7. Nagging Thoughts

CHAPTER 7

NAGGING THOUGHTS

STORM

Nothing gets me harder than a perfect game like this. Almost nothing. It's the last minute of the third period and I'm looking at a shutout. I've stopped every puck the Vancouver Ice assholes shot my way, so I've earned this win.

With seconds to go, their center suddenly steals the puck from Beau and makes a break for my net. As a rookie, Scott Sanders, the Ice's hot shot, is supposed to be the next up and coming big deal, the one to watch, according to gossip around the league. He thinks he's got me beat, I can tell. But he's never played against me, and I'm not losing a shutout to a newbie.

He thinks he's clever. A deke left, a deke right, eyeing my five hole. He thinks it's my weakness; he doesn't know I've been training to fend off attacks like this. My thigh reflexes are killer now, and when he takes the shot, I squeeze my legs shut to block, catching the puck in my glove right at my groin. Thank fuck for all the pads I wear.

The buzzer sounds, and I should be celebrating my win, but the hotheaded young buck dares pass into my crease and shoves into me.

"That shit may have worked this time, but next time you won't be so lucky," he spouts off, trying to make his presence known to anyone watching. I don't doubt he'll be a star in hockey someday, but not today.

"There won't be a next time, asswipe." I give it back, my chest butting his, but he shoves me again. What the fuck? He's frustrated with his game play and takes it out on me.

Before I can retaliate, Big D is on him, beating him to the ice and giving him a welcome to the league party courtesy of the Puckers. I could have handled the guy in a fight, but everyone knows to protect the goalie no matter what. Big D or Saint often stand up for me when I need it.

The refs finally break up the fight, and we win. In the locker room, the decibel level gets loud as my teammates whoop it up, congratulating me for the shutout, practically kissing my glove. They talk about keeping good juju around my glove in the hopes of a winning season. Word spreads of a party to celebrate our victory. Yeah, I could let loose, I've earned it.

"Storm. My office. Now." Coach Daniels steps out of his office and calls my name, interrupting the celebration.

I know I did no wrong, but I pick up on his ominous tone.

"Yeah, Coach?" I take the seat across from him at his desk after he shuts the door.

"Don't get your hopes up, but…I just heard from The Vipers' management. They're thinking of making a change to their goalies soon. Their season hasn't started well, what with more losses than wins. They asked me about you. We went over your stats and style of play. They have a few goalies around the leagues they're considering, but you're on a very short list. I gave them my opinion, that they'd be fools if they didn't bring you up. This might be your chance, Storm."

"Holy shit. Seriously? Dude!" I rock two fists in the air like I just won a gold medal.

"Look, I normally wouldn't say anything at all to a player about this when it's not a sure thing, but you know, since I consider you a close friend and all. This isn't the time to slack off. Keep pushing yourself. And uh…"

My brows furrow at his hesitation. "What?"

"Well, this isn't anything new. We've talked about this before, but I feel it's important to say it again. You're a model goalie. Big, agile, able to stop the puck. Your aggression on the ice has come a long way since we first met. But, having said that, I think you need to ratchet it up a bit. Get even more aggressive. Maybe push a few guys out of your crease, chirp at them a little more. You're a nice dude, but to keep Coach McMichael's attention on you, get mean."

Fuck. This is the exact thing that's plagued my hockey career so far. I'm known as the nice guy off-ice. I care about my teammates and look out for everyone. On the ice, I do my job and do it well. Usually, if a fight brews, it's Big D, the enforcer on the team, who rushes out to defend me and fight my battles. Sometimes Saint does too.

"Make it interesting enough for Coach to realize you're the goalie his team needs, not one of the other players he's considering. It's time to claim what you want, Storm. No holds barred. Work on that, and I'll let you know if I hear anything more."

"Okay. Thanks, man. Er, Coach." Then I switch gears, back to friends. "I didn't see Phoebe and the kids at the game."

His phone rings. "Speaking of, this is her now." He pushes the call onto speaker and the screen lights up. "Hi honey. Don't say anything sexy, because Storm is here in the office with me."

She laughs and their kids babble in the background. "Oh, hold on, someone wants to say hi."

"Hi, Uncle Storm."

Coach points the screen at me where I see his little boy, Hunter, waving. I smile and wave back. Cute.

"Ready for your next lesson, little guy?" When we have family skate time after practice sometimes, I take him under my wing and teach him a thing or two about skating on his wee little hockey skates. He says he wants to be a goalie like me someday.

"Don't worry about me. I'm just your dad. You don't have to wave hi to me." Duke chides to the tune of Hunter's giggles.

"Hi, Daddy."

Duchess, their little girl, yells the greeting, too.

Yeah, we're that close of friends that his kids call me uncle. But I like to think I'm their favorite, even though they call Tucker, Beau, Big D, and Saint uncles too. I never put much thought into wanting children of my own. But lately, a change of heart might be coming over me. A spot on the pro team, a woman who I can call mine, little ones around us. That's the heart of life.

"Congrats on the game, guys. Wish we could have been there, but Duchess came down with a cold, and won't let me out of her sight," Phoebe says, the tiredness seeping through her voice. "And I need you two kiddos healthy so that mommy and daddy can leave you with Grandpa soon when we go sailing on a big boat for Uncle Tucker's wedding."

Phoebe's father is none other than Pete Tate, the owner of the Los Angeles Vipers. It was a big deal when she started dating Duke because that kind of consorting between a player and the owner's daughter is usually forbidden.

All hockey players know to stay away from daughters, sisters, wives, girlfriends, even the exes, and mothers—basically all females related in any way—to your teammates, coaches or the owner are off limits.

But with every rule, there's the exception. Duke has said once he saw Phoebe he knew he had to take a chance on the forbidden, even if it meant hurting his career. As things turned out, Mr. Tate eventually came around and accepted Duke, mostly because of the grandkids.

"I've been putting in long days. That weekend away will be a welcome break for me, even if it is to attend Tucker and Whitney's wedding." Coach whines. I want to tease him to suck it up; he's the coach now and doing the time.

"Aw, poor guy. I'll trade you. You come home and be the mommy to our sick girl and I'll coach the team."

"No thanks, sweetie. You're the best mother in the world. I could never take your place."

"I don't know. Might be nice to see a beautiful woman standing behind the bench barking orders for once," I tease him. Before his face turns any redder, I add. "Just kidding. Phoebe, we need Duke around here because with him at the helm, it's going to be a helluva season."

"Good to hear. You keep working hard on the ice for him, and I'll keep him fed and happy at home, deal?"

"Absolutely."

I stand and wave to Coach, then leave them be. Yeah, Tucker and Whitney's wedding should be a good time. Her brother, the super agent Brad who most of us use, demanded they wait at least a year before marrying. Whitney agreed, but only if he agreed she could have an intimate wedding with friends and not allow Brad to invite a bunch of his clients. Brad agreed, and he also spent a fortune on a luxury yacht for the weekend, taking us all out to sea for two days and one night, where Tucker will marry Whitney, the mother to his kid, Remy.

Tucker asked Coach to be his best man, and me as his groomsman. Beau, Big D, and Saint will all be there, too. His twin brothers are flying in from New York City for the wedding. As for Whitney, she and Brad only have each other, no other family, but Brad's partner will be there. The whole affair should be a good time.

When I return to the locker room, Big D is waiting for me.

"Well? What's the news?" He asks. Saint is there, too.

I tell them about the Vipers' interest in me.

Big D picks me straight up and we're almost about the same size, so it's probably like one huge tree picking up a tree trunk. "Yeah, buddy."

"We need to celebrate." Saint slaps my back when my feet touch the floor again.

"Rain check. I just want to go home and chill tonight."

"What? Come on." Saint never understands that I'm not like him having to party my life away when I'm not on the ice. He's got issues, something from his past, that keeps him running and keeps him from anything resembling commitment whatsoever.

"No, seriously. This could be it for me guys, the big time. My chance to prove I belong in the pros. I don't want to do anything that could jeopardize this opportunity like going out, getting drunk, and finding trouble."

They're disappointed, but too bad. I'm riding high on life, excited about my dream of playing in the pros coming true. Yeah, I heard Coach say not to get my hopes up, but too late, I do. This is everything I've ever wanted for myself since I strapped on my first pair of skates at age eight.

Looking to the future, I have a ten-year plan. If I can stay healthy enough to play that long, the money I'll make on my pro contracts could set me up for life. I never had much growing up. I'm not like Duke, who had years of playing with a pro contract and a Montana ranch in his family. Or Tucker, with a billionaire for a father and a steep inheritance. Or Beau coming from old family money. So if I can stash millions in the bank, invest plenty to watch it grow, I'll die a happy man.

The only thing better would be someone to share this with. And there's that nagging thought again. The idea of spending the night alone suddenly gets to me, which rarely happens.