is one of my favorite things in the world.
Following it with dirty shower sex is even better. Well, except for the part where we ran out of hot water and had to get clean afterwards beneath an arctic blast. Nash is used to cold water because he takes ice baths for recovery. Me, not so much. I’ve dried off and gotten dressed, and my teeth are still chattering. He even turned up the thermostat a couple of degrees to help warm me.
“Let me help you with breakfast,” I insist, squeezing the moisture out of my hair with a towel.
“Nope.” He sets down a steaming mug of coffee with cream and sugar for me on his desk, smacking my butt on his way by. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
When I come downstairs after blow drying my hair, Nash shoos me into the living room with my coffee and my book, plus one furry little companion who seems to think he should be the focus of my attention and not my novel. I curl up on the couch with a blanket, stroking Biscuit’s head while I lose myself in the pages.
It’s a picture-perfect morning. But when Nash tells me breakfast is ready a few chapters later, I can’t help but notice he seems a little quiet while I’m fixing my plate.
I ease into my chair, pulling it closer to the table, and nudge him with my bare foot. “Are you okay?”
“Not looking forward to tonight,” he confesses, setting down a plate piled with a mountain of food next to me. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, strawberries, and blueberries. Enough to feed at least three regular people. “I hate playing MSU. They’re such shady assholes.”
It’s the last game before the guys get several days off to prepare for the Ice Cup tournament. It’s also the third time we’ve faced MSU this season, and games against them are always contentious. Suddenly, I remember the verbal altercation he got into when I was on the bench the last time we played against them. It nearly escalated into a full-blown fight, and Nash never told me why.
I swallow a bite of my pancake. “What was the deal last game, anyway? Why did that guy from MSU try to fight you?”
Let’s be real, Nash isn’t exactly well-liked among the other teams in general, but this one in particular appears to be nurturing a serious grudge against him.
“Eriksen?” He leans back in his chair, scrubbing a hand across his jaw. “It’s a long story.”
Why is he dodging the question? Usually, Nash is more than happy to share hockey stories with me, both the good and the bad.
“I have time. And I’m curious.”
Nash avoids meeting my eyes, inhaling slowly, and exhaling even slower. He pushes his cut-up pancake around his plate with his fork. “Over the summer, I slept with his ex. Or his girlfriend. Or something. I don’t really know what she was to him at the time. I didn’t even know who she was, but he’s been pissed about it ever since.”
“Oof.” Part of me wishes I hadn’t asked, but too late now.
Worry crosses his face. “I was going to make up another explanation to tell you that didn’t make me look so bad, but I didn’t want to lie.”
“No, I’d rather have the truth.” I squeeze his hand from across the table. “Besides, it’s not like you slept with her after we started talking again. That’d be a different story.”
“You know I’d never do that. Still didn’t think you’d like hearing about it, though.”
I don’t love it, but what can you do? We both have pasts, and our relationship right now is what matters. Plus, Nash has always had a one-track mind when it comes to me. His fidelity was never something I’ve questioned, and I love that about him.
“So now Eriksen has it out for you on the ice?”
“Big time,” he says, biting into a piece of bacon. “Which would be fine if he wasn’t such a cheap motherfucker. He’s always pulling sneaky shit and getting away with it.”
“I saw him slash you during the last game, and the refs didn’t even call it.” Though the brutal hit Nash leveled against Eriksen shortly after that was probably punishment enough.
“They seem to look the other way with certain players.” He gives me a wry smile. “I’m not one of them, obviously.”
Footsteps thunder down the stairs. Connor strolls into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of bright blue athletic shorts with his broad, toned torso on display. It’s barely above freezing outside, and the house isn’t overly warm, but Nash tells me this is their compromise between him walking around naked. And for that, I am relieved.
Connor gives us a nod and pats Biscuit’s head on his way to the stove, snagging a piece of bacon from the pan. “Yo, Bitty.” He tosses Biscuit a scrap, which he catches mid-air.
“No more, Haas,” Nash warns him. “Vet said he can’t have too much people food.”
“He can work it off later when I take him to the dog park.” Connor winks at us, turning away to throw some bread into the toaster.
“Bitty? Dog park?” I mouth to Nash. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes, which I interpret to mean, “long story.”
Connor saunters out of earshot, clutching a bacon sandwich and a glass of orange juice. I scoot closer to Nash, lowering my voice. “Okay, you have to fill me in. I thought Connor wasn’t a fan of Bitty. Er, Biscuit.”
“Remember how I said Connor was pissed because Biscuit kept eating his shoes? Once Connor finally mastered the preschool-level skill of putting away his shit, that improved. Then, Vaughn managed to talk him into taking Biscuit for a walk with him one day. When Connor realized how easy it was to strike up conversations with other dog owners—including attractive dog owners—he became an overnight fan.”
My jaw drops. “He’s using my sweet, innocent puppy to pick up women.”
“Pretty much.” Nash shrugs. “But whatever keeps the peace around the house. Plus, Biscuit needs the exercise.”
***
The athletic training interns are required to arrive early for games, albeit not as early as the team. When I pull into the parking lot an hour before puck drop, it’s already swamped. Due to the close geographic proximity and the intensity of the rivalry, games against MSU attract a lot of spectators supporting the away team. Allegedly, there are even fights in the stands from time to time.
While warm-up goes according to plan, something about what Nash said this morning has put me on edge, and I’m oddly nervous as Vaughn skates over to center ice for the first faceoff. Our team comes out strong, but so does MSU. As much as I hate to admit it, we’re pretty evenly matched.
Like always, the game is heated. Thanks to a defensive error on our part, MSU scores a goal three minutes in. Nash is on the bench when it happens, and he lets out a string of curses, slamming the butt end of his hockey stick into the ground. Irritation etches into his features, and he leans in to say something to Vaughn while the play continues. Giving up a goal so early sets a dangerous tone for the rest of the game
We manage to tie up the score with one minute left in the first, thanks to a slapshot by Connor, with assists from Marcus and Vaughn. But we lose two valuable players to injury during the second, and the loss of depth on our bench means the remaining players have to put in even more ice time. By the end of the second, Nash is clearly exhausted. All of them are.
It’s a nerve-wracking match heading into the third period tied, one that could go either way at any moment. Penalties fly on both sides—some called, others not—with physical gameplay, and a rowdy arena filled with screaming fans. Both teams are playing an aggressive offense strategy, and both goalies are practically standing on their heads to save the puck.
The clock runs out with the score still tied one-one, sending the game into sudden death overtime. From the other end of the bench, Coach Ward watches like a hawk, his posture stiff. All the players are dead on their feet from working at full tilt for over sixty minutes and counting.
MSU’s shot pings off the crossbar, sailing wide across our zone. Eriksen takes possession and apprehension grips me as Nash speeds for him, preparing to issue a check. While I love watching him play, I always worry about him taking and delivering hits because of the impact. Especially when he’s tired like he is right now and more prone to potentially making an error.
He closes the distance before Eriksen can maneuver out of the way, crashing into him with a perfect, clean hit. The puck goes loose, sailing across the blue line. Vaughn pivots, beating everyone else to it, rocketing down to their end on a breakaway. Shouts and applause erupt throughout the arena, spectators on their feet. Everyone is focused on the scoring opportunity that could determine the outcome of the entire game, but I’m still watching Nash, like I always do.
Nash pivots to rejoin the play, and Eriksen jams his stick between Nash’s skates, sending him off-balance with his next stride. I gasp, and my hand flies to my mouth. Icy fear grips me as he staggers, his arms flailing. Please don’t fall. He tries to regain his footing, and his large body smashes into the boards before crashing to the ice.
Nausea barrels into me, and my belly cramps with fear.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
He stays face down, and his gloved hand slides up to grip his helmet. Moving is a positive sign, but I need him to get up.
Down on the other end, the Grizzlies cycle the puck while MSU tries to fend them off. Ear-splitting yells and whistles rattle the rink. I step around one of the players on the bench to get a better view.
Get up.
Acid climbs the back of my throat as I hold my breath, watching. Nash pushes to standing, and his next few strides are unsteady. With a shaky exhale, I scan the bench, checking for Christina or Coach Ward’s reaction, but nether noticed. Julianna or Preston didn’t, either. They’re all too wrapped up in cheering for the game-winning goal Vaughn just scored.
The buzzer sounds, marking the end of the game.
LSU won.
And no one else knows Nash got hurt.
