one of Winnipeg’s forwards and unable to get out of the way of a rebound that deflected off his skate and slipped by Jed into the goal.

It was the type of unlucky play that could have happened to anyone. Remy seemed to take it personally, though, because he’d flushed bright red, muttered, “My fault, I’m sorry,” and then refused to look in Jed’s direction for the rest of the game.

Jed probably shouldn’t have known that, because it definitely wasn’t part of his job to watch Remy sit on the bench, but he couldn’t help himself.

Remy, flushed and tousled, was a beautiful sight.

Get a fucking grip, Jed instructed himself as the game ended and the Blizzards filed off the ice. He’d let himself get distracted. And while he hadn’t cost the Blizzards the game that night, if he split his attention like that again, it was only a matter of time until he did.

When Jed got to his stall, he found Remy sitting there in full gear, elbows on his knees and fingers threaded through his sweaty, tangled hair, staring at the carpet like his life depended on it. He didn’t move as Jed tucked his mask up on the shelf, but he flinched when Jed dropped down on the bench beside him.

“Sorry again,” Remy muttered, just loud enough for Jed to make out the words. “I’m not usually that sloppy.”

Jed started unbuckling his pads, left leg first like always, wondering whether it would be better or worse for him to say something back. He was saved by Moreau coming back from the bikes.

“Lads, no, you gotta stop. When we lose, it’s $100 for talking to Monty before he’s got his gear off. And it’s $500 if he feels like he has to answer.”