by Lynda Aicher
“Rumor has it you might be playing soon.”
The shift in topic was laid out too smoothly for Dylan to completely trust. He’d been practicing with the team for the last two weeks and was feeling solid on his hip. It didn’t mean he was ready for a full-contact game. “I haven’t been cleared for it yet.” The doctors had the final say.
“This might be my last season.” Walters mumbled the statement on a casual note that almost filtered by Dylan. Almost.
“What?” He jerked around to stare at the veteran. “How? Why?” The man might be stretching into his mid-thirties, but he still played great.
It was Walter’s turn to analyze his bottle. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and scratched at his full beard. “I don’t know. Maybe not.” He grimaced. “I’m still nailing down my contract and the thought of going out on top has crossed my mind more than once.”
Dylan forced his gaping mouth closed and swung back around to stare unseeing at the ball game. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re at the start of your career and I’m at the end of mine.” He peered at Dylan. “I can still remember the high of getting that first big contract. Of the rush when I started my first game in the pros on center ice.” He gave a mocking chuckle and shook his head. “Or maybe it’s just because you’re here and I feel like dumping my shit on someone else for once.”
A dozen different responses tumbled in and out of Dylan’s mind, none of which seemed appropriate. In the end, he lifted his glass and held it out to the man. Walters frowned then tapped his bottle to Dylan’s glass. “You’d be missed.”
Walters’s smirk said he didn’t agree. “Thanks.”
His first sip of the watered-down scotch was heavy in his mouth and he held it on the back of his tongue before he let it burn down his throat. He inhaled, and the distinctive smoky scent triggered a slide show of memories that came with their own built-in emotional reel. His mother’s favorite drink always worked to keep him from repeating her mistakes.
Dylan set his glass down, fitting it on the wet ring that had formed on the coaster. It was more than tempting to down the scotch and ask for another, then another. He inhaled again and let the scent slam the longing closed. As tempting as it was, drinking himself into mindless intoxication over losing Samantha wouldn’t help.
“Can I ask you something?” he ventured, since they seemed to be dipping into the well of emotional shit men usually avoided.
“Knock yourself out.”
“How come you never married?” Most of the players over thirty were either married or divorced.
Walters’s bark of laughter rolled into a derisive chuckle that he chased with a drink of his water. “That story’s too old and long to tell. Let’s just say I found it better to focus on things I could control instead of chasing after something I couldn’t.”
Once again, Dylan clinked his glass to Walters’s bottle. Now that was a philosophy he could get behind. He certainly didn’t need the back-and-forth bullshit he’d been through with Samantha.
Damn it. He set the drink down and drew his hand away because he really couldn’t imagine going back to his life before her. In spite of her living thousands of miles away, they’d managed to get even closer. Talking, texting, video-chatting—every conversation a chance to learn something new and simply be themselves.
“My turn,” Walters said. “Does it still hurt when you think of her?”
His hand fisted in time with the vise that tightened around his heart. Every damn time was his honest answer. He swallowed and choked out a “Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s not over.” Walters nudged Dylan’s knee. “You can lose a game, but it doesn’t mean you’ve lost the series.”
“Oh. We are so not over,” Dylan clarified, certainty sharpening his words. “She has some things to do. Goals I won’t stand in the way of. But we are definitely not over. Not if I have a say in it.” Which he wasn’t really sure if he did. He’d promised to stay away until she was ready. That’d been his final compromise when he wouldn’t concede to no contact at all.
Yeah, it still fucking hurt every time he thought of her. There was no logic to it and it was possible she’d never come back to him, but he still loved her.
“You know what I think about at night when I can’t sleep?” Walters said. Dylan shook his head, going along with the man’s odd mood because it was better than talking about Samantha. “What I missed out on by playing hockey.”
Dylan frowned but stayed silent. He understood about sacrifices for the sport. Every player did.
“I’m closing in on thirty-five, have more money than I’ll spend in a dozen lifetimes, a room full of trophies and awards I’ve been collecting since I was seven and it’s all for what?”
“It’s all for the love of the game,” Dylan answered without hesitation. “We all play because we have to, right?” That was what Samantha had lost sight of. It didn’t matter what they were playing for when stepping onto the ice was what allowed them to breathe.
Walters flicked his eyes over Dylan, his face unreadable. “What happened to your hat?” His gaze dropped to Dylan’s shoes. “And your boots?”
He looked away and searched for an answer. “That story’s too new and long to tell,” he finally said, which got a chuckle from the other man. “Let’s just say I outgrew them.”
“Huh.” Walters took a long drink of his water. “That’s a shame.”
“You’re the one who told me it was time to grow up.”
“Growing up doesn’t mean forgetting where you came from.”
“For me it did.” Dylan shoved the scotch to the edge of the bar and sat back.
“I disagree,” Walters said quietly. “But then, my opinion really doesn’t matter. It’s yours that holds the weight.”
And his opinion hadn’t gotten him shit lately. Fuck. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to hold the chuckles to himself. He had the damn contract he’d coveted so badly, his career was poised to take off and he’d taken the steps to leave the party boy image behind, yet he was more lost than ever.
“And what do you do when the weight is too much to carry on your own?” His mumbled question was said more to himself than Walters. The man answered anyway.
“You find someone to help balance it out or you find a way to unload it.”
Or you bury the shit deep enough that no one will ever know. Which was what he’d done with only minimal success for years before Samantha had come into his life. He didn’t want to go back to that. Damn it. Dylan slapped a twenty on the bar and stood. He squeezed Walters’s shoulder. “Thanks for the talk.”
The man saluted him. “Anytime.”
Dylan shoved his phone in his pocket. “Your contract’s still in limbo then?” Walters gave a single nod. “Good luck.” Walters flicked his brow up and offered a silent whatever.
Dylan made it out of the restaurant without seeing anyone else. He didn’t have the energy to banter politely. He scratched at his beard and inhaled the scent of freshly mowed grass when he hit the outside. The May night was cool but pleasant with a warm summer hint in the air. The off-season was a series loss away and for once he wasn’t looking forward to it.
Most of the guys would split for their hometowns or whatever vacation spot they preferred to spend their personal time at. He’d always stayed in town because going back to the ranch had never been relaxing. Still wasn’t.
Which left weeks of unclaimed time for him to fill if Samantha remained adamant about not seeing him. He wouldn’t force it, not after he’d given his word to give her the space she needed. Staying away was fucking hard though.
The locks bleeped on his new truck when he pushed the key fob. The new car smell tickled his nose every time he got in and he habitually searched for the hay scent that had never faded from his old one. The leather complained when he slid into the driver’s seat. The bucket seat had plenty of room for him yet somehow managed to feel small. He was
used to spreading out on the old bench seat that had molded to fit him perfectly over the years.
This sleek black monster was all part of his new image. One he’d planned out with Jeff and was meticulously executing. It didn’t matter that it all felt fake. It was the next step in a plan that had lost its value about the time Samantha had left.
Chapter Thirty-One
A warm breeze, filled with the fresh scent of flowers, filtered through the open windows to heat up Samantha’s cold apartment. She snuggled under her comfortable Gophers sweatshirt and tucked her cold toes beneath her legs. It was gorgeous outside. In the upper seventies and sunny, conditions that usually didn’t hit Minnesota until late June. Mid-May in Northern California meant early summer for her—if she was outside.
The lack of central heating in her small apartment had her shivering in an odd juxtaposition of normal for her. After four weeks of living there, she still couldn’t get used to it.
Her phone buzzed, vibrating through the cushion of the futon to tickle her leg with another jolt of regret. She’d sworn she wasn’t going to have any. It didn’t matter though. They still continued to crop up and mock her.
She tore her wandering attention from the hockey roundup program on TV and picked up her phone with a heavy sigh. The tightening in her stomach was yet another thing she was now used to.
We did it. This text came with a selfie of smiling Meg and Lacy decked out in their caps and gowns. They’d both received degrees in sports management so they were able to share the commencement fun.
She could’ve experienced it for herself instead of living vicariously through random texts. Just like she could’ve been there to celebrate with Dylan when the Glaciers moved into the conference championships. The empty hole within her that had held through her cross-country drive and move-in had filled over the past four weeks with all the things she missed so incredibly much. More than she’d expected it to.
She’d talked to Dylan every day since she’d driven out of Minneapolis, tears streaming down her face, his worn cowboy hat riding shotgun. Her eyes went to its place of prominence on the small dining table she’d never eaten at. He’d refused to take it, insisting she’d bring it back when she was ready. His faith in her was that strong. Every text or message or call was both a joy and a reminder of what she’d left behind.
Congrats! The text she sent back to Meg was lame, but it was doubtful her two friends had time to worry about it. Her communication with both of them had been limited since she’d left. She’d been caught up in settling into her place and the class she’d rushed here to take. One she was doing fine in, even if it wasn’t holding her interest.
Damn it.
She slumped against the back of the futon and dug in to her resolve. This was her path. The one she’d needed to take. But more and more she was wondering if it was the one she should be on.
In an effort to steady herself, she ran through her task list, something she did every morning to keep from sitting in her apartment all day. She’d traveled all over the world, but it’d always been with a team. Being completely alone was new to her.
Having absolutely no one who shared any of her hobbies or background had come with a shocking dose of isolation that left her longing to return home. But to what? That was the unanswered question that kept her where she was.
The second round of the play-offs was almost done, and no one here was debating it. It was like the hockey play-offs didn’t exist. She was dying to talk strategy with someone, analyze the calls and plays, predict who would win—anything. There was probably a sports bar around that would have some diehard fans watching, but it wasn’t the same as watching with friends.
The knock on her apartment door jolted through the room. She lurched off the futon in a surprised reaction that had her stumbling around the coffee table before she got her footing. Who in the world would be at her door?
She peered through the peephole and jerked back with a gasp before she flicked the locks and threw the door open. “Coach Ford? What are you doing here?” The last person she expected to see on her doorstep was her old college coach. But she was so happy to see a familiar face she barely resisted smothering the man in a bear hug.
“Sam.” His smile warmed her better than the sun blazing behind him. “It’s good to see you. Do you have a minute?”
“What? Of course.” She stepped aside and waved him in. She checked outside before closing the door, not certain what she was looking for, but found nothing. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” he reassured her. “I came out here to see you.” He turned around in her small living room and tucked his hands into his khakis, a soft-sided briefcase hanging off his shoulder. His maroon polo had the Gophers Women’s Hockey logo stamped over his heart. He was clean-shaven and hat-free, his receding hairline creating inverted Vs at his temples.
“Why?” She was dumbfounded. He’d never stopped by her house in all the years she’d played for him.
He looked at the small breakfast table shoved against the wall and then the futon. “Can we sit down?”
Damn. Where were her manners? “Yes. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m good.” He sat on the far end of the futon and dug a manila folder out of his bag. “How’ve you been?”
She turned off the television and perched on the other end of the futon, tucking a foot under her so she could face him. “Good. My class is interesting.” Lie. “And the weather is great.” Semi truth. “How’ve you been?”
“Decent.” He set the folder on the coffee table and leaned his forearms on his knees. “I’m not sure if you heard, but Coach Ziegler resigned to accept a position with another university.”
“No. I hadn’t.” The assistant coach had been with the team all four years Sam had played for the Gophers. “That’s good for him though. Right?” She hesitated on that, unsure what Coach Ford thought.
“It is.” He inclined his head, lips thinning. “But it leaves me with a position to fill.”
A rush of understanding had her head spinning as she jumped to a conclusion that was too surreal to be true. Darkness crowded the edges of her vision, her skin flushed hot and she suddenly wished she wasn’t wearing the heavy sweatshirt. She wet her lips, swallowed and tried to calm her heart rate.
“You can probably guess why I’m here.” He opened the folder, and she hurriedly rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans while he wasn’t looking. “I’ve waded through dozens of applicants for the position, interviewed a half-dozen of them. My problem is I already know who’d be perfect for the position. Who I want in that role, and none of the applicants come close to her.”
Oh, shit. What did she say? Words were stuck somewhere in her dry throat with no possible way of getting through.
He handed her a small stack of papers clipped together. The top letter had the embossed U of M Women’s Hockey logo in the corner, making it official looking. Somehow she managed to glance through them, catching a few words and figures. Assistant Coach Position. Salary. Bonus.
She couldn’t grasp it, even though it was laid out before her.
“I’d like to offer you the position, Sam.” His voice had gentled, getting her to look up. “You know the team and program. The players respect you. Your game instincts are outstanding and most of all, you love it.”
I loved it. The truth rang through her. She really did love it. Not just playing, but everything else too. She’d spent the last year refusing to admit what everyone else could see. Why?
Compartmentalization? Dissociation? Reaction Formation? Substitution? She’d had plenty of time to complete a psych analysis on herself. Admitting to the uncovered truths wasn’t as easy as defining them.
Coach cleared his throat, and Sam realized he was waiting for her to respond. “I…” The word came out on a weak squeak that sent a rush of heat up her face. And that was professional. She swallowed and tried again. “I don’t know what to say. I’m already enrolled i
n the master’s program here.” One that was two years long.
“Actually, I’ve looked into that.” He pulled another stack of papers from his folder and handed them over. “You probably know this school offers an online course for your program.” Yeah, she did. She’d forgotten about it until he’d mentioned it though. She’d dismissed it when she’d applied because she’d wanted out of Minnesota. “You could transfer to it and that would enable you to do both. I’m more than willing to make allowances for your classes and,” he added, a smirk lighting his face, “you could do your internships at U of M if you wanted. I’ve spoken to the athletic director, and he’s willing to do the groundwork to get the jobs accepted with this program.”
Wow. She sat back, stunned beyond thought. Blown away actually by the amount of work and effort the man had put into recruiting her for the position. “You really want me for this job?” She hadn’t intended for her bewilderment to come through so clearly, but it did.
He gave a soft chuckle, eyes dancing. “Yes, Sam. I really want you for this job.”
“But I ignored the team for most of the year.”
“But the times you did come in confirmed what I’d already known.”
“What was that?” She couldn’t help asking after the way he let the statement hang.
“Coaching is in your blood.” His impassioned tone reminded her of her father. She prepared for the kick that usually came at a thought like that, only it didn’t happen this time. Instead, there was a note of agreement that filled her with pride. Yeah, coaching was in her blood.
“My dad would love to hear you say that,” she said, knowing it was true.
Coach Ford chuckled. “That man is passionate about your game and the way you play. I used to enjoy discussing your games with him.”
“You did?”
“Of course. Every great player gets talked about. How many do you analyze every day?” He arched a brow in question. “Your father is proud of everything you’ve accomplished. So am I.” He chucked again. “But I think you would’ve gotten where you are with or without me.”
