14. Brett

Brett

The guys are still pissed at me. I can feel their anger at the fact that Devon is still on the sidelines emanating off them like steam. But, for some reason, it doesn't bother me. I'm here to focus, to lock in, and I do.

Every Friday, Coach rounds us up and forces us into the film room to review our opponents and figure out our game plans for how to take each of them down. In the session preparing for this game against the Maple Leafs, Coach called them our "biggest opponents of the season," and said we would be lucky if we didn't have our asses handed to us.

Now, it's the third period, and we're only down by a single point. I've scored two, Sammy has one, and the team is starting to warm to me again. It always helps to be talented, and to win them some points.

When I'm on the ice, it's like my entire world tightens to the rink, and nothing else exists. My vision tunnels, and I see the puck, the players, feel my skates against the ice. One coach I had called it "zoning" and said that I do it particularly well.

Except tonight, there's one thing that's breaking through the zoning, and it's the memory of that little baby in my arms, drinking from her bottle, looking up at me with big, tired eyes.

She was so small, so soft and trusting. She had no choice but to depend on me. Then, when Fallon woke up, and I was there, feeding the baby with the nurse's help, I felt the strangest, sudden surge of pride.

And that lingers with me now.

This feeling that by doing well tonight, that by keeping my eye on the puck and bringing it home, I'll be making my girls proud.

"Open!" I call, watching as Sammy sends a pass across the ice to me. I receive it smoothly, avoiding a Maple Leaf forward who comes for me, his stick moving lightning fast to try and take the puck.

But all those times drilling against Devon have paid off, and I keep it from him, my feet carrying me toward the goal. Their defenseman challenges me next, but I pull off a toe drag that makes the crowd gasp.

I'm in the high slot now, prime real estate. I wind up for a shot, but at the last second, I spot Sammy near the crease. Without hesitation, I send a saucer pass his way.

"Shoot!" I shout, but when he does, the goalie makes an impossible glove save, and the crowd lets out a disappointed sigh.

The puck heads down to the other side of the rink and I turn, skating back. Time is ticking away, and if we want to win, I need to get the puck back, make this possession short. I manage to lift one of the Maple Leaf's sticks just as he's about to receive a pass, and we regain possession.

"Nice backcheck!" Coach yells, as we hurtle back toward our end of the rink. It's a two-on-one rush. I stare down the defensemen, skating right toward him, urging him to commit to me. As soon as he does, buying that I'm going to take the shot myself, I slide the puck to Sammy, and he buries it in the top shelf.

The crowd goes insane , the noise levels rising to unbelievable heights as I slam into Sammy, and the rest of the team mobs us, laughing and holding up their sticks.

You'd think we'd just won the championship, with how we're acting—but I can feel it. With Devon out, before this game, it felt like this season was hanging in the balance.

Now, the guys grin at me, and even Devon gives me a little nod from his spot on the bench.

" Great fucking game, man," Sammy says, clapping me on the back as we skate off the ice together. The crowd is still roaring, and it makes my chest inflate with joy to think of all the fans in the stands who thought this season was practically finished—but who are now experiencing hope for what might come.

I can step up. I can be the player they need me to be.

After a moment, I realize I'm scanning the stands, looking for Fallon, but she isn't here. She doesn't even realize that I'm a professional athlete. As the guys continue hooting and talking about the game, all I can think about is how I'm going to tell her the truth.

***

Our next game isn't for another week, and Coach and Devon went home for the night, so it's just Sammy, me, and the rest of the guys. Which means the one-drink rule might have been forgotten three drinks ago.

The guys are still hyped about the game, talking about how clean our passes were there at the end and theorizing about our next game and how it's going to work out. I can't stop my mind from drifting off, thinking back to being with Fallon and her friends at the pizza place. I love being with the team, but something about being with Fallon is different.

It almost feels like home.

"Dude," someone says, breaking me out of my thoughts and coming to sit beside me. It's Sammy, and he's nursing the same beer he got when we first came in. He's one of the only guys on the team—other than Devon—that adheres to Coach's drinking rule. "What the hell happened to you?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, lifting my head and realizing the whole team is staring back at me.

"No offense, man," a defenseman says, "but you haven't exactly had your head on straight since the start of this season. After that little chandelier stunt, we thought this year was going down the drain. What the hell changed?"

One part of my brain knows that I'm drunk, and that it would be a really good idea to go home right about now, but the other part of my brain can't stop thinking about Fallon in her flapper dress and go-go boots and the slow, warm smile on her face as we slow danced together in the pizza place.

"I got married man," I say, laughing a bit.

"Yeah, right," Sammy snorts, chuckling as he takes another baby sip of his beer. "Seriously, what changed? What secret sauce are you on?"

"Seriously," I swear, hearing my words are slur. "I'm a married man! And I gotta make my family proud."

"Brett," the defenseman says, the slightest bit of seriousness creeping into his tone. "You're joking, right buddy?"

"No." I shake my head and take a long swig. "Listen—you guys gotta get married. It's amazing."

They all stare back at me, their eyes wide and mouths hanging open. If I was anyone else, they probably wouldn't believe it, but I'm me. So it makes sense that I would do something so impulsive.

"Pics or it didn't happen," Sammy finally says. Bolstered by this, and the chance to show off the pictures of Fallon, I fish around in my pocket for my phone and open the text chain with Fallon's friends that I'm now a part of.

I scroll through the latest texts—pictures of something Joey cooked this morning, pictures of the baby, Ainsley texting for everyone to stop blocking her in the driveway—until I get to the slew of pictures showing Fallon and I at the courthouse, at Byte-Sized.

Proudly, I turn the phone around and watch as the guys' mouths drop open. They swipe through the pictures. Sammy pulls back shaking his head and taking another tiny sip.

"Damn, Brett," he whistles, "well, she's gorgeous. I'll give you that much."

"Yeah," I say, turning the phone around so I can look at a picture of Fallon and I slow dancing. It makes something in my stomach flip over, and suddenly, I wish I was anywhere but in this bar. I want to be with her, even if she's just feeding the baby, even if she's just sleeping.

"Hopefully it works out," the defenseman says, his voice low. When my gaze snaps to his, anger licking through my chest, Sammy puts a hand on my arm.

"Whoa, probably time to take off, right?" he suggests firmly. "You don't want to leave your new bride waiting at home."

As Sammy pushes me through the door of the bar, I can't stop thinking about what that guy said. I know it's not going to work out—that's the whole point.

So why, all of a sudden, does that thought piss me off?