3. Hockey Heals All Wounds

3

HOCKEY HEALS ALL WOUNDS

brISTOL

I bodycheck one of my teammates into the boards for the second time this practice. I rarely tend to get physical at all during games—that’s what my defensive men are for. I’m a pacifist, alright? And I know how strange that sounds coming from someone who plays a violent sport like hockey, but I’m stressed as fuck today.

Practice is the last place I want to be right now, but I have an obligation to this team, and that means I can’t take mental health days and rot in my bed while I ruminate on the stupid mistakes I’ve made in the past. So, the only way I’m going to make it through an hour and a half pretending like everything is okay is if I funnel that disappointment into pureblooded rage. Does that sound healthy? Not at all. But having Hayes toss me pity looks is already bad enough.

The impact from the pile-up of bodies lances through my shoulder, making me grit my teeth so hard I taste iron, and my body crumples against the plexiglass from overexertion.

Hayes skates over to me—tailed by unimpressed shouts from Coach—and he gives me, you guessed it, a fucking pity look.

“Roughhousing is usually more my speed,” he jokes, gesturing to his extensive record of penalties that are probably long enough to wrap around at least half the perimeter of Riverside.

It’s true. He’s the hothead of the team, and he isn’t even a defenseman. He’s pretty much rabid when he steps onto the ice. Smushes hockey players like they’re sad roly-poly corpses stuck to the tires of a plastic dump truck. This is out of character for me. Like, intervention levels of out of character. And I’ve been a part of two interventions already. I am not going back there.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss, fighting the inferno pulsing through the left side of my body as I peel myself off the plexiglass.

“Look at you like what?”

“Like I need to be admitted to the loony bin.” Indignation laces my tone, almost as sweltering as the heat taking me for a nasty spin.

Hayes holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, your words. Not mine.”

A long, drawn-out groan leaks from my lips, and I make my way over to the bench with the last of the energy I can conjure, sitting down and shucking my gloves off in a very blatant display of frustration. This whole situation is fucked up. I thought I was going to make my modeling debut without any speed bumps, but here I am, trying to traverse the Mount Everest-sized one standing between me and a fortune-flooded season. And the girl still actively treading through my dreams has politely proposed that I quit to make things easier for the both of us.

How am I supposed to respond to that? I didn’t just take this job for shits and giggles. It’s a great job—a job that was offered to me because of my successful career. Not everyone gets this opportunity. And then you ask me to pick between my career and my girl…fuck, she isn’t even my girl anymore.

Either way, I’m screwed. If I refuse her “proposal,” I’m letting my team down. If I refuse to quit, I’m letting her down. I can’t let her down, okay? I’ve already let enough people down in my lifetime. It’s a lose-lose situation. I’m the bad guy in either scenario.

I remove my helmet, swipe the water bottle next to me, and spray a generous stream into my mouth before saying (unconvincingly), “I’m fine.”

Hayes props his chin on the butt of his stick, nodding. “Right. So I shouldn’t be concerned about you bulldozing into our teammates?”

“It’s a part of the game,” I grumble, taking the bottle and squirting it down my back, giving my muscles a much-needed coolant. Ice-cold rivulets roll down my spine, dousing the last dregs of the fire burning through my body, and leaving nothing but blackened kindling in its disastrous wake. I breathe deeply for what feels like the first time this entire practice, and when I’m not distracting myself with what’s arguably the least important thing in my life right now, I’m confronted with the ever-present ache in my chest that reminds me what is— Lila .

“Bri, I know you don’t want to hear this, but…” Hayes trails off, choosing his words carefully, all while his face is still adorned with that pitiful expression that makes my insides boil.

“I’m gonna quit,” I blurt out.

Hayes blinks slowly, mouth agape. He’s looking at me like the stupidest shit just came spewing out of my mouth in an exorcist-like word vomit. This is a rational, sensible decision. I’m going to abide by Lila’s request and do the right thing. Will this have repercussions that my team will have to suffer? Yes, but no ground will be lost. There’s no competition when it comes to Lila. Hell, the agency can choose some high-ranking F1 driver to go in my place. Jealousy be damned.

I know what Hayes is going to say—something along the lines of You’re being stupid right now. Don’t make decisions when you’re stupid . Or, my favorite, Get your head out of your ass before I have to come over there and dislodge it myself.

But while Hayes juggles with whatever he plans to say to change my mind, another voice interjects, uninvited and, frankly, from the last person I wanted involved in my mess. Kit skates over to us, sprays us in a flurry of ice shavings, and butts his way into the conversation like it’s our fault for having it without him.

“You’re not gonna quit,” he states resolutely, taking his helmet off and shaking his “tasteful” (his word, not mine) mullet back, pretty much flinging sweat everywhere like a wet dog. Yeah, I said mullet. I told him not to go through with it, but all he responded with was “Faye likes to have something to pull on at night,” complete with a disturbing growl that made me tingly in all the wrong ways.

His girlfriend, Faye—who just so happens to be Hayes’ little sister—gave birth a few months ago to a beautiful baby girl whom the whole team is obsessed with. Everything’s changed. For one, Kit’s moved out of the house to uphold his stay-at-home-dad duties, and two, he’s definitely got a bit of a dad bod going on, but don’t tell him I said that.

I’ve never been around a newborn before—single child and all—but baby Eda’s surprisingly well-behaved. Pretty quiet; only cries when she’s hungry, tired, or needs to shit; and doesn’t do much else besides that. Faye’s genes must’ve been the more dominant ones because their kid doesn’t have any of Kit’s infuriating traits…at least, not yet .

Speaking of infuriating traits, Kit excels in giving unwanted advice. I know he means well, but his solutions usually end in one of us behind bars, or one of us deeply regretting a mistake that was fueled by too much liquid courage and some highly agreeable yes men.

“What are you talking about?” I question, drawing my brows together. Hayes wears a matching look of confusion, and we just kind of stare at each other, unsure if it’s even wise to be entertaining any of this.

“You’re not quitting because you’re going to win her back,” Kit explains matter-of-factly.

“Huh?” I utter out loud, about a million different sirens flashing danger-red in my head.

Casen comes racing over to us, elbowing Kit and breaking out a suspiciously enthusiastic smile for someone I saw keel over from endurance drills half an hour ago. “Did you tell him the plan yet?” he asks.

I smear my hands down my face in exasperation. “You’re in on it too?”

“It was actually a group effort,” Gage chimes in, accompanied by Fulton, who was undoubtedly roped into this mess because— ahem —a few of the members of our group like to stir the pot.

They both take off their helmets, which means this ten-minute break is going to turn into a coach-unauthorized break that’ll more than likely end with us doing suicide drills on the ice.

“Of course this was your idea, Gage,” I groan, wishing I could disappear into the ground beneath me and exit this planet with the last remaining scraps of my chewed-up dignity. I can’t believe they ambushed me during practice. With nowhere to run! These shits planned it out.

“We’ve all collectively decided that it’s in your best interest to stick with the job,” Kit relays, encouraging everyone in the group to nod alongside him.

Maybe it’s because I’m running on four hours of sleep, but I erupt into maniacal laughter, the very end of my patience fraying into gossamer-thin strands. “When? When could you have possibly decided that? ”

Hayes holds his right arm up like he’s taking an invisible oath. “ I had no part in this.”

Kit sits down and offers a supportive hand on my shoulder, but there’s something that eclipses the pity in his ink-colored eyes, something that shines through a conglomeration of storm clouds—a silver lining, a sliver of faith wide enough to herald light. “Look, just hear us out, alright? Right now, your options aren’t looking that great. We just…we want to help you, Cap. And most importantly, you’d smack some sense into any of us if we got into this exact situation.”

I hate it when Kit’s right. I mean, I have nothing to lose if I listen to him. I’ve already lost the person who matters to me most.

“She doesn’t want me there.” I stare glossily at the concrete floor, so ashamed that I can barely look my own teammates in the eyes, and all that pent-up, self-directed anger comes flooding right back at me.

Lila probably feels ten times worse than I do. And I made her feel that way.

“Do you still care about her?” Gage inquires.

“Yeah, but I?—”

“Then don’t you think you owe it to yourself and her to fight for what you had? To try and win her back?”

I shake my head. “That’s not what she wants.”

Gage points his stick at me. “What do you want?”

What do I want? I want to be selfish and have Lila all to myself. I want to show her just how sorry I am, and I’ll work for the rest of my life to gain her forgiveness. I’ll work for the rest of my life to gain her trust again. I’ll do whatever it takes because losing Summit was painful enough, and I didn’t have a choice back then. But I have a choice now. I have a choice to hold on to Lila or let her go, and I’m tired of living my life with a heart half full .

When I ended things, I knew I did it out of fear. I knew I should’ve told Lila the truth about Summit. I’ve always wanted to fix things between us, but I was too…I was too much of a coward to take accountability for my mistakes. The minute I walked into that boardroom, I had a change of heart. Seeing her again, being near her, touching her, smelling her—it all brought back a past that I shouldn’t have run from. It brought back a past that healed me in ways I didn’t know was possible.

I got this job offer for a reason. She got this job offer for a reason. Call it fate or an invisible string or whatever you believe in, but the world’s given me a second chance when I’m the least deserving of it.

I card a hand through my sweat-slicked hair, letting the locks slip through my fingers, letting myself imagine an existence where a different life is promised. A life where it feels worth living again—where the sun’s warmer and food tastes better and everything’s perfect. “I want to fix things,” I say, the tiniest bud of hope blossoming inside me, waiting for the moment when it’ll be able to unfurl its petals.

That moment will come. Darkness won’t last forever.

A proud smile crests over Kit’s lips, highlighting the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. “You once told me that I needed to prove my feelings for someone that I love. And it was the best decision I ever made,” he tells me. “Now it’s your turn. Prove to her that you still care about her. Prove to her that you’re willing to work for her trust. Prove to her that you’re even willing to wait for her.”

I’ve always been pretty in tune with my emotions. I don’t always express them in the right ways (obviously), but I feel things a lot more deeply than most people. And shit, I’m gonna say it—that was the best piece of advice anyone’s ever given me. Okay, it was more like a regurgitation of my own advice, but still. And to think it came from Kit of all people. I really love my fucking teammates.

“You deserve a second chance,” Casen agrees, poking a hole in my reinforced defenses and letting the first trickles of regret pour out. “And if you need us to choreograph some elaborate flash mob or fill her apartment with a fuckton of flowers, then we’re gonna be here for you. Whatever you need.”

“Operation How You Get the Girl is now underway,” Hayes announces.

Fulton’s the first one to skate full speed into me, enveloping me in a huge bear hug that momentarily knocks the oxygen out of my lungs. I rear backward from the force, surprised, then I squeeze my arms around him, and I bask in knowing that I don’t have to do this alone. The rest of the guys jump in on the action, mumbling a bunch of sappy stuff that brings tears to my eyes.

“Can we call it Operation Bristol Gets His Groove Back? Ooh, how about Operation Cumming Out of a Dry Spell?” Gage winks at me, disrupting the sanctity of our giant kumbaya circle with his double entendre.

I deadpan my response. “No, Gage. We’re not calling it any of that.”