Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

JENSEN

I push through the locker room doors, feeling just as nervous as I did this morning. You'd think my body and mind would be used to this kind of pressure after multiple seasons in the NHL, and a Stanley Cup win, but I'm not.

I embrace feeling this way. It's what makes me feel alive and reminds me that I still have a passion for the game I fell in love with when my dad first took me to our local rink in Alberta.

The key is not to let the nerves overpower the adrenaline.

"Yo!" Jessie Callaghan, my best friend and crazy fast winger fist bumps me as I take a seat at the bench with him.

With the win in New York a couple of days ago and our home-ice advantage from the regular season, we get to play tonight's pivotal game in front of a Scorpions home crowd, and that's a huge deal in our bid for the cup.

"Hey, buddy. How you doing?" I dump my kit bag down and take a deep breath, centering myself.

"I'm good. Body feels good, head's good, and the crowd is already buzzing. We're on for the cup. I can feel it."

"Fucking right we are!" Jon, our center and captain, shouts from the opposite side of the locker room. He's sitting next to our assistant captain and defenseman, Zach Evans. Like true leaders, they're always the first to arrive and start prepping. Zach looks anxious, and I know it's a combination of factors, including the fact it's likely Jon's last game in his career, and after that, he will take the captaincy over. I'd love to be his assistant captain, but the NHL rules don't allow for goalies to have a captaincy role for practical purposes, so instead, the badge will go to Henderson, one of our experienced forwards.

One after the other, the boys begin to file into the dressing room, and an unusually heavy silence falls over the group. Normally, it's buzzing with life, but the entire team senses the occasion.

That's until Coach Burrows swings the door open. Game prep and clipboard in hand, he stands in the center and slowly casts his gaze at us all. "I don't need to stand here and say any more than what I've been saying all season and then again at morning skate. Tonight is historic."

He walks across to where our captain is sitting, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped before him. Jon looks emotional, and when Coach speaks, I hear that emotion echoing in his voice. "You're not just a group of incredibly talented men, you're also my men. I've worked with some of you for a few short months and with others for years. But let me tell you this: I've never met a finer man or player than this guy right here." Coach leans forward and claps Jon on the shoulder. "I've seen this guy in his best and worst moments. But nothing will prepare me for tonight when the final buzzer goes, and we close out on one of the finest careers I've ever witnessed."

Our captain draws in a deep breath to center himself and comes to a stand. "We will clinch the W tonight because we owe it to ourselves. Months of prep and, in some cases, years of working and playing together all come down to this—three twenty-minute periods where we leave it all out there on the ice. Nothing is spared, no one is left behind, and everyone puts in their maximum shift. We don't accept anything other than the W tonight, and we give our fans exactly what they deserve—a night to remember."

"Fucking right!" Jessie jumps to his feet and fists the air.

Coach Burrows nods slowly and walks towards the door. "I think that's all that needs to be said. But I will say this, I'm proud of each and every one of you. And tonight, I want to celebrate with you in the bar. Now crush ‘em!"

He leaves to a roar that reverberates off the walls.

And right here, the last of my nerves leaves my body to be replaced entirely by a thrumming need to secure my boys the shutout.

Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

This game is like no other. The Blades weren't going down without a fight, but neither were we. I'm not on for my shutout, having leaked two goals already, but as we reach the final few minutes in the third, we're a goal up, and the pressure crushes me as their center comes crashing down the ice.

There's no way Zach will catch up to him since he was left back at center ice.

Focus, Jensen.

It's effectively one-on-one, and if we concede now, we lose our slender three-two lead, opening the game right back up.

In reality, everything's happening so fast in front of me, but in my head, Robinson, the Blades' Center, is skating in slow motion. I've watched hours of game tape, examining his favored moves before he frequently sinks the puck.

He likes to go top left but tells you he's going right. I know his backhand might be his weaker side, but he likes to double-bluff goalies.

Not this time, though; he does exactly what I expected and whips the puck to the top left corner in a Crosby-like move. I'm ready, glove outstretched, prepared to catch it and put this turnover to an end along with their Stanley Cup dreams.

The puck rockets into my glove with a thud as the crowd explodes.

There's all of thirty seconds left on the clock, barely enough time to restart play let alone draw level.

Jon skates over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Fucking yes!"

"Never in doubt," I reply, my voice as shaky as my knees. I was in total doubt. But they don't need to know that. No one needs to know what goes on in my head.

That's a one-way ticket to doing time for thought crimes.

Speaking of. I turn to face my goal and reset myself for the final play, but I can't help looking up at our family box. Mom, Dad, and my sister, Hollie, are here. But that's not who I'm looking for; Hollie and my mom have black hair, not blonde.

Next to them is a brunette and a redhead, Felicity and Luna. But they're not her.

Jon said she'd be here. But I've yet to catch a glimpse. And I've been looking every goddamn minute.

The biggest game of your life, Jensen, and you're still obsessing over the woman who hates your guts.

Pathetic.

The game restarts, but it's all over as the home crowd counts down the final ten seconds of play.

Cup winners, again.

In true Seattle fashion, rubber fish rain down onto the ice, making it nearly impossible to skate anywhere. I've never seen this many before, and I've never heard the crowd so loud my eardrums vibrate with the intensity.

But I need to get to him.

To Jon.

Through the sea of players making their way to him, I watch as he crouches down at center ice and pulls off his left glove.

Bringing his fingertips to his lips, he kisses them and then touches the freezing surface. A place where he's stood for so many puck drops, a place where he's heard his name chanted over and over again. A place he's called home for so many years. He's a living hockey legend who's called time on an insane career that's seen good, great, and some really tough times.

I stop skating and pull off my helmet, swiping a quick glove under my eye. But this time, it's not sweat impeding my vision.

My teammates give him this moment to connect with his home, with the ice, to say thank you but also farewell to the NHL. It's Zach who makes the first move over to him, which only seems right.

Pushing my feet forward once more, I'm second to arrive on the scene as we form a tight circle on the ice. More of our teammates arrive, but not one word is said. There's plenty of time to scream and get wrecked later.

Right now, in this moment, we pay homage to one of the greats. To our great.

Skating in a circle slowly, it's Jon who finally speaks. "I need to get wrecked, boys, or else I'm going to lose my shit right here and now."

Laughter buzzes around the circle.

"Now you're talking my language," I say, breaking from my position opposite Jon and skating over. There's no way I can lift all six-foot-four and two hundred and thirty pounds, but I'm an idiot, so I try anyway.

"Fuck me, put him down before you slip a disc, you dickhead," Zach scolds.

I've barely lifted him an inch before I set him back down. But Jon doesn't seem to have noticed at all since he's fixated over my shoulder.

And I know exactly what's captured his attention. Felicity, the woman who he has insisted since they got engaged, is already his wife. Soon to be in only four weeks.

But where there's Felicity, there's blonde and…

Wait.

Jessie Callaghan's fucking jersey?!

"You have got to be kidding me," I rumble darkly.

"Say what?" Zach nudges my shoulder with this. A smug grin on his face when he sets his eyes on Luna.

"Nothing," I bite out.

The circle breaks apart entirely, and the boys skate to their respective partners and family members. Mom and Dad haven't made it down yet, so I'm left standing here, simmering in my rage.

Usually, she barely makes eye contact with me, but tonight, she looks me straight in the eyes when Jon bends down and she hugs him, resting her chin on his padded shoulder.

She's barely twenty feet away, so I don't miss the smug twitch to her lips when she watches me scan her top half, taking in number forty-four stamped on the right sleeve of her black and white Scorpions jersey.

No, scratch that. Not her jersey—Jessie's.

I could rip it from her in one motion and revel in how the material tears apart.

Her lips curve into a full-blown smirk, and I know my expression screams rage. I keep my skates planted where they are. If I move any closer, I will likely go through with my thoughts.

Call the thought police.

My princess is full of surprises tonight as she pulls away from Jon and confidently steps across the ice in her white Converse and tight as fuck blue jeans. Did she spray those on? They'd be hard work to peel dow?—

"Congratulations. Well played."

For the first time in weeks, even though we've spent time together as a group, she speaks directly to me. But her tone is as cold as the ice we're standing on, and her bright blue eyes are sharp as she folds her arms across her chest, looking up at me.

Her long blonde hair falls around her shoulders, and the tiny brown beauty spot sitting just below her left eye draws my attention, as it always does.

I wonder if it's make-up or natural. I wonder how much of Kate Monroe is real. She carries herself with confidence, but I've never been convinced she's as secure as she lets on.

There's an element of chaos beneath that perfectly put-together exterior.

"Thanks," I say, pulling off my gloves.

She scrunches her nose and looks me up and down with a tinge of disdain, her arms still crossed over her chest. "You smell terrible."

I lift an arm and smell my armpit before shrugging. "Healthy testosterone. No chick's ever complained before."

She scoffs. "They probably didn't get close enough to tell."

My six-three frame towers over her smaller stature, which is, at my best guess, five-eight. Add in my skates, and I have to really lean down to whisper, "Come a little closer and find out what all the fuss is about."

"Ha!" Uncrossing her arms, she reaches up and taps her palm on my right shoulder. Even through my jersey and pads, she brands me. It's the first time she's touched me since I can remember, maybe since that night in Riley's Bar. "Thanks, but I'm good."

I force a cocky smirk, my eyes still trained on hers. "First, you wear another man's jersey, and now you're flirting with me. Tom can't be happy."

Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "You can convince yourself of anything, can't you?"

I throw my head back and laugh. Fuck me, she's a handful.

"You didn't answer my question." I refocus, and surprisingly, she's still watching me when I return my eyes to hers.

"What exactly was your question?" she drawls.

"Tom. He can't be happy."

She pulls at the sleeve of her jersey and shrugs. "There's no flirting, and personally, I don't see what's wrong with wearing my favorite player's name."

Oh, you are something else.

"Lies."

"Unlikely, but don't sweat it for me, babe. I doubt he cares since we split."

I fight, with every ounce of goddamn will, to maintain an unaffected expression.

She's single.

I open my mouth to list off all the reasons why wearing a player's jersey speaks volumes and to ask her why the fuck I'm not her favorite Scorpion, but I'm interrupted by a gloved hand on my shoulder.

"So I've got a fan club after all." Jessie slides up next to me, jutting his chin at Kate. This guy is my best friend, but if he doesn't wipe that smug smile from his face in the next second, I'll remove it for him.

"All okay, Jensen?" Her sweet tone mocks me.

I won't let her have this.

Be a fucking swan, Jensen.

"Yeah," I retort. I'm thirty-two years old, but I'm not above acting thirteen. "Just thinking about tonight's celebrations since I was the designated party planner."

"I thought we were going to Riley's and then back to your place?" Jessie replies, sounding as confused as Kate looks.

I don't take my eyes off her when I reply, "Change of plans. Riley's and then onto Heat."

My dick might not respond to other women, but that doesn't mean I can't have a couple on my lap.

Game on, Princess.