He should have had that shot. It had been damn near perfect, his timing just right. How the fuck had he missed? Not once but twice. Every single game. He kept waiting, thinking the next one would be the one.
Only it never was.
Now, instead of waiting to score, he was waiting to be benched…permanently. He was on the fourth line and his ice time sucked. Not as bad as it could, but nowhere near where it used to be.
What made it worse was that he was trying. He was really trying. He stayed late after practice, ran extra drills on the ice, spent extra time in the weight room. He didn't want to be a fuck up anymore. This was what he wanted. This, right here. The ice and the sweat and the cuts and the bruises. The sore muscles and stiff body. The freedom he felt when he moved across the ice, the exhilaration of winning, the feeling of family. Of being accepted, being part of a team, part of something bigger than just himself.
All of it. He wanted it. Craved it. It was the only thing he knew, one of the few things he had dreamed of. He had come so close to losing it, to throwing it away because of a silly, childish disappointment. He was close to losing it now.
And the thought terrified him.
Maybe he'd never make it back to the pros, maybe his future would always be here. He didn't care, as long as he had it. As long as he could play.
But he was in the middle of a potentially career-killing dry spell, with no end in sight. No matter what he did, nothing seemed to work. And now it was catching up to him, screwing with his mind, with his focus, his concentration.
Because yeah, that was just what he needed: something else to screw with his head, after everything else he'd been through. After everything else he'd screwed up in his life.
Jason nudged him, pulling his attention back to the game—which is where it should have been all along. Harland watched the play on the ice, banged his stick against the boards with everyone else when Zach scored seconds before the final buzzer. They piled out on the ice, congratulating their goalie, Tyler Bowie, on another win.
Then it was back to the locker room for a lecture from the coaching staff, to listen to kudos and criticisms. Harland kept his gaze lowered, afraid of being singled out, afraid he'd see what was coming in the coach's eyes. He didn't want that, couldn't face it.
Then it was time to hit the showers and change, grab his bag and climb onto the bus for the long drive home. They had off tomorrow but he'd still hit the rink, still work on his puck handling and shooting. And then he'd stop by Courtney's and spend time with Noah.
He moved toward the back of the bus, tossed his small duffel bag onto the overhead rack then slid into the window seat. Sleep might be possible—if he could get his mind to clear. If the last two weeks were any indication, he already knew that probably wouldn't happen.
It didn't make sense. If you didn't count his shitty game, things were finally looking up. His father had moved out after that fucked-up confrontation, and he'd done it without taking as much of Harland's shit as he had expected. Yeah, because he had expected to come home to a completely empty place. It didn't matter, he was gone. An end to a chapter that had been dragging on for too long.
He was spending more and more time with Noah, settling into something that felt like a comfortable routine. And Courtney had given him a bittersweet gift: pictures and videos of Noah from the last two years. Snippets of things he'd missed, a brief glimpse into life's precious moments.
And Courtney…he wasn't sure how to define what was between them. They had become closer in the last few weeks but how close? It wasn't like it had been before. Would it ever be? No. They were older now, different than the young kids they had been. They spent time with Noah, spent time together. Cuddling, making love, just being together. Being a family.
Only it didn't feel quite right, felt like something was missing, like something was off. Almost like they were just playing at being a family, like she was holding something back.
Or maybe he was, without even realizing it. Or maybe his idea of family was so completely fucked-up that he didn't know what a real family was supposed to be like.
"Are you going to be like this the entire ride back? Because if you are, I don't want to sit next to you."
Harland looked up, frowned at Jason and was ready to tell him he could go sit somewhere else. But he was too late because Jason was already dropping into the seat next to him. Zach and Tyler took the seats in front of them, making him bite back a groan. He should move, maybe go sit next to Aaron so he wouldn't have to listen to shit for the next four hours. Tyler wasn't too bad, usually quiet and pretty even-keeled even if he was a little out there. But hell, he was a goalie—they all had those weird quirks.
Maybe if Harland looked out the window, or closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, they'd ignore him. Yeah, right. That hope only lasted for five minutes after the bus pulled out of the lot.
"You're jinxed."
Harland's eyes popped open and he shot a dirty look at Jason. "What?"
"You heard me. You're jinxed. You can't score to save your life."
Harland shook his head, trying to ignore the words, trying to shake off the icy coldness that swept through him at the words. He didn't buy into a lot of the superstitious shit the other guys did. At least, not most of it. But like every other player he had ever known, he had his own rituals, his own little idiosyncrasies. For Jason to even say the word jinxed was throwing out bad mojo Harland didn't need to hear.
Zach turned around in the seat, leaned over the back so he could join in the conversation. Great, just what Harland needed. "Yeah, man. Something is definitely going on with you. You're cursed."
"Fucking shit guys. Would you knock it off? I don't need to hear this shit, okay? I'm trying. It's just a dry spell. Not a jinx or a curse, so just knock it off." He shifted in his seat, let his gaze drift to the scenery passing by the window. Yeah, because the blackness of night broken by the occasional light of a street lamp was so much more entertaining.
"You're trying too hard."
Harland looked up, swallowed a groan when he saw Tyler leaning over the seat as well. Great, even the goalie was getting in on it now. Only he actually looked serious, instead of being a smart ass like Jason and Zach.
Tyler watched him with dark steady eyes filled with a laser focus. The look was made even more intense because he was one of those guys who had those long thick lashes that most women longed for. But he wasn't feminine, not even close. Rugged face, a perpetual scruff that darkened his jaw, long black hair that would be the subject of a hundred different hockey-flow memes if he was in the pros.
Yeah, he definitely had the goalie mojo thing down pat. Too damn bad it was all focused on Harland right now.
"What do you mean, I'm trying too hard?"
Tyler shrugged. "Just what I said. I watched you. You tense up right before you shoot. Always. You're trying too hard."
Jason and Zach both looked at him, disbelief clear on their faces. Then they both laughed.
"Bullshit. There's no such thing as trying too hard."
"Yeah man." Zach rolled his eyes and nudged Tyler with his elbow, hard enough that the other man bumped into the window. "He's cursed. Has been since last year. His game's gone to shit."
"Yeah. So all you have to do is tell us why your game went to shit, and the curse will be gone." Jason leaned in closer. He might be smiling but there was a seriousness in those freaky blue eyes that contradicted the teasing.
Harland shook his head, trying to ignore all three of them. He wasn't telling anyone what happened—not even Courtney, and she might be the only person who understood. But even that was a stretch. How could he expect anyone to understand, when he didn't really understand himself? It was foolish. Childish. And so fucking stupid, it didn't even deserve mentioning.
And it had nothing to do with his game. Nothing. Yeah, maybe he'd lost it last year, let what happened get to him in ways it shouldn't have. Let it throw him off and fuck up his attitude and got him sent back here.
But it had nothing to do with his game.
And in some weird, twisted way, he was almost happy it happened. If it hadn't, if he hadn't been sent back here, he may have never found out about Noah.
Jason elbowed him in the side. "Come on. Time to come clean. What happened last year?"
"Let it go."
"You know what they say: confession is good for the soul."
"Fuck off."
"Touchy, touchy." Jason laughed then settled more comfortably into his seat. Harland looked around, wondering again if it was too late to change seats.
"Fine, don't tell us." Zach leaned even further over the seat, a glint in his eyes. "Tell us about your baby mama. You guys together?"
"Why do you care?"
"Because man, if you're not, I wouldn't mind—"
Harland reached up, grabbed Zach's tie, and yanked. "You stay the fuck away from her."
"Whoa. Fine. Whatever." Zach held his hands up, the teasing gone from his eyes. "I was only messing with you. Fuck. I wouldn't make a play for her. None of us would. You know that."
Harland released his grip and sat back in the seat, took a few deep breaths. Yeah, he knew that, should have known Zach was just fucking with him, trying to get a reaction out of him. Well, he did. Probably not the reaction he was expecting but fuck him. Maybe next time he'd think before running his mouth.
Jason either didn't know when to leave things alone, or didn't care, because he shifted in his seat once more and leaned a little closer. "Seriously though, what's the story? You guys together or what?"
Harland took another deep breath and wondered if he should sit on his hands. If he didn't, there was a very real possibility he'd end up beating the shit out of Jason several times in the next few hours.
He opened his mouth, ready to tell Jason exactly that, when he felt a vibration in his front pocket. The sensation startled him, causing him to jump until he realized it was his phone. Who the hell would be calling him this late?
He knew the answer before the question had completely formed in his mind. He dug into his pocket, grabbed the phone and tapped the screen. There was a second of blackness and he thought maybe he'd hit the wrong button, then the screen cleared and Courtney's face was looking back at him.
He glanced around, saw that the annoying trio was still watching him. He shot all three a dirty look then pulled the phone closer to his face. "Hey. What's up?"
"Is this a bad time?"
"No." He frowned at his rapt audience then shifted, wedging himself as close to the window as he could. His eyes moved back to the screen, focusing on Courtney. Her face was drawn, tired, maybe a little pale. Wisps of hair floated around her face, like she'd been running her hands through it over and over—or maybe trying to pull it out. "Everything okay? Is something wrong?"
"Your son is what's wrong."
A thrill shot through him at words. Your son. Would he ever get tired of hearing that? Ever stop feeling that warm sense of pride? Christ, he hoped not.
Then the rest of the words sunk in and he frowned. "What happened? Is everything okay? Isn't he sleeping?"
"He's having a meltdown. I've never seen him act this way. Usually I can get him to calm down but…" Her voice trailed off but not before he heard the desperation in it. He pulled the phone closer, saw the almost frantic light in her eyes.
"Is he sick? Does he have a fever?"
"No. I thought so too at first but no, it's not that." She glanced over her shoulder then looked back at him. "This is just a full-blown meltdown. I thought…would you talk to him? Maybe if he saw you—"
"Yeah." Harland cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the unexpected lump. "Yeah, sure."
Relief crossed her face a second before it disappeared from the screen. He watched as the background changed, caught a glimpse of the hallway floor, the edge of a door, the carpeting on the floor of Noah's room.
Then he saw his son's face, angry and tear-streaked, red and blotchy. He was crying, screaming his version of displeasure. And whoa, okay. Harland had never seen him quite like this before. Meltdown? Yeah, that was one way to describe it.
The background changed again, whirring across the screen. Courtney had picked Noah up, was trying to juggle his squirming son and the phone at the same time. Then all he saw was the floor as she started walking. She must be going into her room, or someplace where she could sit the phone down to hold Noah and talk and sign all at the same time. He sure as hell hoped so.
He looked up, saw three sets of eyes on him. Watching, listening. "Come on guys, really? Can you maybe mind your own fucking business?"
"I heard that."
Harland jumped, looked back at the screen. Courtney was watching him, one eyebrow raised, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. But she still looked frazzled, tired, at wit's end.
"Uh, sorry."
The background moved as she placed the phone on the makeshift stand on her dresser. Then she shifted and Noah appeared on the screen with her. He was still crying, his back arching as he swung his arms, the stuffed plane clutched in one fist.
Courtney snapped her fingers in front of him, trying to get his attention. Once, twice. "Noah. Noah, look who it is. See? Look who it is."
She pointed at the phone—at Harland—then snapped her fingers again. "Noah, sweetie. Look. It's Daddy. See? There's Daddy."
Harland froze, unable to move, to blink, to breathe. Courtney snapped her fingers again, finally got Noah's attention, then made a sign for him: her hand held straight out, fingers spread wide, thumb tapping against her forehead.
Father.
Daddy.
"See Noah? It's Daddy. Daddy's right here. Look."
Noah quieted down, his eyes watching Courtney as she made the sign over and over again. He hiccupped, shook his head, hiccupped again then finally looked over at the phone.
Harland bit the inside of his cheek, hard, trying to not lose it. He couldn't lose it, not here, not now. But how could he not? His son was watching him, a smile on his face, his hand making the sign for Daddy.
Noah was calling him Daddy.
Harland pulled air into his lungs, trying to fill them before he passed out. His eyes burned, felt gritty and tired, and he made a quick swipe at them with a hand that shook too much. Then he smiled, almost laughed.
"Hey little man. It's okay. Daddy's here." Harland's free hand unclenched and he brought it up, hesitant at first, almost awkward as he made the sign. Again, more comfortable this time. "Daddy's here. So stop giving Mommy a hard time, okay?"
Noah's grin grew wider and he reached for the phone, the screen filling with his tiny hand. He heard Courtney in the background saying something, saw the two of them reappear on the screen as she pulled Noah away. He looked at his mom, bounced up and down in her arms, then pointed at the screen and made the sign for Daddy again.
"Yes, you little monster. Just like I told you." She dropped a kiss on the top of his head then looked back at Harland. "He kept asking for you, wouldn't settle down. I didn't know what else to do."
"Uh, yeah." Harland cleared his throat, had to stop himself from rubbing his eyes again. "No problem. So, uh—that's a new one, huh?"
He didn't have to explain what he meant and Courtney didn't even pretend to misunderstand. She offered him a small smile, so tender. A softness filled her eyes, releasing some of the stress and tension that had been there when she first called.
"We've been working on it. It, uh, it didn't take him long to pick it up."
Harland nodded, tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, blinked against the burning in his eyes. He tried to talk, had to stop and clear his throat. "Thank you."
Courtney's tender smile grew wider and she nodded. She bent down, picked up the stuffed plane Noah had dropped, then moved closer to the phone. "Say goodnight to Daddy, Noah."
His son leaned in, sleepiness already dancing across his tired face, and waved goodnight. He pulled the plane against his chest, let his head drop to his moth
er's shoulder.
"Goodnight, little man." Harland made a quick sign then hesitated. Slowly, each movement careful and deliberate, he made a second one.
Courtney watched him for a long second, her face carefully blank. "That's, uh, that's not the sign for 'plane'."
He captured her gaze, held it, gave her a small smile. "I know." Then he disconnected the call before she could say anything, before he could see her reaction.
He jammed the phone back into his pocket and took a deep breath, ready to fend off the teasing he was sure he'd get. But nobody was watching him, nobody was paying attention to him. In fact, the terrible trio was nowhere to be found. When had they moved to give him privacy? He didn't know, didn't care.
He settled back in the seat and stretched his legs out, getting as comfortable as he could. Then he closed his eyes, a smile on his face as he replayed the video call over and over in his mind.
Daddy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harland wiped his sweaty palm on his pants then tried to get the key into the lock one more time without it slipping through his hand. Why the fuck was he so nervous? He shouldn't be.
He glanced over his shoulder, tried to smile at Courtney, then turned back. Yeah, he was fucking this up, he could tell by the odd little look she had given him. He took a deep breath, finally got the key to turn, and pushed open the door.
He palmed the switch and moved to the side, letting her in. This was only the second time she had been here—unless you counted that morning a few weeks ago, which he didn't. He didn't even like to think about that morning. And he didn't count the first time she had been here, either, because it had been too formal, too stiff. Too confrontational.
This time was about them, just the two of them.
She stepped inside, shrugging out of her coat as she looked around. Her face was carefully blank, her eyes revealing nothing of what she thought.
Harland tossed the keys on the small table by the door then jammed his hands into his back pockets. What did she think? What did she see when she looked around?
Probably the same thing he saw: a bare bones bachelor pad in desperate need of a talented decorator. Or even an untalented one. It was livable, even comfortable, he'd admit that much.
[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game Page 15
