The puck drops in thirty minutes, and it’s all I can do to keep my shit together. My palms feel clammy as my pulse hums erratically. The sound echoes in my ears as I stand in this empty hallway.
Technically, I’m not the problem. It’s fucking Jake. I can’t stand watching him play Toronto. In years past, I just skipped those games. Pretending it’s not happening isn’t an option tonight, because now I’m his damn equipment manager. I have to be here. I have to do my job.
I’ve already arranged it with Jerry that he’s taking point on the bench tonight. I may have to be in the barn, but I can’t be down on that ice. No, I’ll be the runner tonight. I’ll just stay busy in the locker room and avoid looking at the TVs.
“Yo, Caleb! Need some black two-inch, man. Can you help me out?” The new guy Nate comes jogging over. He’s a good kid with a clear love of hockey, but he’s only just learning the ropes of a busy game day routine.
My knee twinges as I crouch down, digging in the box at my feet. Cursing, I snatch up a handful of black two-inch stick tape rolls, handing them off to Nate.
“Cool. Thanks, man.”
“Tell Jerry I’m coming up with the blade box in ten!” I call after him.
I step around the corner to where the blade sharpening machine sits alone. Flipping the switch, the machine whirrs to life. I put on my safety goggles and take a deep breath.
“Hey,” a voice calls behind me.
I jump, flipping the off switch and glancing over my shoulder. Rachel is standing there in her matching Rays uniform. She’s got her glasses on tonight, minimal makeup, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. I love to see that she’s over her aversion to wearing the septum ring. Now she pretty much never takes it off.
Glancing up and down the hallway, a mischievous smile on her face, she tips up on her toes and kisses me. Just a peck, quick like its a habit.
“What was that for?” I mutter, soaking in the feel of her closeness.
“Because I love you,” she replies. “Do I need another reason?”
I let out a breath, shaking my head. Her presence helps. Having her this close is calming me down. Damn it, I’m as bad as Jake. I’m within an inch of asking her for a damn hug.
“You about ready? Puck drops soon,” she says, still smiling. She doesn’t know anything is wrong. We haven’t told her. I don’t want her to know.
“Almost done,” I say, turning my attention to the blade box.
The pregame show has started, the pulsing beat of the music making the walls vibrate. I feel it in my chest, like the pounding of a hundred hammers against my bones.
“You benching tonight?” she says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“No,” I mutter. “You?”
“Yeah, Tyler just asked me to take point tonight. He’s dealing with Davidson and his possible broken finger.”
I set Morrow’s blade back in the box. “Davidson broke his finger? When—is Mars okay—”
“He’s fine,” she says quickly. “They’ve got Kelso changing now. Ilmari’s good. He’s in the zone. I usually just try to avoid him pregame,” she says with a shrug. “Honestly, I’m avoiding them both tonight. Jake is in a major mood. Did something happen?”
“Leave him alone,” I mutter, my attention focused back on the blades in my hand as I try to remember how to breathe. Fuck, she’s got those eyes and that face. She’ll press with questions. I can’t talk about this now.
“Why?” she says. “Cay, what’s wrong—”
“Drop it,” I say, cutting her off.
She balks, leaning away in surprise at my harsh words. “Caleb…”
“Look, he’s got bad blood with Toronto, okay? Just—the sooner this game is over, the better.”
She looks up at me, those dark eyes so open and honest. I don’t even realize her fingers are brushing down the tatted sleeve of my forearm. I have to shut her down, or she’ll tear me open.
“Do you need to talk about it?”
Fuck, I’m in love with this woman. She’s not pressing, not forcing. She’s asking. She’s offering me her hand. She’s making it my choice. She’s always giving me the choice to do more, take more, have more.
I shake my head. “Just leave it. Please—” I don’t even know what I’m pleading for.
Please go away. Please stay. Please hold me. Please make it stop hurting.
“What do you need from me?” she says. Again, with the support, the unquestioned loyalty. She’s shredding me without trying.
“Nothing. Look, I’ve gotta finish these,” I say, gesturing at the box.
“Okay.” She drops her hand away, stepping back. She’s giving me the space I’m clearly asking for but fuck if I don’t also want her to jump me like she did that first night we met. I want to feel her everywhere—her scent, her warmth, the soft silken texture of her hair. I want the essence of her to blot out the stain of this stressful night.
As she steps away, I call out for her. “Hey, Hurricane…”
She turns, glancing over her shoulder. “Hmm?”
“Wanna fuck like animals in the shower later?” I say, finding the will to give her the smile I know she originally came looking for.
She snorts, smiling back at me and damn it if it doesn’t make it a little easier for me to breathe. “I thought you’d never ask. See you around, Sanford.”
I nod, watching her go before I turn my attention back to the blade sharpener. Flipping the switch, it hums to life. The sound helps drown out the hammering of my heart in my chest.
An NHL game is sixty minutes. Three periods of twenty minutes each. With three pairs of D-men in constant rotation, that’s about twenty minutes of active play for Jake—more if he and J-Lo skate well tonight. Twenty minutes in sixty that he’ll be out on that ice. Twenty minutes in sixty, during which time my heart will cease to beat.
Twenty minutes…my own life was changed in just over seven.
