59. Darcy

CHAPTER 59

DARCY

"Shit," I whisper as the other team scores yet another goal.

The game is a disaster, and none of the data we've provided is helping.

Their defenseman slams Hayden into the boards hard, and I'm on my feet, pressing my hands over my mouth, eyes wide. That should have been a penalty, but the ref doesn't call it. Behind the glass, fans jump to their feet, outraged and shouting at the ref. The Storm starts another play we recommended, but the other team snags the puck and scores again, and the arena deflates. Two goals in less than thirty seconds.

"So much for that play," Erik mutters, standing beside me.

The fans leave in droves, emptying the stands, and disappointment and resentment hang in the air like a thick, noxious cloud.

My lungs are so tight I can't get a full breath. It's happening again. I screwed up, and it's all my fault. From up here, I can't see Ward's face, so I flip through camera feeds on the TV until I find one of the bench. His expression gives me nothing; it's the same watchful, patient, unruffled look he always wears.

He has to be mad, though. He just hired a new analyst, and everything about this game has gone wrong.

When the game ends, I'm downstairs outside the Storm dressing room, waiting for Ward to finish his usual postgame debrief, nails digging into my palms.

I thought my numbers were solid, but I fucked up.

I thought this time was different, but it wasn't.

I thought I could do this, but maybe I can't.

The door swings open and Ward appears. I push off the wall, heart in my throat. "Do you have a second?"

"For you, Darcy, always." He gives me a quick smile, and my insides clench up again. "Walk with me."

We walk down the hallway, and he slows his pace so I don't have to jog to keep up with his long strides. "None of the plays worked tonight and I want to apologize. I'm going to do a full review on my own time of my data and the plays and the game to see where we went wrong. I'll get to the bottom of this before the next game."

Please just don't fire me , I beg silently.

Hesitation and worry are written all over my face, I'm sure, but I'm not ready to give it up. I just got here.

Ward lets out a heavy, frustrated exhale as we round a corner. "Volkov's injured and he didn't tell us."

My jaw drops and my eyes go wide. "What kind of injury?"

"ACL. Apparently it's been giving him trouble all week."

He had surgery on it last year. I blink about twelve times, thinking about how I'd factor this in. It changes his plays, I know that.

"The analyst team would have made different recommendations for the game," I tell Ward. "I'm not trying to sound defensive, I just?—"

"I know. And Walker decided to do his own thing instead of the plays we practiced. "

I missed that, but I would have caught it in my review of the game tape. Irritation singes behind my sternum. That cocky rookie.

"Don't worry, I've already torn a strip off them for that. Those two are going to figure out how to work together if it kills them." The corner of his mouth tips like he's looking forward to it, before he gives me a patient look. "You were working on bad data. It's not your fault."

It wasn't my fault. I didn't screw up. I did the best with the information I had. Relief settles through me, and my blood pressure descends to normal.

"It was a bad game, Darcy." Ward shrugs. "We learn from it and we do our best, but we're not going to let one night knock us down. That's how one game turns into a losing streak." He holds my eyes. "We fall down, but we get back up and try again tomorrow. Understood?"

Something in his words and the way he believes in not just his team, but me as well, bolsters me. "Understood."

"Good." He gestures down the hall. "I'm wanted in postgame press."

He waves goodbye and I stand there, replaying the conversation. It wasn't my fault. I did my due diligence. Losing isn't the end of the world. No one got hurt, and no one's career is over.

"Darcy."

I look up to see Alexei standing there, the hard lines of his face arranged in an expression that almost looks like remorse.

That irritation from earlier is back. "Ward said you're injured."

He grunts an acknowledgment, and the irritation doubles. He works his jaw, glancing around before he lowers his voice. "My knee. An old injury."

He probably didn't let it heal properly and now has long- term issues. The way he played during the game begins to make sense.

"I can't do my job without accurate data. I could have helped you. Why didn't you say something?"

He hesitates, blowing out a heavy breath, not meeting my eyes.

In his midthirties, he's one of the oldest defensemen in the league, and now he's being paired up with Luca, a fresh young rookie, full of energy and free of injury. Plus, all the comments about his impending retirement.

He doesn't want the coaches to know he's injured because they'll trade him, or worse, not renew his contract. For an older player like him, it's a career death sentence.

"You want to retire on your own terms. You want it to be your choice." I can relate.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." He gives me a tight nod before he starts to walk away, limping a little.

"Maybe I can look into it."

He stops and turns, frowning.

"I use data to find solutions." My mind whirs and spins with all the ways I could adjust the plays.

For a moment, he looks like he's about to turn me down, but his features relax. "That would be great. Thanks." He gives me a nod and lifts his arm like he's about to clap me on the shoulder. When our eyes meet, he frowns and jerks his hand back.

I hold back the laugh. "We're friends." I shrug and give him a smile. "That's what friends do."

He dips his chin. "Friends." He turns before he stops himself. "About the double date."

"I know you just asked me out to make Hayden jealous."

He gives me a guilty sidelong look. "He needed a push."

Even though I'm perfectly pleased with what happened as a result of the double date, I roll my eyes. "The guys are right about you, you know. That you think you know best."

He makes a low noise that might be a laugh. "I do know best."

"Yeah, yeah." I grin. "Whatever."

Hayden appears at the other end of the hall, heading toward us.

"See you at the bar?" Alexei asks.

I nod. "See you there."

As he passes Hayden, Alexei claps him on the shoulder, and Hayden's expression flickers with tension.

"Hey." I lean up to give him a quick kiss. "Rough game."

He sighs. My heart aches for him because I know how hard he's trying not to let the loss get to him.

"Rough game, but we're going to the Filthy Flamingo to celebrate Walker's first night with the team. We're going to shake it off."

"Sounds good to me."

We start walking down the long concourse to the exit. I lean against his shoulder but catch the muted wince as he sucks in a sharp breath. I frown up at him. "What's wrong?"

A tight shake of his head. "Nothing."

My eyes move over him, studying the tension in his shoulders. "You're hurt." I stop walking. "That hit from the third period."

He waves me off, pulling my hand to keep walking. "I'm fine. Let's have fun."

I poke his shoulder and he stifles a groan of pain. "See? Hayden . You need to go home and rest."

"I'll rest later." He winks, but it feels forced. "It's Walker's first game. We need to celebrate. I can't bail. The team needs me there."

"The team needs you to take care of yourself. "

He presses his mouth into a tight line, glancing down the hall where we came from as more players leave the dressing room, talking and laughing.

He's always the life of the party, ensuring other people have fun. I think about how we've fooled around up until now—always Hayden pleasing me, him putting his needs second.

"We're going home and I'm putting you to bed," I tell him, surprising myself with how firm I sound. "And I'm going to take care of you."

The strong line of his throat moves as he swallows and meets my eye, letting out a heavy breath.

"Please?" I ask.

He gives me a quick nod. "Okay."

Relief loosens the worry in my chest, and I rise up on my toes, careful not to touch his shoulder, and press a soft kiss to his cheek. His skin is warm and scratchy with stubble.

"Thank you," I whisper. "Now let's go home."