6. Tyler

CHAPTER 6

TYLER

We're heading home from a bruising away game, and as the plane hurtles down the runway, I grip the armrests like they're the only thing keeping me from plummeting to my death. My stomach churns, a cocktail of post-loss misery and pre-flight jitters.

Those damn pucks slipping past me replay in my head on a sickening loop.

The plane lifts off with a shuddering jolt and I swallow hard. Flying and losing—my two least favorite things. What a banner day.

Suddenly, the seat beside me dips and DJ's woodsy cologne invades my nostrils. I glance over to find him grinning at me. My pulse kicks up a notch that has zero to do with the turbulence.

"Tough game, eh?" DJ bumps his knee against mine. The brief contact sends a shockwave straight to my groin. "Their offense was killer."

"More like I sucked," I mutter, jaw clenched. "Let in way too many."

DJ tsks. "Aw, don't be so hard on yourself, Ty. We win as a team, lose as a team, right? Besides..." He leans in, voice a low rumble. "I happen to know you're amazing at playing hard and fast. On the ice, of course."

A surprised laugh bursts out of me. Trust DJ to pull me out of my self-loathing with some well-timed innuendo. It's one of the things I lo—appreciate about him.

As a friend. A teammate. Because that's all we are.

I clear my throat, willing my body not to react to his proximity. "Of course. Thanks, man."

DJ studies me a beat longer, gaze drifting to my mouth, before he sits back with a smirk. "Anytime, babe. Anytime."

My breath hitches at how easily the endearment rolls off his tongue. I both crave it and curse it.

"We all had a rough game," DJ says, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily.

DJ starts rehashing a play he thinks he screwed up, and my fear of flying is momentarily forgotten. Realizing that his presence is pulling me out of my spiraling negative thoughts, he launches into a funny incident from the locker room and his body seems to angle towards mine unconsciously, our shoulders nearly touching.

I can't help but notice the spark between us, a terrifying, thrilling magnetic pull.

At one point, he throws his head back laughing at something I said and his hand lands on my thigh, squeezing gently. I tense for a millisecond before allowing myself to relax into it. There's nobody around to see, everyone's zonked out asleep...what's the harm in enjoying this closeness, just for a bit?

DJ's thumb rubs circles on my leg and I suppress a shiver. This is straying into dangerous territory but I can't bring myself to pull away.

Not when it feels this good, this right.

"Y'know, you're something else, Tyler Simmonds," DJ murmurs, holding my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. "Funny, humble, talented as hell...the whole package."

"Look who's talking," I shoot back, emboldened by the heated gleam in his eyes. "DJ Johnston, resident puck god. You've got half the women in Chicago ready to drop their panties for you."

"Only the women?" He arches an eyebrow. "Clearly I'm not trying hard enough."

My heart races at the implication of his words. Is DJ trying to tell me something, or is this just his typical flirtatious bullshit? And if he is trying to tell me something—if he is attracted to me, too—then what?

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can form any coherent words, the plane hits a patch of turbulence and DJ's hand instinctively tightens its grip on my thigh. My heart catches in my throat as we both brace ourselves for the sudden shaking.

As soon as the turbulence subsides, DJ pulls back slightly, his hand staying firmly planted on my thigh. But this time, it's different—more possessive, more intentional.

Our eyes lock for a moment and I see something raw in DJ's expression. It's as if we're both silently acknowledging the unspoken tension between us.

The sudden rattle of a flight attendant's cart passing down the aisle startles me and I flinch. DJ clocks my unease and smiles, leaning back into his seat and eyeing me with those deep brown eyes that always seem to see right through me.

"So yeah, about the game tonight," he starts, his tone casual. "I was thinking we need to adjust our strategy for next time."

My jaw clenches involuntarily. The loss is still raw, like an exposed nerve, and I can't help but wonder if what DJ means is that I need to adjust my strategy.

"Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?" I try to keep my tone light but there's an edge to it.

"Well, a couple things. Like, their forwards were getting past our D pretty easily." Read: they were scoring on you nonstop. "Maybe we need to tighten up the gaps, put more pressure on them in the neutral zone."

He says it lightly, but I can't help hearing it as pointed, a reminder of how incapable I am of defending the net if they let anyone near me.

"You saying it's my fault? That I let in too many goals?" My face gets hot, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

DJ's eyes widen. "What? No, man, that's not what I meant at all. The whole team needs to?—"

"Because it sure as hell sounded like it," I cut him off, straightening up abruptly in my seat. "Sorry I'm not fucking perfect like you, DJ. Sorry I can't just shrug off another goddamn loss and act like everything's fine."

"Ty, c'mon, I never said that. I'm not blaming you." DJ tentatively raises his hand, reaching out like he wants to touch me, but I jerk away.

"Right. Because nothing's ever your fault, is it? Must be nice, being so goddamn flawless."

I'm in his face now, blood pounding in my ears. I know I'm overreacting, I know he doesn't deserve this, but it's like a dam has burst inside me, all the fear and inadequacy and self-doubt pouring out.

DJ's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "You know what, screw you. I'm just trying to help the team. Sorry for giving a shit."

"I don't need your fucking help!" The words tear out of me, louder than I mean them to be. Raw, exposed, like an open wound. "I can handle it myself. I don't need you—or anyone else—telling me how to do my job."

We're both breathing hard, chests heaving, glaring at each other. My heart hammers against my ribs. I'm stripped bare under DJ's gaze, all my flaws and weaknesses laid out for him to see.

How did we get here? Minutes ago we were laughing together, the warmth of his body pressed against mine a sweet torture. Now it's like a chasm has split open between us, jagged and deep.

And I put it there.

I drag a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. "You know what, just…forget it. I can't do this right now."

I turn away, needing to put some distance between us before I say something else I regret.

Before I let him see how much he affects me.

"Fine. Be a dick then. See if I care." DJ's voice is rough, strained. Hurt. I flinch at the sound of it but I don't turn back, can't bear to see the look on his face. To see how much damage I've done.

I sink down in my seat, grabbing my headphones from my backpack and pulling them down over my ears, a clear signal that this conversation is over.

Fuck. How did I let my stupid insecurities ruin everything?

Because that's what this is really about, if I'm being honest with myself. It's not about the game, not really. It's about me and my fragile ego, so easily threatened by someone like DJ. Someone confident and secure in who he is, on and off the ice. Everything I wish I could be but I'm not.

Everything I…

No. I can't go there. Can't even let myself think it. With all the pressures of the team on my shoulders right now, I do not have the bandwidth for an identity crisis.

So I do what I always do—I bury it down deep, lock it away.

Pretend it's not there, eating away at me, hollowing me out bit by bit.

In the airport, I spot Sydney walking ahead of the players with Coach Emma, her long brown hair swaying as she walks. I jog to catch up with her. After we really got into it about my stress this season last week, Sydney told me she was always available to talk if I needed it.

And after everything that just went down, my mind is a tangled mess.

I need a distraction, something to get my head on straight. Maybe I've been reading into things too much, but I've felt a flicker of attraction from Sydney over the past few weeks. Right now, nothing sounds better than some alone time with a beautiful woman who just happens to be an incredibly easy person to talk to.

"Tyler, hi!" Sydney says as I pull up beside her, shooting me a warm and sweet smile.

"Hey, I was wondering if you might want to hang tonight?" Sydney's eyes grow large and I plow ahead. "I know it's a bit unorthodox since you're working with the guys, but technically I'm not your patient so...maybe it's okay to grab a drink?"

There's a pause and for a second I think she'll turn me down. But then?—

"You know what, I'd love to! It's been a hell of a week and I could use a chance to unwind. I need some time to head home and change my clothes though; meet you at Finnegan's at 9?"

"Perfect, it's a date. Well, not a date date but—" God I'm an idiot . I hope I'm not blushing.

"I know what you mean," she laughs. "See you then!"

I wave and then peel off to get a cab home.

Sydney has this way of making me so at ease, like she really gets me. It's refreshing. When I stop and think about it, I can't remember the last time I felt that way—like a woman saw me as me and not as NHL Player Tyler Simmonds.

And if I'm being totally honest, focusing on her helps keep my mind off a certain brown-eyed enforcer who shall remain nameless.

So tonight, it's all about forgetting that drama and enjoying the company of a gorgeous, intelligent woman who sees me for me.

The cozy booth is warm and intimate as I slide in across from Sydney. She gives me a small smile, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. There's an awkward beat of silence. We've only ever talked in her office before, with the barrier of counselor and client between us.

Now, in the low light of the bar, it's just the two of us.

I clear my throat. "So, uh, thanks for coming out with me tonight."

"Of course." Sydney leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. "I'm glad we could do this. Get to know each other in a more...casual setting."

Her voice is playful, flirtatious even. A flicker of interest crackles through me as we lock eyes. She really is gorgeous. And kind, and smart. Exactly the type of woman I would want to be with.

The type of woman who could help me forget about my inconvenient?—

I clear my throat, pushing thoughts of DJ out of my mind.

"Yeah, it's nice," I say. "To hang out. Outside of your office."

Jesus, I sound like a moron . I take a big gulp of my beer, hoping the alcohol will loosen my tongue. Sydney just smiles at me, patient and understanding, and my chest relaxes.

"So tell me about yourself, Tyler," she prompts gently. "I know the surface level stuff from our sessions. But I'd like to know more about what makes you tick."

I hesitate, not used to talking about myself. But something about Sydney's warm look compels me to let my guard down.

"Well, a lot of it is hockey," I admit. "Trying to live up to expectations. Especially my brother's."

"Your brother Steven, right? The one who used to play in the NHL?"

I nod. "Yeah. He was—is—amazing. Growing up, all I wanted was to be like him. To make him proud."

"That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself."

"I guess." I shrug. "But Steven...he demands a lot. He always has."

"In what way?" Sydney asks.

"Oh, you know...pushing me to train harder, skate faster. Yelling at me when I let in a goal." I try to keep my tone light, but some bitterness creeps in. "He didn't like it when I made mistakes. Still doesn't."

Sydney's brow furrows in concern. "That doesn't sound like he was a very supportive brother."

"Naw, it's fine," I say quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. "Steven's great. He just wants me to be the best. And I want that too. It's just...a lot sometimes. Trying to fill his skates."

"I can understand that," Sydney says quietly. "Feeling like you're not enough. Like you'll never measure up, no matter how hard you try."

There's a knowing look in her eyes, and somehow I get the impression that she has her own demons. Her own past hurts and insecurities.

"Yeah. Exactly." I take another sip of beer, emboldened by her understanding. "And with playoffs less than a sure thing this season...I don't know, Syd. I'm worried I'm going to choke. Let the team down. I'm the goalie—everything rests on me. If I don't play a fucking perfect game, it's over."

"That's an awful lot to carry on your shoulders alone," she murmurs. Her hand slides across the table, coming to rest lightly on my forearm. "I know we just met, Tyler...but I can already see how much heart you have. How much you care. The Blizzards are lucky to have you."

Her touch sends a tingle up my arm. I stare at her slender fingers against my skin, swallowing hard.

"I don't always feel so lucky," I mutter. "Especially lately, with everything that's been going on..."

I stop myself, realizing I'm veering into dangerous territory. I can't tell Sydney about DJ. If I say the words out loud, it makes them real.

And I'm not ready for that.

Sydney is watching me carefully, her expression soft and open. "It sounds like you're going through a lot right now. I know how hard it can be, to think you're fighting a battle alone. My ex, Paul...our relationship really did a number on my self-esteem. He always made me feel like I needed to be someone else to make him happy."

My heart clenches at the vulnerability in her voice. I turn my arm over, grasping her hand in mine.

"You are good enough, Syd," I tell her firmly. "You're more than enough. Fuck Paul for making you think otherwise."

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. "Thanks. I'm working on believing that."

She squeezes my fingers gently.

"The point is," she continues, "I understand how suffocating other people's expectations can be. Even well-meaning ones. At the end of the day, you have to be true to yourself, Tyler. Figure out what you want. What makes you happy."

"What if I don't know what that is?" The words slip out before I can stop them, laced with a raw desperation.

Sydney's thumb rubs soothingly over the back of my hand. "That's okay. You don't have to have all the answers right now. Just...be gentle with yourself. Let yourself feel whatever it is you're feeling. The rest will come in time."

I nod slowly, lost in thought.

My brain keeps circling back to DJ. The jolt of electricity I have when our eyes meet across the locker room. The way he calmed me down on the plane today—well, at least until I blew up in his face like an asshole....

I'm on the verge of blurting out my confused, inappropriate feelings when a wave of panic slams into me.

What the hell am I doing? I can't say any of this out loud. I'm on a goddamn date with a beautiful woman, for fuck's sake.

Bracing my elbows on the table, I shift closer to Sydney, fixing her with my most charming smile. "You've given me a lot to think about. But enough about me. I want to hear more about you, Syd. And not just the counselor side. The real you. Hopes, dreams, dirty little secrets...I'm all ears."

I layer my voice with innuendo, letting the implication hang in the air between us. Sydney arches an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face.

"Oh, I see how it is. You want to get to know the real me?"

"Absolutely," I murmur.

I'm finding that Sydney makes it easy to focus on her—the look she gives me sends heat racing straight to my groin.

"Also I should have said—you look stunning tonight, Sydney. That dress is...wow." My eyes flick down to the V of her neckline before meeting her gaze again.

"Thank you," Sydney smiles shyly, a pink blush creeping into her cheeks. "You look very handsome yourself."

I grin, and the excitement of the moment makes my head light. For the first time in a long time, I'm really connecting with someone. Flirting is natural, easy.

Not like my tortured angst about DJ.

As the evening progresses I find myself inventing excuses to touch Sydney—tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, offering my jacket when she shivers slightly in the air conditioning, letting my hands linger on her bare shoulders as I help her slip it on.

"Thank you," Sydney says quietly, her eyes meeting mine as she leans slightly towards me.

My thumb strokes over the soft skin at the nape of her neck and my breath catches. My body is reacting strongly to her nearness—my tight jeans, already constricting, become far too tight around my hardening length.

Inhaling the subtle floral scent of her perfume, I have the sudden urge to trail my lips along the graceful column of her throat.

To skim my hands lower, over her curves...

Stop it , I chastise myself. This is Sydney. The Blizzards' counselor . I need to keep things in check, take it slow—if there's any chance of something happening between us, we'd have to be careful about it. But damn if she doesn't look incredible in that clingy dress, her full breasts straining against the fabric...

I clear my throat, leaning back in my seat. "Another drink?" I signal the waitress.

"I'd love one." Sydney smiles up at me through her lashes. She looks flushed, and there's an inviting gleam in her eyes.

Fuck . I fidget in my seat, trying to will down my growing erection. Suddenly all I can think about is getting my hands on her luscious body, tasting her.

Making her cry out my name in ecstasy.

My fingers tremble with the overwhelming desire to touch her. To pull her into my lap and lose himself in her intoxicating presence. As the waitress sets down our next round of drinks, I wonder…

Will I be strong enough to stop myself?