What other explanation is there for no jersey hanging in my stall?
“What up, Mills?” Russ asks, sitting on a couch with a bowl of yogurt and granola.
I’m standing there like an idiot, clenching and unclenching my hands. I turn to him and give him a blank look. “I don’t know.”
“Huh?” His eyebrows pull down over his nose.
Taking a deep breath, I walk to Coach’s office and stand in the door. “Hey, Coach.”
He looks up. “Millar. Glad you’re here. You’re out tonight.”
My gut cramps up. “Why?”
He frowns. “Coach’s decision.”
I step inside his office and close the sliding door behind me. The room becomes private and soundproof. “Look, I apologize for saying what I did the other night in front of the guys.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“I should have waited and had the conversation in private.”
His eyebrow dips and joins the other over his nose.
“You kicked him,” I say quietly, holding his gaze. “That’s abuse.”
“Toughen up, buttercup.”
My fingers curl against my palms, my blood heating. “And the racial slur. That’s fucked up.”
“I told you, this isn’t your problem. You’re not playing tonight.”
I consider arguing more. For a moment, I don’t move, then I give a tight nod, turn, and leave.
In the change room, I slam open my locker door, then sit, slouched, on the bench.
I was a healthy scratch once in Vancouver, but I deserved it. I hadn’t had a point in ten games after returning from a shoulder injury. The coach scratched me to send me a message—I needed to shape up. Of course they need the players who are producing to be the ones playing.
But this? This is fucking bullshit.
I take off my T-shirt and shorts and grab my dress shirt.
“What are you doing?” Cookie joins me, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.
“Coach scratched me tonight.”
“Fuck no.” He drops to the bench, staring at me.
“Yep.” I shove my arms into the sleeves of the shirt and yank it closed around me. This is embarrassing. Frustrating. I hate feeling helpless like this, like I’m not in control of my own life. My career.
Cookie shakes his head, muttering under his breath.
I have to hold my head up, though. I haven’t done anything wrong. Other than I probably shouldn’t have confronted Coach in front of the whole team. If I was going to say something, I should have waited and done it in private. He’s the kind of guy who can’t handle any hint of challenge to his authority. That was my mistake. I don’t regret doing it, though.
Dressed in my suit, I take the elevator to the press box level along with Goose, who’s out with a strained hamstring, and Larry, who’s kind of getting dicked around—he’s been up from the AHL but hasn’t cracked the lineup yet, only they know they’ll lose him to waivers if they send him back down to the farm team, so he’s spent the last month as a healthy scratch. He’s too good for that. Another team would take him in a heartbeat.
We watch the game from up here. I hate it. I hate watching the game, not contributing. But I keep a smile on my face because I don’t want the media writing stories about me having a temper tantrum or some horseshit. You never know, and I have enough problems.
After the game, I head out right away. Cookie and JBo are going to meet me at the Hive, a tiny dive bar that won’t have a lot of fans. I need booze and lots of it.
I’ve had two whiskeys by the time they show up. I’ve shed my tie and suit jacket, since that doesn’t exactly fit in here, and they quickly do the same and order shots.
“What the fuck, man?” JBo says, draping his jacket over the back of the stool.
“I know.” I shake my head and turn the glass in my hand. “I am so fucking pissed right now.”
“Thanks for telling us that,” Cookie says.
I give him a sharp look. Is he being sarcastic?
“No, really,” he says quietly. “It would be more like you to pretend you don’t give a shit.”
He’s right. That is how I would have played this. In fact, that’s how I was playing it, up in the press box surrounded by media and knowing cameras could be on me. But here, now…with these guys…I can be real. “Yeah.” I lift my glass in a small toast. “Thanks for being here for me.”
“Sure.”
“This fucking sucks,” JBo says.
“Excuse me.” A voice speaks beside me and I turn to see a woman smiling at me. She’s cute and blond with shiny pink lips, and a couple of women behind her must be friends. “You look familiar…”
I lift an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Well, I used to do porn.”
She blinks. Blinks again. Her smile evaporates. “Oh. Um. Sorry to bother you.”
She disappears.
JBo and Cookie cover their smiles with their hands.
“Savage,” JBo says.
“That was kind of assholish,” Cookie adds mildly.
“I don’t have the patience for that shit right now.” Guilt twangs in my chest, but I ignore it.
As I order another drink, I also ignore the fact that Lilly is waiting for me at my place. I’d probably be better off going home to her and spilling my guts, but right now I just want to get trashed.
Lilly
As is becoming usual, I stay at Easton’s place after I walk Otis. It’s nice to keep Otis company, and I like seeing Easton, and yes, I like spending the night with him and waking up with him, even on days he has to get up to go to the practice facility for a practice and team meetings, or days I have to get up to walk my doggo clients.
I’m confused when they announce that Easton is a healthy scratch tonight. I’m not even sure what that means, and the announcers seem mystified by it too, citing his great play in the last few games and saying this is a “head-scratcher.” Then they show a shot of him in the press box area, leaning over the wall to watch the action on the ice below. He looks so handsome in his suit and tie, holding a water bottle in one hand. But…he’s not playing.
Then it crashes into me. His coach is punishing him.
My heart thumps hard against my breastbone and my breathing quickens as I sit there watching, thinking about this. My entire body tenses, including the hand on Otis’s back, which I have to relax.
Sweet baby Jesus and his tiny toes.
I cannot believe the coach is doing this. My impotent fury swells up inside me, hot and huge.
I keep the game on, but I can’t focus on it. Thoughts race through my head. I’m so pissed on Easton’s behalf, I can’t even think straight. Goddammit.
I shouldn’t be, but I’m a little bit glad they lose. Not for the team, they don’t deserve it, but the coach…he deserves to lose.
After the game, I get ready for bed and crawl under the covers. Otis curls up at the foot of the bed. I pick up my e-reader, but I have a hard time focusing on that too.
I check the time. It’s late. Easton should have been home by now. I hope he’s okay. I get up and find my phone to see if he texted me. Nope.
I turn out the light in the bedroom and try to sleep, but that doesn’t happen. I’ve turned over and flipped my pillow and changed position about twenty times when I finally hear the sound of the door opening. Otis leaps off the bed and scampers to greet Easton.
I take a moment, relieved he’s home safe, but also a little annoyed that he knew I was here waiting for him. But I know he likely had a rough night.
A rough night and a lot of alcohol, judging from the fumes I can smell on him as I walk down the hall toward him.
He’s crouched, greeting Otis, who is stretched on his back with a big smile on his face. He
looks up, a little bleary-eyed, his smile crooked. “Hey. You’re awake.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the wall. “I couldn’t sleep.” I pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m wasted.” He straightens, wobbling a bit, and tosses his coat into the closet without hanging it up.
I repress my eye roll. “I see that.” I move toward him. “What do you need? Food? Water? Advil?”
He reaches for me and pulls me against him. “Fucking.”
While I am down for that pretty much anytime with Easton, right now I’m not so sure. “You smell like a distillery.”
“Ugh.” He wipes his mouth. “Sorry, babe.”
“Rough night?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Come to bed.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
I pause in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then Easton stumbles after me down the hall. I head into the bathroom and shake a couple of tablets into my palm. He’s nearly undressed by the time I return, his clothes on the floor.
“Here. Take these.” I hand him the painkillers, and he steps out of his boxer briefs, grimaces, then washes them down.
He drops the bottle onto the nightstand and grabs me again. “C’mere.”
I let him pull me into bed and I settle in against him. But it’s not happening.
“Goddamn whiskey dick,” he mutters, his mouth on the side of my neck.
I can’t help but smile. “Damn.” I stroke his back. “It’s okay. Go to sleep, Easton.”
“Mkay.”
My heart is hurting for him, but also full of emotion. I love him, and I hate that he’s suffering. I slowly run my hand up and down his back as he dozes off. It takes me a while longer, but eventually I sleep too.
* * *
—
“Ugh.” Easton rolls over in bed to face away from me. “Pretty sure I stink.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, you kinda do.”
“Gonna shower. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
He rolls out of bed and stretches, which is magnificent. His back is to me, but I get an excellent view of his firm ass, rippled back muscles, and powerful shoulders. I sigh.
He spends a few minutes in the bathroom but Otis is whining, so I throw back the covers and drag my own ass out of the comfortable bed to take him outside. When I return, Easton is under the covers again, his hair damp, a forearm over his eyes.
“Thanks for taking him out.”
“No problem. How do you feel?”
“Eh. Not bad, actually. I took more Advil.”
“Good. What time is practice?”
“Eleven. I don’t think I’ll go.”
Even I know that’s not possible, so I ignore that. I sit on the side of the bed. “What happened last night?”
He heaves a sigh. “Fuck. I’m sure you know I didn’t play.”
“Yeah. They said you were a healthy scratch. Everyone on TV was confused. So was I.”
“So was I.” He grimaces. “Okay, no, I wasn’t. Coach is an asshole and I knew he was going to do something like this. I’ve been waiting for it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. What can I do?”
I tip my head back, eyes closed. “Easton. You can’t go on like this.”
“I have no choice.”
“You always have choices.”
He moves his arm and meets my eyes. “No,” he clips. “I don’t.”
I swallow a sigh and reach out for his hand. I twine my fingers around his. “I hate seeing you miserable. It shouldn’t be like this. And I’m sure you’re not the only one.”
“I’m not,” he acknowledges. “But it’s not going to be me. I can’t be the one who deals with this. I can’t…”
I wait. “What?”
“I can’t take that risk.”
I study him. I look away. I look back. “I understand.”
“No. You don’t.” He pushes up to sitting. The covers fall onto his lap and he’s beautiful, his broad, muscled chest, his rounded deltoids, his handsome face scruffy and fierce.
“I do—”
“You don’t,” he grits out. “You don’t know what I’ve lost.”
I blink, my mouth falling open. Is he talking about the bus crash?
“I know,” I say softly, squeezing his hand again. “But—”
He jerks out of my grasp. His jaw is granite, his eyes flint. “You don’t. I lost everything. Everything. My dad. My brother. My team. My best friends.”
I nod slowly, my throat aching. I lift the hand he just liberated and press it, shaking, to the base of my throat.
“I even lost my mom,” he continues, his voice gritty like sand. “Because she didn’t care enough about me to try to keep going.”
My eyes widen and I flinch. Oh my God. Is that what he thinks?
“I can’t lose hockey,” he grates out.
I stare. My heart thumps.
“They traded me from Vancouver because I was a pain in the ass. I can’t be that here again. I can’t.” He meets my eyes, his blazing. “I can’t lose hockey. It’s all I have.”
I’m frozen, an ice sculpture. I can’t move. Shards of ice splinter in my chest. I swallow thickly. I’m not sure if my voice will come out if I try to speak. I swallow again, feeling it all the way in my chest. My voice emerges as a whisper. “You have me.”
Chapter 19
Easton
I’m pissed. I know that. I’m furious at Coach and right now, I’m furious at Lilly. Because she’s so optimistic and sweet and positive about life that she thinks I can do something about this. And I can’t.
She keeps saying she understands, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t know how scared I am. And I can’t tell her that, because fuck me, being this scared is weak. I can be furious, but I can’t be scared.
And I don’t have her. We both knew that this wasn’t going to be a serious relationship. Neither of us wanted that. And this is why. I don’t catch feelings for people because I know they’re going to be taken away from me eventually.
“Things don’t always work out,” I say roughly. “I know you think they do. You’ve been waiting how long for your lawsuit to make things right? It’s not going to happen.”
Staring back at me, her face crumples.
Ah, shit. I’m an asshole. “I’m not that virtuous, that I can do the right thing and expect it to all be fine. I can’t take that risk. Okay?”
She stands. Gives a tight nod. “Okay.” She walks toward the door.
I grip the duvet in both hands. Is she leaving?
She stops at the door and turns. “You know what my dad told me?”
I frown. “About what?”
“About why he up and left to travel the world all by himself. He told me that we only regret the chances we don’t take. The relationships we’re afraid to have.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “And the decisions we wait too long to make.” She lifts her chin. “He was encouraging me to start my own business. I don’t want to have regrets. I don’t regret what I did at Lexington. I don’t regret starting my own business. And I don’t regret falling in love with you.”
Her words hit me like taking a slap shot in the chest. She’s in love with me?
“Until this moment,” she continues, her voice quivering. “Because I thought I fell in love with a man who’s good and honorable and brave. But now I see you’re really just a coward. I know you’re afraid to do the right thing. And you’re afraid to have a relationship. Because we have something pretty fantastic. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you.”
My chest constricts so tight I can’t breathe. “I’m not afraid.”
“Please. You are. An
d there’s nothing wrong with that. We’re all afraid, Easton. Being brave isn’t the same as not being afraid. It’s just deciding…something else is more important.” She tilts her head in a way that makes me think of a queen—strong and noble and magnificent. And I feel like I’m not worthy of her. “I wish you luck. If you decide you don’t want me to look after Otis anymore, I’ll understand. Goodbye.”
I don’t move. Otis prances after her. When the apartment door closes, he whines. And I feel like doing that too. Maybe more than whine. Maybe howl. Because I feel like I just had a sharpened skate blade plunged into my heart and twisted.
She’s in love with me.
My vision darkens and narrows to a small circle as I stare across the room. My stomach churns, and it’s not the booze I drank last night.
I should have known better than to get involved with her. I ended up hurting her. Shit.
I fling myself down onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
Shit, damn, fuck.
The last thing I feel like doing is going to practice, but I’ll be in way worse trouble if I don’t show up. When Coach pairs me up on line rushes with Larry and Goose, I know I won’t be playing again tomorrow. The rage inside me burns and eats away at my gut, pushing me to skate faster, shoot harder, even hit harder as I go into a corner in a scrum. I nail Barbie into the boards with a reverberating hit.
He whirls on me, straightening his helmet. “What the fuck was that?”
I stand up to him. “That was a body check.”
He narrows his eyes at me, breathing hard. “I will punch you.” And he drops his fucking mitts.
I’m not backing down. A fight would feel pretty good right now. Barbs is taller than me, but I outweigh him. I throw down my gloves too.
The other guys swarm in and circle us.
“No,” Cookie says, giving me a sharp look, edging me away from Barbie. “What are you doing, man?”
Must Love Dogs...and Hockey Page 19
