“Focus,” he said.
“I am focused.”
“You’re focused on being pissed at Bergy and the officials and God only knows who else. You need to focus on the game.”
Damn it. I hated it when Babs was right—especially because it happened far too often for my tastes.
Out on the ice, one of the linesmen dropped the puck, and one of our young centermen, Austin Cooper, won the draw—but barely.
“He needs to get lower,” I muttered. “The kid doesn’t give himself a wide enough base.”
“Maybe you should tell him that,” Babs said.
“I’ve told him.”
“Tell him again. Most of us need to hear something several times before it sinks in. You’re not the only one like that, you know.”
I glowered at the ice because I knew he was right.
Babs was always right, damn it. And damn him, too.
But no matter how much I wanted to hate him for it, I couldn’t, because he seemed to really get me. He understood all my quirks and that I didn’t mean to be an asshole all the time, even if I didn’t know how to stop myself from doing exactly that. So if there was anyone among my teammates who I needed to try not to piss off, it was Babs.
The clock kept ticking down the time left in the game. We had under five minutes left to score and avoid overtime.
Coop’s line came off the ice, Babs and his line went on, and Coop took the seat Babs had just vacated. Which meant maybe I should do what Babs had suggested and tell the kid what he needed to hear.
“You’ve got to get lower on face-offs,” I said, still watching the action on the ice but trusting that Coop could hear me over the crowd. “You’re not giving yourself a chance against a guy like O’Reilly.”
“I can’t get much lower without losing my balance.”
“Then you need to stretch and get in the gym more. Need to build up your quads and your core.”
“Just don’t try to get me to do naked yoga,” Coop said, and I almost busted a gut laughing.
I’d started doing naked yoga in the locker room a couple of months back in an effort to ground myself and calm my mind before practices and games. I still liked to do it every now and then. Coop hadn’t been in town yet, then, but he’d heard about it as soon as he’d arrived for training camp…and he’d witnessed it any number of times in the interim.
To be fair, the only part of it that had actually been suggested to me was the yoga part. Doing it naked—and in the locker room, no less—had been all my idea. But true yoga aficionados seemed to think that adding the naked element aided in focusing the mind or some shit, and I was determined to do everything possible to clear my mind of all the shit constantly racing through it.
Stripping down in front of the boys? Why the hell not? It wasn’t like they’d never seen this shit before.
Besides, I looked good, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.
Apparently, some of the guys didn’t appreciate the glory of my limp dick dangling in their faces while I maintained a camel pose or whatever.
Tough cookies if you asked me.
They wanted me to be focused in games, so they needed to deal with whatever I required to achieve that level of focus. And lately, focus was even more difficult than normal, for some reason.
So far, practicing yoga (whether naked or otherwise) hadn’t helped me too much—as evidenced by my begging for Bea’s assistance in any way she’d concede to give it. Still, I liked to do some yoga in the room occasionally before practices and games, but primarily because the rest of the guys freaked out more than because it was helping me to slow down my racing thoughts.
Yeah, I kind of liked being a jerk like that and causing my teammates to flip out. Sue me. It nearly made me giggle like a toddler, seeing some of the guys’ reactions. Hammer hadn’t looked at me the same way since the first time I’d done it, and I was almost positive that Colesy had been checking me out. Yeah, maybe he was dating Luke Weber these days, but a guy was free to look, right? I was hot, and I didn’t care how many people knew it.
Maybe I was a bit of an exhibitionist.
But that was neither here nor there. I shook my head, trying to redirect my thoughts and get it back on the game—and the advice I’d been trying to give to Coop.
The refs had blown the whistle yet again, and now the players on the ice were lining up for another face-off. Bergy sent our top line out to take this one.
“Watch how low RJ gets,” I said to Coop. “He’ll practically have his nose on the ice. Keeps his weight centered, and he can get more power behind it when he sweeps his stick for the puck.”
“You get a taste for teaching after training camp?” Webs asked from behind me, curiosity mingling with approval in his tone.
A taste for teaching? Huh. Maybe I had. Maybe this was more to do with the time I’d been spending with Bea and her students, though. I wasn’t sure, to be honest, and I wasn’t ready to examine it more closely. I shrugged, focusing on the action.
RJ won the draw and sent the puck flying back to our defense. Keith Burns snagged it and immediately turned the play back up the ice.
“Stick around after practice tomorrow,” I said to Coop, watching what Burnzie and the rest of the guys were doing. “I’ll work with you for a while. It’ll help the whole team if you can win even five or ten percent more draws than you already do. It could mean we end up getting further in the playoffs or something. It’s the little things, to be honest.”
Coop snorted, but he didn’t try to shake me off.
And then our top line worked their magic. Nate Golston finally got us on the scoreboard with about three minutes left in the game following a sick no-look pass from RJ. The way they could do that only further reinforced the idea that they were somehow twins separated at birth, despite the massive differences in their appearances.
Along with everyone else on the bench, I hooted and hollered for Ghost and the rest of that line, slapping my stick on the boards while the home crowd roared in approval.
Once those guys came off the ice, Bergy sent my linemates and me out again. I lined up at center ice to take the draw, not only thinking about all the shit I needed to do to win it but also about how I could use all the things I knew to help Coop improve his game.
Maybe Bea had gotten under my skin in more than one way. Maybe being around her and those kids had gotten me thinking about teaching…using my obsessive need to pore over every minuscule aspect of every single fucking thing I did so I could help other people in my shoes.
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing.
IT WAS ALREADY too late for me to be up on a school night, since I’d kept Dani company at her house until her husband had come home from the game. That meant it was far, far too late for me to be answering phone calls or text messages.
Yes, I was home and in my pj’s, and I’d fed Neville and Luna, so I ought to be going to bed and trying to sleep. But sleep wasn’t something I tended to do well during the school year. From September through May, I usually operated on a combination of adrenaline, determination, an abundance of B vitamins, and a decent amount of caffeine. Then I caught up on my sleep over the summer.
I’d barely crawled into bed with a stack of papers to grade, hoping to finish these and tackle a bit more lesson planning before I had to nod off, when my phone started beeping with my text message alert.
Everything in me said to ignore it because someone texting me at almost midnight couldn’t mean anything good. But then there was a niggling thought that maybe Dani needed help with something, even though I knew Cody was with her now and he could take care of whatever she might need at this hour.
I should totally ignore this message. It was the only sane, logical thing for me to do.
Despite my reservations, I glanced at the screen. Apparently, I wasn’t in the mood to behave in a sane or logical manner. I didn’t recognize the number, which was even more reason I should forget it all until morning. But instead, I f
ound myself swiping my thumb across the screen.
Then I really wished I’d followed my instincts. The message was from Blake Kozlow, no less. I really ought to just put the phone down and go back to my work. Or to sleep. Or anything else, but I definitely shouldn’t read this message.
I didn’t want to think about him any more than I already had been for most of the night while watching the game at Dani’s house. It seemed as if the television broadcast had spent an inordinate amount of time focused on him throughout the game. It wasn’t as if he’d had an exceptional night—whether good or bad—so there was no reason for them to zoom in on him constantly. Yet every time I’d glanced up, his cocky grin had been filling the TV screen: on the bench, on the ice, during the intermission segments.
I couldn’t get away from him.
Apparently not even when I ought to be sleeping.
But since I was a glutton for punishment and I couldn’t seem to make myself ignore him the way I knew I ought to do, I read his message.
Blake: Since you’re still awake, can you start teaching me how to do this crochet shit?
Me: I’m not awake. I’m sleeping. This is me snoring.
Blake: You sleep with your lights on? And you can send text messages in your sleep? Impressive. That’s another skill I need you to teach me.
Me: How do you know my lights are on?
Blake: Because I’m in your driveway.
Me: Why are you in my driveway at this hour?
Blake: Because I want you to teach me how to do some of this art shit you made me buy. I’ve got the yarn and needles with me.
Me: Go home and go to bed, Blake. I have to work in the morning.
Blake: So do I. But I can’t sleep.
Me: Have you even tried?
Blake: No point trying. I know myself. Too jacked up after a game. I’ll be up until at least four in the morning, so I need something to do.
I’d already allowed the text conversation to go on too long, and it was driving me crazy to shoot messages back and forth with him. Before I could think it through, I found myself dragging my robe across my shoulders as I headed down the stairs.
I flipped on the porch light and threw open the door.
Blake was standing there, leaning against the wall of my house, looking full of swagger and sexy and fresh out of the shower. His hair was still wet, and he smelled like the most amazing combination of man and soap and a hint of spicy cologne. He had his phone in one hand and a bag full of yarn in the other.
I tugged the edges of my robe tighter and knotted the belt around my waist, trying my best to glare at him. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m restless. Big difference.”
A gust of cool wind blew across me, and I shivered.
“You gonna let me come inside, or are we going to stand here all night while you freeze to death?”
“You should really learn to ask permission to come over before you just show up at my place, you know,” I muttered, but I stood back and ushered him inside. “Or anyone’s house, for that matter. This is becoming a habit. It’s rude. And presumptuous. And I don’t like it. I doubt your parents would approve of this sort of behavior.”
He stared at me for a moment, but then he said, “Grandma wouldn’t like it, that’s for sure.”
“You’re close to your grandmother?” I found myself asking, tightening my robe again.
“She raised me,” he said matter-of-factly. “My parents weren’t around. Anyway, I’m sorry. Thank you for being completely clear with me about what you don’t like.”
I nodded, silently admonishing myself, and indicated that he should come inside. His arm brushed against mine as he passed through my door, even though I’d pressed my back against the wall to give him space. Despite myself, I shivered so hard I almost shuddered—and I didn’t think it had anything to do with being cold this time. If anything, I felt almost hot, which was saying something since I hadn’t felt hot once in all the time since I’d had weight-loss surgery.
When we reached my living room, I turned on the lamps on either side of my couch. Then I took a seat and patted the space next to me.
Blake gave me a wary look before sitting, only further emphasizing the reality that I’d been behaving like a bitch toward him.
Time to make up for it.
“So take out a couple of skeins of yarn,” I said.
“Skeins?”
“The balls. And we’ll need two of the hooks—one for you and one for me.”
“Right.” He dug around in the bag until he came up with all the things I’d asked for.
At first, he handed me the larger hook, keeping the smaller one for himself. I shook my head and switched them out. “You’ll want a bigger one to start with. Especially with hands the size of yours. It’ll be easier to learn with something a bit bigger.” Then I found the free end of each skein of yarn and held one out for him. “Right. So hold your hook in your right hand like so”—I modeled the correct hand positioning for him—“and take the yarn in your left hand like this. Then make a little loop with the yarn, slip the hook through it, and tug the end through like this. That’s how you make a slip stitch to get started.”
“I didn’t catch all of that,” he muttered, twisting his yarn between his fingers in a way that wouldn’t accomplish anything but achieving a knot.
“Try just watching me this time. Then we’ll take it step by step.”
One tiny bit at a time, I showed him how to make a slip stitch, how to create a chain, and how to move from the initial chain to single crochet stitches.
“Now practice those single crochets for a few rows,” I said, once he seemed to have the basic gist of it.
He was studiously staring at the bit of yarn in his hands, so I got up to grab a protein shake from the fridge. If I was already going to be up for a while, as it appeared, I might as well get some fuel for my body. “You need anything from in here?” I called out from the kitchen. “Water? A snack?”
“Got a beer?” he replied.
“Nope.”
“Wine? Hard liquor?”
“I don’t drink alcohol. Don’t keep any in the house as temptation.”
“Of course you don’t,” he muttered, but he seemed to be laughing about it. Not at me, per se. More at the situation. “Water it is, then.”
I grabbed a plastic bottle from the fridge on my way back to the living room, then set it on a coaster on the coffee table since he was otherwise occupied with creating his initial chain.
“It looks messy,” he complained after a bit.
“You’re tugging too tight on the yarn,” I observed. “You need to let it breathe a bit. And it’ll look better once you’ve got a couple of rows, anyway. The stitches will stop curling so much, and your yarn will start to lie flat.”
“I want it to lie flat now. Yours did.”
“Not quite,” I said with a laugh. “Maybe a bit flatter than yours, but I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have. I have a feel for how tight to pull on the yarn and how lax I should allow it to be. I couldn’t go out on the ice and score a goal on the first try. I probably couldn’t even stay upright on my skates.”
“That’s different.”
“Different how? Crochet isn’t something you can pick up and do perfectly without practice, any more than hockey is.”
He scrunched his brow in concentration, fumbling with the yarn. “I’ve been playing hockey my whole life.”
“Exactly. And you’ve been crocheting for all of seven minutes, if that. Give yourself a chance to learn something new.”
For a moment, he looked up and scowled at me before returning his focus to the yarn in his hands. “How many of these chains do I make?”
“You’re just practicing for now, so it doesn’t matter. Make it a few inches long, and then I’ll teach you to turn it and do a row of single crochets.”
I sat next to him again, watching his progress. The hook and yarn seemed delicate in his big ha
nds, but I had no doubt he’d go from awkward and clumsy to focused and proficient in short order.
That was the thing—he needed something to focus on, but then he’d focus so much that he’d master it.
His teammates might be getting crocheted scarves, hats, and blankets as Christmas gifts this year. And maybe he’d make some baby blankets, too, for the ones who had babies on the way. Dani wasn’t the only one currently pregnant if I remembered correctly. And on a team that size, the family was always growing.
Well, he’d be making those things for his teammates if he could force himself to focus, at least.
After a few more minutes, he had a short chain ready to go. I quickly made one of my own, matching his length, so I could demonstrate how to turn his work and begin his first row of single crochets.
“Practice that for a few rows now, and then I’ll teach you the double crochet stitch.”
“Can we turn on the TV or something?” he asked after a while, still studiously working on his third row of single crochets. “I need some sound.”
I reached for the remote and powered on the television. At this hour, there wasn’t much on. I scrolled through the on-screen guide and found a marathon of Impractical Jokers. He watched those guys—I remembered him telling me during that disastrous double date—so I felt safe flipping to that show while I observed Blake’s efforts.
His focus seemed to improve due to having some sound in the room. I made a mental note for myself—not that I intended to spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary. But it wouldn’t kill me to remember these things that could help him out.
By the first commercial break, Blake had a small sample with three rows of single crochets. Yes, his stitches were uneven, so the edges weren’t quite square, but it was a reasonable effort for his first time.
“Ready to move on to double crochets?” I asked as he came to the end of a row.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Free Agent Page 8
