Offside

by Bianca Sommerland

  “I know it won’t.”

  “Then go for it, Becky,” Tim said. He glanced toward the door at a soft knock. “Hey, bro.”

  “Hey.” Dean gave his brother a searching look. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” Tim squeezed Becky’s shoulder, smiling and nodding at her whispered, “Thank you.”

  Alone in her office, Becky tried to focus on her work, but her mind kept slipping to how badly she’d screwed up. She’d done all the things to Zach that she’d warned Scott not to do. It would serve her right if he didn’t forgive her.

  But she wouldn’t assume anything. She knew him well enough to figure out that he’d come looking for her once he was done on the ice. But after what she’d pulled, the idea of him needing to search for her didn’t sit right. She’d go to him. Tell him everything. And let him take the lead for once.

  He wouldn’t know that she was done hiding, though. She didn’t want to disturb his performance in front of the trainers, but there must be a way to get the message to him before he felt like he had to chase her down.

  She pulled a pad out of her top drawer. Took a deep breath. And wrote a message that hopefully wouldn’t come across as just another way to avoid him. Because she was done with that.

  Dear Zach,

  I was so, so very wrong to leave the way I did. There’s a lot we need to talk about. I’m ready, but I don’t know if we should have this conversation here. I’ll wait for your text. Tell me where and when you’d like to meet.

  I haven’t shown it, but I still love you very much.

  Yours Always,

  Becky

  She read the letter over several times under her breath, her hands shaking as she resisted the urge to crumple it and just send Zach a short text. A text seemed so cold and impersonal. He deserved better.

  After folding the letter, she put it in an envelope. Sealed it and went straight down to the men’s empty changing room. She could hear some of the men lingering in the lounge and the locker room, so she quickly slid the envelope into Zach’s locker and slipped out.

  If she wanted to finish early enough to speak to Zach, she had to hustle. Keeping busy made it a bit easier not to wonder what he would think about the note. About how mad he must be. About whether or not he’d be willing to give her a chance.

  But she didn’t let those thoughts distract her from her work. If there was one thing she hadn’t doubted when it came to her relationship with Zach, it was that he respected her devotion to her job and her family. He wouldn’t want her giving them less because she wanted to give him more.

  If he still wants more.

  And if he didn’t?

  She powered on her computer, typing in her password, done with letting her thoughts sway back and forth. If he didn’t want her anymore, it was exactly what she deserved. She’d be alone again.

  Her life would go on. The only thing that would change is she’d miss what she’d almost had and she’d always wonder . . . wonder what could have been if she’d been just a little stronger.

  * * * *

  Scott’s skates glided across the ice, moving him faster and faster as he completed yet another lap across the rink. Coach blew the whistle and had the players stand off to the side near the benches so they could take turns practicing their shots. When it was his turn, he raced toward Ingerslov, feinted five-hole shot, then fired high glove-side.

  “Nice!” Tim shouted. “Again!”

  Heading in the other direction, Scott fixed his sights on Hunt. The young goalie came out too far and Scott skidded around him, zipping the puck toward the net.

  Hunt dove sideways. The puck hit his outstretched glove. And trickled over the line after clinking against the goalpost.

  “Fuck!” Hunt pushed to his feet, slamming the back of his elbow into the goalpost. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d shut the door on an impressive ninety percent of the shots. Every time one got by him, he snapped.

  “Cool it, Hunt.” Tim blew his whistle and gestured for the assistant coaches to take over, skating over with the goalie coach to speak to the rookie goalie.

  Scott took his time joining his teammates for face-off practice. Yeah, he was being nosy, but he had to know how Tim was going to handle the temperamental net minder.

  “You’re not going to shut out every game, kid. How you recover after letting one by is what will determine the outcome of the game—Demyan, get over here since you’re not interested in working on the face-off.”

  Scott ducked his head and skated closer to the two coaches and Hunt. “Sorry, Coach.”

  “Don’t be. You’re one of our best shots. Work with Nate and Hunt for a bit,” Tim said, inclining his head to the goalie coach, Nate Olive, before joining the rest of the team.

  For about an hour, Scott worked with Nate and Hunt, changing directions, taking shots from the point, rushing the net, giving Hunt the opportunity to make saves from different angles. When Tim called for the break, Scott took off his helmet and grinned at Hunt. The kid had to feel better now. He’d blocked most of Scott’s shots.

  Hunt’s lips curved slightly at the edges, as though he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite remember how. His black hair was soaked when he took off his helmet and his cheeks—covered spottily with his attempt to grow a beard—was red with exertion. But his eyes were shining with the energy of a young athlete who knew he was at the top of his game.

  “Glad you’re on our team, Demyan.” Hunt dropped his helmet on top of the net, then squirted some water into his mouth and over his head. “You’ve got good hands.”

  That was the first nice thing Hunt had ever said to anyone on the team. Him saying it to Scott after their scuffle was pretty impressive. “Thanks!” Scott slugged Hunt’s shoulder. “You didn’t make it easy, rookie.”

  “So he’s good, Demmy? We’ll see about that!” With a boyish laugh, Vanek burst on to the ice, zipping around the rink as the men who hadn’t left yet called out greetings and questions. Tim stood by the open door to the home bench, arms folded over his chest, failing miserably at his attempt to look displeased about Vanek’s cockiness. The smile he barely contained and the gleam in his eyes seemed like he was trying not to cheer.

  Good news?

  “Get your helmet back on, Hunt! Want to see if I’m rusty.” Vanek circled the rink, kicking a few pucks on to the red line. “I’ll even be nice and let you know where each shot’s gonna go.”

  Scott rolled his eyes, sliding out of the way as Hunt and Vanek prepared to face off. “What are you doing here, Vanek? Thought you were holed up with the doctor?”

  “I was. But he said I’d better get out here if I want to be ready for the first game.” Vanek’s blue eyes practically glowed as the men shouted cheers and surrounded him. Someone must have gone to the locker room to tell the other guys because within seconds, the whole team was flooding the ice, hugging Vanek and passing him around like he was some kind of trophy.

  Mason grabbed the kid from Carter, trapping him in a bear hug and bumping helmets. “It’ll be damn good to have you back, kid. Guess the doc said you need to see how you can take a hit?”

  “Yeah . . .” Vanek groaned as Scott gave him a facewash. “Damn it, Demmy! Get off!” He laughed when Scott looped an arm around his neck. “I was worried that no one would want to hit me, but you’ll have no problem, right?”

  “None at all.” Scott glanced back to where Hunt had stayed between the pipes, helmet on, mask down, steadily skating grooves on to the blue ice. He looked ready. Scott shoved Vanek away from the crowd of players, gesturing toward the young goalie. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Vanek nodded, then glided up to the line of pucks. He rushed at Hunt, his skates moving in a blur. “Top shelf.”

  Hunt braced himself, dropping at the last second and closing his pads as though sure Vanek would go for a low shot despite what he’d called. The puck hit the mesh inside the top of net. As Vanek had said. Top shelf.

  “Did I confuse you?”
Vanek asked, spraying up snow as he stopped at the edge of the goal crease. “You do know what top shelf is, right?”

  “Fuck you.” Hunt dropped his stick and his gloves, skating to the bench without taking off his helmet. The men watched him leave without a word, conversation resuming uncomfortably, the excitement from before slightly dimmed.

  The worst thing was, Vanek didn’t seem to get that he’d done anything wrong. His gaze trailed Hunt for a split second before he went to chat up White and Pischlar. Scott wasn’t all that surprised though. Vanek had every reason to be excited.

  But his presence pushed Hunt even further from the inner circle of the team. Maybe that was why he was cool with Scott. More often than not, Scott was outside of the circle too.

  “Demyan?” Mason called from just beyond the small group of players that had encompassed Vanek yet again. Mason caught Scott’s eye and jerked his chin in the direction Hunt had disappeared.

  Right. Us outcastes have to stick together. But it didn’t bother Scott as much as it would have once. Spending all the time he had with Zach over the past few weeks got him used to the guys being relaxed with Zach, but not overly chatty. Zach kept a professional relationship with the other players unless he considered them friends. And he picked those carefully. Being among the few Zach let close meant a hell of a lot more to Scott than being Mr. Popular.

  Most of the guys would say “Hey” to Scott and go on with their day. At least they weren’t giving him dirty looks anymore.

  He ditched all his equipment by his stall, then found Hunt in the training room doing his fitness test. On a bike with tubes and wires all hooked up, the team doctor, a physical therapist, and a research director taking notes of his endurance and heart rate and all the fun stuff. After a torturously long span of going at full speed, the doctor turned off the machines, removed all the monitoring stuff, and let Hunt cool down at a slower pace for a few minutes.

  When Hunt got off the bike, he immediately tore off his shirt and used it to dry the sweat from his face. Scott stood in the doorway, thumbs hooked to the pockets of his shorts, really looking the rookie goalie over for the first time. For a twenty-year-old, he was pretty big. An inch or so shorter than Scott, but at least ten pounds heavier. He doubted the kid had even five percent fat. A few of the guys in the locker room were going to have to bust their ass to get back in game form, but Hunt seemed like the type who had two modes. Playing the game and getting ready to play the game.

  Hunt inclined his head in thanks when the doctor handed him a bottle of water. “How’d I do?”

  “Excellent. Thirteen minutes and you’re the first one who’s come in here that I don’t have any advice for.” The doctor grinned and patted Hunt’s shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, continue.”

  That perked the kid up. Hunt nodded and smiled at the doctor in a way that made it even more obvious how young he was. He soaked in the praise like a dried-out sponge dropped in a bucket of water. “Thanks, Doc.” His smile faded, his brow furrowing slightly. “But I’ve been trying to put on a few more pounds. Nothing I do seems to—”

  “Son, at your age, you’re lucky to have this much bulk. Work on maintaining, not building. As you get older, you may gain more weight, but it will be harder to stay in shape. It’ll be a few years before we have to worry about that though,” the doctor said. “Go take a break, then get back on the ice. I’ve got to deal with the slackers.” He turned to Scott, his expression showing that he’d know Scott was there all along. “Speaking of which . . . Mr. Demyan, since you’re here, let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

  “I think you’re gonna be surprised, Doc.” Scott smiled, pretty confident that all his time at the gym would pay off. He stopped by Hunt’s side before the boy could walk out. “Hey, you wanna wait for me? Thought we could chill for a bit.”

  Hunt shrugged. “Guess so. We’re off until one, right?”

  “Right.” That settled, Scott climbed on the bike. The thing to measure his oxygen intake was stuffed in his mouth and a padded clamp pinched his nose closed. Once the other monitors were set up, the research director told him to get started, reminding him to keep the pace at 80 RPM. Scott pumped his legs hard, muscles burning as he fought to keep the reps up. His eyes squinted as moisture dripped into them from his forehead.

  “Keep going. Don’t ease up now, Demyan,” Doc said.

  His thighs were nothing but bone and wet flesh encasing pulsing flames. He grunted as he forced himself not to slow down just to lessen the heat. Then the resistance on the bike was increased.

  “Bring it up to 80. Push it!” The director instructed.

  Fire and pain and nothing but a blind need to reach the goal. Scott stared at the monitor in front of him. 76, 78, 73, 75 . . . 80! Go, go, go!

  The agony in his muscles dissolved and a rush of pure energy took over. Scott felt like he could keep going forever. Then like he had been doing this forever. That burst of energy burned out and he huffed into the tube as his lungs seared in his chest.

  83, 79, 73, 65 . . . Fuck!

  “All right, slow it down.” Doc removed the tube and the clamp. “Not bad, Mr. Demyan. Nine minutes. Do you smoke?”

  Scott panted as he leaned his forearms on the bike’s handlebars. It took him a while to get enough air to speak. “Not usually. I might have once or twice this summer.”

  “Hmm.” Doc went over the report with the other two experts quietly, then brought Scott a bottle of water. “You’re in decent shape, but I’d like you to work on your cardio. Morning runs, time on the bike, whatever you can do for at least an hour, pushing yourself harder at intervals of about ten minutes. The trainer may have more suggestions for you, but in any case, you’re going to have a hard time lasting for a thirty second shift. We don’t want you getting tired out there.”

  “No, sir.” Scott did his best to climb off the bike without falling and making himself look even more pathetic. His legs were shaking, but he made it to the door and out of sight of the doctor before he needed something solid to hold him up.

  “Damn, did you sleep all summer?” Hunt finished off his water and tossed the empty bottle into the big metal trash can against the wall. “My dad would kill me if I did that bad on the test.”

  “Yeah, well fuck you, Hunt.” Scott grinned so Hunt would know he was joking. “I ain’t got anyone on my ass, so I’ve got nothing to worry about. I passed.”

  “Barely.” Hunt led the way toward the locker room, lowing his voice as he paused in front of the closed door. “Your boyfriend won’t be mad? I mean, he made the twelve-minute mark and he smokes cigars.”

  Scott winced, both because Zach might be disappointed, and because Hunt shouldn’t know enough to bring up “his boyfriend”. “Hey, Zach and me aren’t what you—”

  “Fuck, I’m not gonna tell no one. Honestly, I don’t think the people that know give a shit, and most aren’t paying enough attention to have figured it out. You’re fine.” Inside the locker room, Hunt put on a clean T-shirt. The room was empty, which seemed to put him at ease. He wasn’t usually this talkative. “I run if you want to tag along. I mean . . .” He ducked his head. “I could help you.”

  “Sure.” Scott changed his own soaked shirt for a fresh one, then grabbed his wallet. “Where you staying?”

  “Just a few blocks away—with Olsson.”

  Olsson? Damn, the man doesn’t even speak English! Scott studied Hunt as they made their way up the stairs to the main floor. “There’s no one else for you to stay with?”

  “White, but he’s a jerk.” Hunt shrugged. “Me and Olsson get along pretty good. Stay out of each other’s way.”

  “Got it.” Scott stepped out on to the sidewalk, inhaling deeply, positive his lungs were writing him thank you cards as they spoke. The air was nice and crisp, a little on the cool side. Perfect. “So . . . about you flipping out on the ice—”

  “Don’t fucking lecture me, man. It was stupid. Won’t happen again.” Hunt’s strides widened, forc
ing Scott to ignore the ache in his thighs and quicken his pace to keep up. “You’re the last person who should be telling me how to act.”

  “True.” Scott reached Hunt’s side just as he hit the lights. Thank God, they were red. “But I’m working on it. You’re starting out, kid. They don’t have to like you, but with how hard you’re working, they should respect you.”

  “I don’t fit into their little clubs.” Hunt scowled. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Fine, but you really want to let them see you all messed up? You’re physically tough. You want to make it in the league?” Scott liked that Hunt’s scowl faded, that his expression turned thoughtful as he nodded. The kid was smart. And finally ready to listen. Scott tapped the center of his forehead with a finger. “You gotta be just as tough up here. You don’t wanna make friends on the team, then don’t. But we’ve got to trust that you’re not gonna freak if a bad bounce gets past you. We. Need. You.”

  “You’ve got Ingerslov.”

  “Seriously?” Scott rolled his eyes. “Ingerslov is a great guy, but we know—hell, he knows—he’s not a starting goaltender. You are.”

  Hunt nodded slowly. Then he frowned. “Hey, why are you being so nice to me? I messed with your girl and—”

  “She’s not my girl. She is a friend, but I know you tried to make things right. You paid for what you pulled, so me and you are good.”

  “Okay . . .” Hunt said, hesitating before he continued. “Still. You’ve got enough shit to deal with.”

  “Buddy, I’m not all that complicated. The game is one of the few things in my life that makes sense. I want this team to make it, even if half the guys act like arrogant pricks and the other half wants to be just like them. With a few exceptions.” Zach. Scott took a deep breath as his face heated. Even a brief thought of Zach was enough to trip him up. He wondered if Zach would be okay with him spending the night again. He’d said they’d have to cool it a bit when the season started—Scott should be spending time with his “girlfriend”—but the season hadn’t started yet, so . . . “Anyway, Lord Stanley is end game. We ain’t gonna get our hands on him without someone solid between the pipes. That’s you.”