We lost.
We fucking lost.
I’m still dazed as I trudge down the chute toward the locker rooms. The mood all around me is somber. Suffocating. Nobody is playing the blame game, though.
There’s no anger directed at Barkov, who tripped the Yale forward for no comprehensible reason—the guy didn’t even have the puck.
There’s no recrimination toward our defense, who inexplicably fell apart during that power play.
And there’s no accusation aimed my way, for not being able to stop that last shot from lighting the lamp.
But, inside…I blame myself.
I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve dived faster, extended my arm farther. I should’ve hurled my body on that damn puck and not let it get anywhere near the crease.
Numbness sets in. I’d been bummed my family didn’t make the trek from Cali to watch me play. Now I’m grateful they didn’t see me lose. Except on television. Along with a few million other people…
Damn.
Back in our hotel room, I find Terry sitting on the bed, clicker in hand. But the TV is off, and he’s watching a black screen.
“Um, Terry? You okay?”
He looks up fast. “Yeah. Just…” The sentence dies an early death.
The next several days are going to be just like this. I can see it now. We wanted so badly to be the ones who brought this title home to Rainier. It would have proved to our families and the college that all these years of sacrifice were worth it.
We proved nothing.
“It’s still the winningest season in thirty years,” Terry says slowly.
I flop onto my bed. “Is winningest a word?”
“Not if you’re us.” We both laugh. But his laugh ends on a sigh. “That was my last game, Canning. My very last one. I’m not an NHL recruit like you. Three months from now I’m wearing a suit and sitting at a desk.”
Shit. That’s really grim.
“For fifteen years I’ve been a hockey player. As of a half hour ago, I’m a junior associate in the investment banking division of Pine Trust Capital.”
Jesus. And now I’m hoping our hotel room windows aren’t the kind that open, because I’m half afraid he’s going to step out onto a ledge. Or else I will. “Dude, you need alcohol and a girl. Like, yesterday.”
His chuckle is dark. “My cousins are on the way over here to pick me up. There will be drinking and titty bars.”
“Thank Christ.” I roll over to study the pebbled hotel room ceiling. “You know, there’s a very real chance I never play a single NHL game. Third-string goalie? Detroit might as well make a bench to my ass’s exact measurements. If I’m lucky they’ll let me play backup to their farm-team goalie.”
“You’ll still have the jersey and the puck bunnies.” His phone rings and he swipes to answer. “Born ready,” he tells the caller. “I’ll be right down.” Then to me, “You coming with?”
Am I? I definitely need a drink. But at the moment, my back is plastered to the bedspread. “I’m not ready,” I admit. “Can I text you in an hour, see where you are?”
“Do it,” he says.
“Later,” I call out as the door clicks shut.
For a little while I just stew in my own misery. My parents call my phone, but I don’t pick up. They’ll be awesome, as always, but I don’t want to hear nice, encouraging words right now. I need to feel bad. Get drunk. Get off, maybe.
There’s a firm knock on the door and I haul my sorry ass up to answer it. Probably a teammate, ready to help me with the getting drunk part of tonight’s activities.
I yank the door open to find Holly standing there, her face smudged with orange and black paint, a bottle of tequila in one hand and limes in the other. “Surprise,” she says.
“Jesus, Holls.” I laugh. “You said you weren’t coming.”
“I lied.” She gives me a big grin.
I open the door wider. “You’ve never had better timing in your life.”
“Really?” she challenges, pushing past me. “Not even the time I got you off in the bathroom of the train right before our station stop?”
“Okay, maybe then.” I am so happy to see her it’s not even funny. Distraction is what I need, and that’s what Holly and I have always been to one another.
She gets down to business, cutting limes on the hotel table with a knife she’s pulled from her purse. Do I know how to pick my friends, or what?
“Glasses,” Holly orders over her shoulder.
I think I could go straight for the bottle tonight, but for her sake I look around, finding a pair of them on the console by the TV. I plunk ’em down and she’s pouring before I know it.
“Here.” She offers me a glass and raises another in the air. “To kicking ass and getting over our disappointments.” Her wide blue eyes study me, looking for something.
“That’s a good toast, pal,” I murmur. “Thank you.” When I touch my glass to hers, she grins like she’s won something tonight. That makes one of us.
“Bottoms up, hunk. Then I’m stripping you naked.”
I like the sound of that. The tequila slides down, and then I let her stick a lime in my mouth. We’re both chuckling and sucking down the sour citrus flavor. Then I give her a nudge onto the bed. I’d like to freaking unleash all my tensions on this smiling girl, but I take a deep breath. Holly is kind of a peanut and half the time I’m worried about crushing her.
My knees are on the bed now, and she’s scooting back, shucking off her shirt. My own shirt hits the floor before I lower myself over her body, taking care to hold most of my weight off of her. Except for my hips. Those sink decadently onto hers, and my dick wakes up and says, lookee what we have here.
Holly grabs my head and pulls me down for a kiss. I taste lime and tequila and willing, happy girl. “Mmm,” she moans. “I’ve been waiting all day for this.”
So was I, it’s just that I didn’t know it. My eyes slam shut and I sink down into her mouth and this beautiful place of forgetfulness. There’s no game and no goal just before the buzzer. There’s no disappointment. There’s only a sexy girl beneath me and some more shots to drink.
And a knock on the door.
“Fuck,” Holly and I grunt in unison.
“Canning!” a voice calls from the hallway.
Wes’s voice. The sound of it pulls me out of the moment.
“Do you have to?” Holly pants.
“I kind of do,” I whisper. “But only for a minute. I swear.”
“Fine,” she huffs, pushing on my chest. “But I’m pouring more tequila.”
“You are awesome,” I insist, reaching down to the floor for her shirt. I ignore mine in the interest of time. The second she’s covered, I cross the room and open the door.
“Hey,” I greet Wes.
I expect him to launch into a “tough luck” spiel. Wes is competitive as fuck but he’d never kick me when I was down. Oddly, though, he stays silent, blinking at me from the hallway. “Hey,” he echoes after a long pause. “I just…”
No more words are forthcoming. He takes in my half-dressed look, and the sight of my fuck buddy pouring tequila.
“That’s Holly,” I say quietly. “Holly, this is an old friend, Ryan Wesley.”
“Shot?” she offers from across the room. She’s flushed, and her hair is mussed.
I’m probably in the same state. But Holly doesn’t seem embarrassed, so I don’t worry. “Wes, you coming in?”
“No,” he says quickly, and the word sounds like a chip of stone falling onto a hard surface. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry we’re not facing off tomorrow.” He shoves his hands in his pockets in a rare display of humility. “Won’t be the same now.” The corners of his mouth turn up, but the smile doesn’t make it to his eyes.
“I know.” My voice is full of all the disappointment I’d been hoping to escape tonight. “Not like camp.”
“Loved that place,” Wes says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
“I still coach there, you know.” I’d meant to end this conversation already, so I have no idea why I add, “It isn’t the same without you.” It’s true, but this is already the most emotionally loaded day of my life, and I really don’t need more to think about.
“I’m going to head out,” Wes says, jerking a thumb toward the elevators. “You, ah, take care of yourself if I don’t see you tomorrow.” He takes a step backward.
That’s the moment when I really don’t know what to do. My team will head back to the west coast in the morning. We won’t stay for the final. I’m not sure Wes and I have more to say to each other right now. But is this really it? I feel a strong urge to add something—to delay his departure.
Except I’m beat and confused and so fucking spent. And he’s already turning away from me.
“Later,” I say gruffly.
He looks over his shoulder to raise one hand in a wave.
I stand there like an idiot a moment longer, and he turns the corner toward the elevator banks.
“Jamie,” Holly says softly. “Here’s your drink.”
Reluctantly, I shut the door. I cross the room, take the glass from her and pound it.
She slips the empty tumbler from my hand. “Now where were we?”
If I only knew.
