Jackson
“Ready?” Aiden asks, eyes locking with mine, and we’ve played together long enough that I know exactly what that look means, know exactly where to move when the puck drops and he wins the draw back to Smitty at the point.
I fake like I’m cutting to the middle, prepping for the tip while Marcel sweeps in along the side, stopping their forwards from taking away Smitty’s space for the shot.
And just like planned, their D follow me to the net…
And then away from it, freeing up space in front, giving Smitty the chance…
To fake a shot and pass it over to his defensive partner…
Who’s streaking in, using his speed to blow by the assholes standing flat-footed on the other team, bracing for a rocket of a shot that doesn’t come.
It’s a second at most—that we catch them off-guard. We’re all athletes, trained and coached to respond to the rapid-fire speed of the game, the second-to-second changes that mean we always have to be thinking three steps ahead.
But we have them for that second.
And it’s enough.
I grit my teeth and move back to the net, my defensive tail following me and giving me a love tap—aka a crosscheck to my spine that sends my teeth rattling—for my trouble. I brace myself, take my position, track my team, the puck, the possible permutations…and I hold my ground.
Chaos.
We’re down a goal and we need chaos, need traffic in front of the net, asses in faces, anything to obscure the goalie’s view of the puck and the shot that’s going to be coming his way.
Crack!
Right now.
Coming the goalie’s way right now.
I try to get out of the way, but I don’t fully succeed. I feel the impact of the puck against my foot, the pain radiating up my ankle, my leg.
That’ll leave a fucking bruise.
But I’m already spinning, trying to anticipate the deflection, trying to get to a spot where the puck has gone.
There!
I lurch for it, my stick and feet tangling with a guy from their team who sees the puck at the same time I do.
We collide, a jarring moment of impact that threatens to take me out of the play.
But I don’t allow myself to stop, to fall, to lose this battle.
I push, getting the tip of my stick on the puck, flicking it forward…
Guiding it over…
The goalie scrambles, shooting his leg across the crease, and I know I’m out of time.
I dive, manage to give that puck just another push, light as fuck, but I do it as I’m shoved to the ice amongst a chaotic cluster of sticks and skates…
And it’s enough.
I propel it over the line, sending it flying into the back of the net.
Silence—but only for one brief moment.
Because then the home crowd explodes—their cheers rocketing through the arena, loud enough to make my ears hurt.
But as Aiden helps me up to my feet and we skate to the bench, all of that electric energy from the fans, from executing a play we’ve been working on perfecting for months, I’m aware of only one thing.
One person.
She’s standing in the hall today, watching me with a huge grin on her face.
I grin back.
“I knew you could do it,” she mouths.
That hits me, deep and perfectly painful, an exquisite sort of pleasure that has me wanting to find her office all over again, to watch her face as I tell her how much she means to me, as I feel her come apart in my arms.
But I have a game to play.
And she has a job to do.
And…I’m not going to let her down.
Not ever again.
Her surprise hits me after the game, and I feel it the moment I walk into the bare bones office she keeps at the arena.
Her tricked-out space is at the practice facility, where we spend the bulk of our prep time, both on and off the ice. This room is function over all else, and because there are no distractions, I immediately sense it.
Her tension. Her shock.
Her sadness.
“Shit, kitty cat,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “What’s the matter?”
She jumps, nearly upending the papers in her hands, then nibbles at her bottom lip, expression unfathomable.
“Is it Gran?” I ask, gut immediately churning.
That snaps her out of the haze, and she quickly shakes her head. “No, honey. I—” Her throat bobs. “It’s—”
But she doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
And my worry grows.
“I don’t think I can tell you,” she whispers.
I frown. “What do we say? It’s you and me—”
“Versus the world,” she finishes. “But this isn’t about me. Or you,” she adds when that churning in my gut intensifies.
“Who?” I ask.
“I can’t say,” she whispers. “Not until he knows.”
The pieces slide into place then, and they do nothing to ease the anxiety tearing through my insides.
It’s nearing the trade deadline.
Players are being shifted around left and right and—
Tears contained in her beautiful eyes, turning those dark brown eyes into liquid pools of chocolate. The tension in her frame, her jaw, like she’s expecting me to push.
“I didn’t make the deal,” she says, her words coming fast and furiously, almost with indiscernible speed, all jumbled together in a rush. “Luc and well, I wasn’t part of it, probably because he knows I wouldn’t be able to handle it and—” Her voice breaks. “He’d be right. This fucking sucks and I need to be there when we tell him. But how the hell am I going to be there?”
“Kitty cat.” I shove a hand through my hair, debating on the right thing to say.
Then I decide there’s no right thing to say, so I just cross to her, take her in my arms, and I hug her tight.
She sniffs. “It’s the job,” she whispers. “I know that. I just—”
“We’re family,” I finish for her when she doesn’t say anything further, just wraps her arms around me and continues to breathe, albeit shakily. “It’ll be okay,” I promise.
Because I’ll make sure of that.
And I’d like to say that’s why I do what I do next.
But that’d be a lie.
Because, quite simply, I snoop.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but the way I’m hugging her means that I’m facing her desk.
And the papers are right there and…
It’s impossible to not see the name.
Nearly impossible to keep still when I read it.
Nearly impossible to keep holding her, to not let the blow of the trade deal hit me hard enough to reveal that I know.
Easy. Steady.
She needs me with her, not worrying about my own emotions.
But…
Aiden. God, we’ve just begun to really gel, and he’s becoming a huge part of the team—
And he’s my linemate, my teammate, my friend.
How am I going to play without him?
I close my eyes, grab tight to that steady, and keep holding Claire when I’m on more even ground.
Except…
My eyes keep moving over the stack of papers, my brain absorbing the words below—the name below.
And this blow is harder.
Because I realize it’s not a one-man trade, a simple roster swap for swap.
It’s bigger. It’s taking two players from our team and bringing four new guys to the Breakers.
Aiden is a tough loss, the worst kind of trade from a player’s perspective. He’s solid—a great teammate with skills that are still evolving.
But the second subtraction from our roster might just be a death knell our teams.
Because that other Breakers’ name on the paperwork?
It’s Connor Smith.