Chapter Eighteen

Reeve

It feels fucking good to be back sitting in the player's box, even though I'm still sidelined.

And walking back into the stadium without crutches like I had the last time I was here feels like a small victory, though the brace around my knee is still a reminder to everyone I see that I'm not here to play

The cool air from the ice sends a familiar chill down my throat and nips at any exposed skin as I watch my teammates glide across the rink. The rhythmic scraping of blades on ice fills my ears, and the sharp crack of sticks hitting pucks as my feet itch to get into the action.

I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling the crisp scent of the freshly cleaned ice in the stadium that I've called home for the last three years and that I hope to continue playing in for years to come. A sense of relief hits when I hear Coach Bex's whistle screech to stop a play that the team is practicing through.

I'm here.

I still have a shot at coming back.

They could have benched me—they could have traded me—but they still see the potential in me that I know I still have. In only a few more weeks, I'll prove I'm ready to get back out on the ice.

I hear a ding on my phone as a text comes through from Keely.

A smile tugs at my lips at her name across my phone.

She left this morning to do inventory at Oakley's after we made breakfast together and worked through my stretches. I'm more sore than usual, but I told her I wanted to kick things up a notch. I can handle the pain of rehab. What I can't handle is not making it to my self-imposed goal.

Keke: Taking your advice. Heading to soccer practice after inventory at Oakley's. Wish me luck!

My thumbs hover over the keyboard, quickly typing up a reply.

I'm happy to see her deciding to go for it and get back out there. And maybe there's a swell of pride in my chest that she credits me for giving her the advice she needs to take the plunge finally.

We're good for each other. I wish she'd see that, but she has to do what's right for her and I'd never push her into anything more. She has to come to her own conclusions about us.

Reeve: That's great, Keely! You've got this. Show them what you're made of.

Then a feeling comes over me that maybe she needs a little more reinforcement if it took me encouraging her to get out there.

Reeve: I'm proud of you for doing this.

My phone buzzes again.

Keke: Thanks, Reeve. I'll let you know how it goes.

Reeve: Looking forward to hearing all about it. Kick some grass out there, Doc.

I can already imagine her eye roll when I see that she read the message, and I audibly laugh to myself.

Keke: Wow, that was terrible. Stick to hockey, Aisa.

Reeve: I've got a million of them. I'll tell you all of them tonight over dinner. Good luck out there, superstar.

The sound of Coach Bex's whistle blows again and pulls me from Keely and our texts. The team skates over almost lazily as if a little annoyed at Coach Bex's redirection, but he's the best at what he does and we're a better team for having him, though it's easy to say that on sitting on the bench than having a whistle blown at you every few seconds.

I get it.

I shake my head at the thought of actually missing being barked at my Coach Bex. Perspective is a funny thing, and right now I'm getting more of it than I can handle.

And right down the street, Keely's taking steps forward, and I'm glad that I get to be a part of that journey, even if it's just from the sidelines.

The team runs the play again and nails it this time.

A loud clapping sounds beside me.

I got so lost in thought and practice that I didn't notice Sam coming up to stand next to me.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, taking a seat next to me.

I turn to see him in his black Hawkeyes shell jacket.

"Better every day. I think I'm going to make my deadline happen."

Sam's brow furrowed slightly. "Don't overdo it, Reeve. The last thing we want is for you to re-injure yourself. Come back when you're truly ready."

I nod, knowing Sam's right but we wouldn't be athletes playing at this level of the game, earning the size paychecks we get if we didn't push ourselves past the norm to get here.

Let's be honest, Phil Carlson doesn't pay millions for my contract, for me to pussyfoot around.

As Sam walks away, Rowan appears and slides into the seat next to me, taking Sam's spot. "Got time for a few more questions?" she asked with a smile.

"Sure," I say. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your history as a hockey player. When did you first fall in love with the sport?"

Damn, that's a long history lesson. But we'll start with the basics.

"I've been skating since before I could walk. But I really fell in love with hockey in Alaska. Then when my mom died and I moved to Texas my sophomore year. It's no exaggeration that hockey saved me."

Rowan's expression softened. " I think I do remember hearing about your mother in old interviews you've had. You were young when it happened, right? Would you mind telling me more about—"

"I'd rather not discuss that," I cut in. " She was an amazing person who believed in my dreams of making it to a hockey championship. Let's keep things on the lighter side. I'm partial to puff pieces myself," I add with a smile.

Rowan nods, respecting his boundaries Though I think I saw her wince when I said "puff pieces."

"Then the championship win this year must mean a lot to you. Would it be farfetched for readers to assume that you're dedicating this year's win to your mother?"

"You could say that."

The memories of my mother aren't what I expected to discuss today when I came down to watch practice. I'm about done discussing them right now.

"Would you say that you believe she's watching down on you?"

She's leading me into the quote she wants in order to spice up her piece but I'm not the puppet for that job and I don't like the idea of her fishing around about information pertaining to my mom.

She'll need to find someone else for her shock and awe. My mother and her struggles won't be splashed around headlines for people to see. She might be long gone now, but I'll still protect her memory. No reporter is going to exploit her pain, or mine, for page reads.

"You're trespassing now, Summers. Get back behind the gate," I tell her, letting know that there are some bits of me I've never let her access.

"Of course, sorry. Occupational hazard. Don't release the dogs on me," she says, her reporter-hungry eyes softening.

"You're in luck, I don't have any dogs."

"Really?" she says. "How about Coach Bex?"

Her eyes turn out to the ice, finding the Coach standing in the middle of the rink going over a new play with the team.

"He's nothing more than a Chihuahua. Yappy bark, tiny bite."

I actually don't mean it. It sounded too funny not to say. Coach Bex has no bark—just bite… and he'll swallow you whole.

"Can I quote you on that?"

"If you have a death wish…" I warn teasingly.

Because if she puts that out, she and I both will be swimming with the fishes.

"He's not easy to work with, is he?" she asks, an annoyance in her voice, like she already knows the answer.

"He's not that bad really. He's stuck his neck out for me more times than I can count. But if he thinks that you pose any threat to the team, the players, Sam or Phil… he'll go for your jugular," I nod, staring out at the man who helped pull me off the asphalt that night and helped the EMT load me into the ambulance. And if I wasn't mistaken, I think I saw his eyes well right before they closed the ambulance doors.

" I believe you. Because I've seen the "going for the jugular" first hand," she says.

"Now that I think about it, he's more like a T-Rex," I tell her, pulling my elbows to mimic a short arm. "He looks terrifying, but in truth, the poor guy is just pissed that he has short arms."

She breaks out in laughter as I wave my shorts T-Rex arms around.

"Oh God…" she says, wiping a tear from her eye. "Please don't tell him I laughed at that. I have a hard enough time with him as it is."

"Are you kidding? I'd get a bench for a whole season."

We share a quick smile and then she looks back at her notes.

"Okay, fine. Tell me more about your time in Alaska then..."

Now we're getting somewhere good.

I spend the next twenty minutes telling her about all the trouble I got in as a kid. Alaska was as cool of a place to grow up as I could ever imagine, and someday, I hope to move back and raise a family there.

There's some pain in the memories of where I grew up… but love still lives there too.

After practice, I head back to the apartment and spend the afternoon at home.

My phone buzzes with a call from Seven.

"Hey what's up?" I answer.

"Want to head down to shoot some pool at Oakley's. Brynn says I'm distracting her while she tries to write."

Seven being a distraction seems unlike him.

He barely talks unless you're one-on-one with him.

"What are you doing that is so distracting?" I ask.

"Laying naked on the day bed in her office."

"Get him out of here!" I hear Brynn's voice in the background. "I have a deadline. Please, Reeve."

I can't hold back my snicker at the mental picture of Seven lying naked on the tiny twin-sized day bed in Brynn's apartment across the street.

"Put on some pants. Make your girlfriend happy," I say.

He grunts in annoyance at me siding with Brynn.

I wouldn't want that hairy man butt-ass naked on my couch, either.

"That's the opposite of what should make her happy," Seven argues. "Besides, she's writing one of those sexy scenes right now… I was trying to be helpful with market research."

"Reeve, I'll pay you anything you want!"

"Brynn, I spend hours on this body for you to enjoy. And should I remind you about Cancun? It worked like a charm last time."

"Oh god…." I hear the annoyance in her voice and the clicking of the keys on her keyboard.

"I'll meet you downstairs," I tell Seven.

"I owe you!" Brynn says.

I send a text to Keely to let her know where I'll be in case she shows up with dinner and doesn't know where I am.

Reeve: Headed to the bar with Seven for a bit. See you later.

It doesn't take long before Seven and I find an open table and rack up the balls.

"Reeve," I hear Oakley before I see him.

He sets a heavy box of long-neck IPA on the bar top and then heads toward up.

"Hey, Oakley," I say, and Seven gives him a nod.

"You boys coming down to play some pool?" he asks, watching Seven select a pool stick.

"Yeah, Brynn called, begging me to get Seven out of her hair."

"Hey…" I hear Seven warn. "What gives man… calling me out like that?"

Oakley and both smirk.

"Do you have a minute?" Oakley asks. "I'll just take a second."

"Sure," I say.

"I'll head to the bar and get us drinks—rootbeer for you?" Seven asks, knowing that I don't like to drink during the season until it's to celebrate a win.

"Yeah, thanks,"

"Hey Aaron," Oakley calls over his shoulder to the bartender. "Reeve and Seven drink free today. And Reeve… from here on out."

I glance over at Aaron, who simply nods to Oakley's instruction, and then I shoot a look at Seven, who just shrugs back at me—neither of us is sure what's going on.

Oakley usually comps all the player's first two drinks on the house during home games since we bring in so much business, not that any of us ever ask or want to take advantage. He says it's just good business. But Oakley treats us well even if he didn't comp our drinks so we'd keep coming back either way.

"You don't have to—"

"Here, follow me," he says.

I turn to follow him, walking to the back of the house toward the inventory room. The door to the room is open as we pass by. Stacked boxes with long necks and canned beer will likely all get sold by this weekend's game even though the team will be away.

He stops at the end of the hall that leads to the bathrooms, but with only a handful of us in the bar, since happy hour hasn't started, we won't be bothered.

"Listen, Reeve. I wanted to thank you properly for what you did for Keely."

I can't hide the look of surprise on my face. He doesn't need to thank me for what happened with Keely.

Maybe that's because she feels like mine to protect, but I won't tell him that because she's not mine.

"You don't need to thank me, Oakley. I just did what anyone would do."

"Not anyone," Oakley says, shaking his head. "You put yourself in harm's way to protect her. That means something to me." He pauses, his eyes growing distant. "Keely... She means everything to me. After her father went away, I promised myself I'd always look out for her."

Her father went away?

I want to ask him exactly what that means, but that feels like a conversation I should have with her.

I nod and lick my lips instead. "She's lucky to have you in her corner."

Oakley's gaze sharpens on me. "And now she has you too, it seems."

"She'll always have me," I blurt out.

His eyes focus on me for a second long. "Hmmm… I had a feeling." he says to himself.

"What does that mean?" I ask, but Oakley doesn't answer.

He turns and heads back down the hallway, calling out over my shoulder. "It means drinks are on me.

Walking out of the hallway, more confused than when I entered, I get a text from Keely.

Keke: Jaxson invited me to the bar with the soccer team. We won our game!

A small endorphin rush kicks in at the thought of seeing Keely in a matter of minutes.

She's on her way here and she won her game, a surge of pride fills me and I want to celebrate with her but letting her have this moment is important. She says that she needs to settle her home before she can think about a relationship with anyone and this a step in that direction for her to make friends and build a life that will make her want to stay.

About 30 minutes later, Keely walked in with her new teammates.

My eyes find her in the crowd immediately.

Her new blue jersey— her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail—cheeks still flushed from the game—a wide smile across her lips, and she chats with a couple of women from the group as they wait by the bar to order their drinks.

"Hey," I call out, heading straight for her. "Congratulations on the win."

Keely beams over at me as I head for her at the bar.

My breath hitches when she looks at me with so much happiness in her eyes.

"Thanks!" she says, wrapping her arms up over my neck. I want to pull her closer—Squeeze her tighter, but there will be another time….I hope. "It felt amazing to be back on the field."

"I'd like to come to one of your games sometime if you tell me when it is," I say. "A jersey looks good on you."

Though I wish you were wearing mine.

Her jersey is a spare without a number or a last name on it like everyone else's. And I wonder if one day she'll finally let me put AISA on the back.

"Really?" she asks, her eyes glimmering back at me.

"I'll wear your number with 'Woods' on the back, too," I say.

She rolls her eyes playfully as if I'm messing with her.

"Trading in your Aisa jersey already, Mr. Woods? That might look pretty good on you," she teases.

I lean in a little closer—blocking out the noise between us and all other distractions—my vision locking with hers—I'm close enough to feel his breath against my lips.

"Just show me where to sign on the marriage certificate."

Keely laughs, making my heart skip a beat but that wasn't a joke.

"You like to run before you walk, don't you," she said softly.

"Race you to the courthouse?" I ask because, damn it, it's worth a try.

"Reeve," I hear a booming voice call out.

I look to our left as Dr. Morgan heads straight for us, and the way his eyes cut from me down to the woman I practically just proposed a quickie wedding to has my hands clenching at my side—not a usual reaction from me. I don't think I've ever felt jealous before.

Not until Keely.

His eyes return to me as he squares up, but now, he is focusing on me instead of Keely, like he's back in doctor mode. "You're looking good. How does that knee feel? Is the brace giving you enough support?"

"It feels good. Keely's been doing a good job. I think I'll be back on the ice in a couple of weeks."

Even though you thought my career was over.

But I don't tell him that. I know well enough that doctors can only give you their best guess. They don't hold crystal balls. And recovery is up to the individual. If I had gotten the surgery and sat on the couch for months, then I probably wouldn't have a shot. And technically, it's too early to know for sure.

"She's a good PT, I have no doubt," he says, giving her a brief smile. "Let me know how it goes. I'd like to see you back on the ice and I think I have you on the schedule to go over your scans in a month, right?"

"Here, Keely. The bartender said that this was your drink." One of her female teammates says, handing her a hard apple cider.

"Thanks," she tells her.

She takes a sip and then I turn back to Dr. Morgan.

"Yeah, that's right," I say. "I'm hoping to get cleared in two weeks for practice."

Though the Hawkeyes doctor will clear me for practice, Coach Bex wants a second opinion from Dr. Morgan before I play a game.

"That's only six weeks after surgery."

There's a surprised expression on his face.

"I'll be ready."

He nods. "Okay, it's your call," he says, and then looks down at Keely. "The team has a table. You ready?"

"Oh… sure," she says, and then glances over at me. "I'll see you later?"

He places a hand gently at the back of her arm and then escorts her to a table in the back corner.

I head back to Seven. He hands me the pool cue that I usually use and I grip it a little tighter than I should. I bend down to take my shot, trying to focus on the game, but my eyes keep drifting back to Keely, laughing and celebrating with her new team.

I'm happy that she has a team to play with, but the doctor's arm draped over the back of her chair—that I don't like.

Seven noticed my distraction. "You okay, man?" he asked quietly.

I nod, forcing myself to look away from Keely. "Yeah, I'm fine," I say, then line up my shot. "Let's play."