"Back off!"
Holy fucking shit, they were out for blood. Caleb opened his mouth, slammed it shut when he realized he had no idea what to say. This shit didn't happen in real games.
Yeah, because instead of all this verbal back-and-forth, they'd be fighting. And that so wasn't going to happen. Not here, not tonight.
Someone yanked on the sleeve of his jersey, tugging him back. He looked over his shoulder, frowned at the wide smile on Jaxon's face as he led him toward the bench. "Dude, they're out for your blood."
"It was an accident. I didn't mean—"
"Bullshit. You meant it. I just hope the fuck it was worth it."
"What the hell is that supposed to be mean?"
Jaxon stopped, right there at center ice, and leveled such a look of incredulity at him that Caleb actually considered skating away. "Was that goal so fucking important that you actually slashed your fucking girlfriend?"
"I didn't—"
"The hell you didn't." He nodded toward the giant screen hanging above them, at the larger-than-life slow-motion replay. Caleb watched, his stomach twisting each time they showed the play from different angles.
"I wasn't thinking—"
"No shit."
Caleb clenched his jaw, brushing off the guilt. "It's no different than what I'd do if we were playing anyone else. It's a game, that's how you play it."
"Hey, asshole. This is an exhibition game. It doesn't count. And there's something more important than what the fuck is showing on the scoreboard. Maybe if you weren't so fucking focused on winning all the time, you'd realize that."
"What are you talking about?"
"Just what I said." Jaxon shook his head in disgust and skated over to the bench. Caleb slowly followed, wondering what the fuck he meant.
Had he gone overboard? Yeah, probably. He'd lost his perspective for a split-second, had acted on intuition and instinct, like he would in any other game. Yeah, okay, maybe he'd gone a bit more than overboard, but he really hadn't been thinking, had forgotten it was Shannon in the net, had focused solely on tying the game.
And he had—the officials were letting the goal stand. Caleb nodded, climbed over the boards and dropped to the bench. But there was no congratulations, no pats on the back. Even the crowd seemed less than enthusiastic about the goal.
What the fuck was that all about?
Caleb reached for a water bottle, shot a stream into his mouth and started to spit off to the side when he noticed Shannon skating toward the bench. Her left arm was held loosely against her chest, her jaw tight with anger and frustration.
Fuck. Oh fuck. No, she wasn't hurt. She couldn't be hurt.
He jumped to his feet, pushed past his teammates to reach the glass partition dividing the two benches. He started to lean over the boards, to call out to her, but Donovan pulled him back.
It didn't matter, not when Shannon shot him a withering look laced with disgust. Regret churned in his stomach, twisting it inside out.
"Shannon—"
She simply turned away, ignoring him as she headed into the tunnel. The Blades' backup goalie, Karly Durant, headed to the net, taking Shannon's place. Caleb didn't care, all he cared about was seeing Shannon, making sure she was okay.
"Let it go, Johnson. Give her time to cool off." Coach Donovan's voice was low, meant for his ears only.
"I just want—"
"And I said let it go. She needs time to cool off. And you need time to think about what the hell you did out there."
"I didn't—"
"Johnson, do me a favor. Just sit the fuck down and think." Donovan turned away, effectively dismissing him. Caleb hesitated then moved back to the bench, trying to understand what the fuck Coach was talking about.
He was still trying to figure it out when the game ended, the Banners winning three-to-two. The handshake line was little more than a blur, the same with the quick meeting in the locker room, followed by a hasty shower. Everyone was talking about heading to the Maypole—not just the Banners, but a few of the Blades as well. Caleb brushed off the invitations. He already had plans, plans that included Shannon and nobody else.
He just needed to find her first.
That part was easy. She was just coming out of the locker room for the visiting team, her gear bag and a small duffle slung over her shoulder. He glanced at her wrist but couldn't tell if it was bandaged because the sleeve of her coat hung past it. She wasn't cradling it, though. That must be a good sign.
He hurried up to catch her, wondering where she was going when he knew she had seen him. Hadn't she? Maybe she hadn't, maybe she'd been too busy listening to Taylor to notice him. He moved in front of her, turning around and walking backward because she wasn't stopping.
"Hey. How's the wrist?"
"Fine." Her voice was short, the word clipped and a little frosty. He tossed a curious glance at Taylor then kept talking.
"So. Good game, huh?"
Shannon finally stopped, anger flashing in her eyes as she stared up at him. "Yeah. Fan-fucking-tastic. You won. Happy?"
"I—" He paused, frowning. "Are you actually pissed we won?"
"No, Caleb. Not even close."
"Then what am I missing? Because you look pissed."
"You think?"
"I don't get it. Why are you angry?"
"Why? You really have to ask me why? After that fucking cheap shot—"
"It was an accident. I didn't mean—"
"Yeah. Sure you didn't." She tried to move past him but he blocked her.
"Shannon, it was an accident."
"Maybe you should watch the replay again. Really watch it."
Caleb swallowed, his gaze shooting to Taylor for assistance. She simply stared at him, saying nothing. He looked back at Shannon, not bothering to hide his confusion. "You don't honestly think I slashed you on purpose, do you? It was an accident, Shannon. I got carried away—"
"You were pissed."
"What the hell are you talking about? I wasn't pissed. I was just playing hockey, like I always do. It got physical. It wasn't deliberate."
"Really?" She stepped forward, anger flashing in her eyes. "Are you honestly saying you weren't pissed that we were beating you?"
"I wasn't pissed, no. A little frustrated maybe—"
"Like I said, you should watch the replay." She tried to step past him once more, but he blocked her again. Impatience and irritation—and yes, maybe even a little anger—were bubbling to the surface and he pushed them away, tamped them down.
"It's a game, Shannon. It gets physical. You know that—"
"Is that why you think I'm angry? Because it got physical?"
"Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not." A muscle jumped in her clenched jaw, finally stopped when she took a deep breath and let it out—slow, like she was struggling for control. "It was the look on your face, Caleb. You were pissed we were winning and you were going to do anything to make sure that didn't happen."
"That's not true."
"Bullshit." The word came out in a sharp hiss, forced through clenched teeth.
"I can't believe we're even talking about this. Yeah, maybe I forgot myself for a second. That doesn't mean—"
"Tell me, Caleb. Why were you pissed? Because you were down by one? Or because you were being beaten by a bunch of women?"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You heard me. I've seen you play, remember? How many times have you guys been down by one? By more than one? Especially this season. And not once—ever—have you gone after another player like you did out there. So tell me, Caleb: why? What were you so fucking pissed about?"
"I wasn't—" He snapped his mouth closed, shook his head and ran a hand over his face. Had he gone overboard? Yes, he'd been angry, filled with disbelief. But would that have pushed him to do something on purpose? To deliberately go after Shannon? No, he didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it.
His gaze darted to Taylor, wondering why she was still standing there,
still listening to every single word. Didn't she know he'd prefer some privacy? Yeah, probably. But this was Taylor so he shouldn't be surprised.
He turned to the side and leaned closer to Shannon, lowering his voice. "Listen, can we talk about this later? Grab some dinner and go back to my place like we planned?"
"Yeah, that's not happening."
"But—"
"Forget it, Caleb. I'm done." She started to push past him. He caught her arm, quickly dropped it at the withering expression on her face.
"I thought—"
"You thought wrong. I'm done. We're done. Over." She readjusted her grip on the bag then stormed off, not once looking back. Caleb watched as she disappeared around the corner, disbelief and anger mingling in his gut.
And below that, something else. Something that cut deep, deeper than he could have imagined: hurt. Confusion. A sense of loss he didn't quite understand. And none of it made sense. That was it? She was walking away, just like that? Calling it quits?
Because of a fucking accident?
He turned, nearly knocking Taylor over in his hurry to get away. She stepped back and he expected her to give him shit, too. To say something caustic and biting or sarcastic. What he didn't expect was the understanding in her eyes—or the pity.
"Sucks, doesn't it?"
Caleb shook his head, thought about pretending he had no idea what she was talking about then, for reasons he didn't understand, changed his mind. "I don't get it. I don't know what I did, Tay-Tay."
She watched him for a long minute, her whiskey-colored eyes sizing him up. Making him feel small. Inadequate. He expected her to walk away, to not say a word—and she almost did. But she must have changed her mind at the last second because she spun around, her gaze still filled with pity.
"You need to watch the replay, Caleb. And I mean really watch it. Watch your expression during the play. Hell, watch your expression throughout the entire game. And if that doesn't answer your question, then you don't deserve her."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"You going to sit there and fucking mope all night?"
Caleb ignored Jaxon's question and kept staring into his untouched mug of beer. Why the fuck was he even here? He wasn't in the mood to hang out at the Maypole, wasn't in the mood to hang out with the team while they commiserated yet another loss. How many in a row was this now? Four? Five? He frowned, counting back. Yup, five. Five losses in a row—because he wasn't counting that clusterfuck of a game that they won against the Blades four days ago. Yeah, they had won the game. So fucking what?
He'd lost a lot more in the process.
Caleb had finally watched the game film, an exercise that had left him sick to his stomach. When the fuck had winning become the only thing that mattered? When the fuck had he become so consumed by winning that he'd willingly cross the line and do whatever he had to do in order to win?
Watching his face, his expressions, his anger staring back at him from the screen—it was like watching a totally different person. He hadn't recognized himself at first, had refused to believe that was actually him. Jaw clenched, anger and frustration flashing in his eyes as he swung his stick at Shannon.
Swung? No, not even close. He'd been hacking at her wrist with the blade of his stick. Not just once, like he'd first thought. Shannon had actually covered the puck; the play should have been stopped. But the furious stranger on the screen didn't seem to care, had just kept hacking at her wrist, over and over until she finally moved her hand and he shoved the puck across the line.
Why the fuck didn't he remember it that way? He had told himself, at the time, that he was simply acting on instinct. That he was doing what he'd do in any other game. That he was simply playing like usual. Why did it take actually watching the footage on the screen to see all the little details he had no memory of?
Talk about fucking up.
He started to raise the cold mug to his mouth for a long swallow, needing something to wash down the taste of bitterness filling his mouth. Beer sloshed over the thick rim, drenching his wrist when Jaxon elbowed him in the arm.
"Well? Are you?"
Caleb ignored the damp cuff of his shirt, ignored the small puddle of beer gathering on the polished bar in front of him. And he tried to ignore Jaxon as he finally took that first swallow—except the other man wasn't taking the hint.
"You need to come sit with us, stop hanging over here by yourself."
"Not in the mood."
"Yeah, no shit. Ask me if I care."
"Doesn't matter if you do or don't. I'm not in the mood."
"You can mope over there just as well as you can over here. Come on." Jaxon tugged his arm, trying to get him to move. "Join the crowd. Get to know the new goalie."
Caleb swallowed back a sigh with more beer then looked over at the noisy crowd in the far corner. Luke Connelly was gone, traded to Columbus then immediately sent down to the minors, where he would no doubt disappear into oblivion. Corbin Gauthier had been picked up from Colorado in exchange for a draft pick and who knew what else, had flown in two days ago to join the team. Nobody knew what to make of that, what to make of him. He had played for the Banners once before, leaving when Vegas had picked him up in the expansion eight years ago. And there was some kind of history between him and Coach Donovan, some kind of tension nobody understood.
Not that Caleb cared. Right now, he didn't care about much of anything.
Jaxon swore under his breath then finally sat on the empty stool beside Caleb. He leaned forward, motioned for a beer, then settled in. Getting comfortable—like he was prepared to sit there all night and bug the living shit out of Caleb. Until Caleb gave in.
Or until he just got up and left.
"Why don't you just fucking call her and apologize and get it over with?"
Caleb grunted, the sound filled with every ounce of disbelief he could muster. Apologize? It would take a hell of a lot more than an apology to fix this. He could apologize until he was blue in the face and it wouldn't help. Why the hell should Shannon forgive him, when he couldn't even forgive himself?
"You're not even going to try to call her, are you?"
"Why, when I know she won't answer the phone?"
"How do you know if you don't try?"
Caleb twisted on the stool, leveling a flat glare at Jaxon. "I did try." And he had—at least two dozen times. And every single time, his call had gone straight to voicemail. Had she blocked his number? Probably.
He'd even gone over to her place but she wasn't home. Her brother had come out while Caleb was standing in the driveway and made it very clear that he wasn't welcome there. That Shannon wanted nothing to do with him. That he should leave and not bother coming back.
Caleb didn't miss the silent or else tacked onto the end of that last suggestion.
"Then try one more time."
"What good would it do?"
Jaxon made a little humming noise then slowly nodded. "Fine. I'll call her myself."
And damn if the asshole didn't pull the phone from his pocket and pretend he was dialing a number. Except maybe he wasn't pretending, maybe he was really doing it—
Caleb reached for the phone, his fingers slipping off the sides as Jaxon held it out of his reach. "I don't need you intervening for me."
"Who the fuck said anything about intervening? I'm calling to ask her out. Shannon's hot, man. And funny. And—"
Caleb's hand shot out, closed around the other man's collar and twisted. "Do it and I will fuck you up."
Jaxon didn't even flinch. He simply stared at Caleb, his dark blue eyes totally void of emotion. Several seconds marched by, quiet and tense. Then he reached up and slowly, calmly, pushed Caleb's hand away.
"Don't ever grab me again." There was something in the other man's low voice, an eerie calmness that made Caleb sit back with a frown—and more than a little wariness. An apology hovered on the tip of his tongue but before he could get it out, Jaxon's demeanor changed. In the blink of an eye, he was the same m
an Caleb had known for two years: the laughing jokester, the one who always saw the silver lining.
Had Caleb imagined that lethal stillness? Had he read more into it than what had been there?
Fuck. Maybe he was just losing his mind. Maybe he was so caught up in the realization of how big an ass he really was that he was starting to see things.
"You can't have it both ways, Johnson. If you like her, if you really think there's something there, then fucking call her and apologize. Better yet, go see her and grovel. I've heard that works."
"Like she'd even take the time out to see me."
"See her. Don't see her. Apologize or don't apologize. Doesn't bother me one way or the other." Jaxon slid off the stool with a careless shrug. "But don't cry foul when someone else decides to move in and she moves on."
Caleb watched him as he walked away, wondering what the hell the words meant. Were they a warning? Was there someone else interested in Shannon? His gaze moved to the corner of the room, where loud conversation and laughter rang out. Had one of his teammates already asked her out? More than one of them had made a comment about Shannon's looks, about how they wouldn't mind getting to know her better. Like Shane, all those weeks ago. Like Jaxon, just now. Were there others?
Why the hell wouldn't there be? It wasn't just Shannon's looks, but her attitude, too. Her sense of humor. Her sarcasm. And yeah, even her talent in the net. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who appreciated that—even if he had been the only one having a meltdown on the ice during the exhibition game.
And hell, could he blame any one of them if they did ask her out? He had fucked up. Totally. Royally. Publicly. Shannon deserved better. She deserved to be with someone who wasn't so fucking insecure around her.
He looked over at his teammates once more, anger simmering inside him at the mere thought of anyone else being with Shannon. Not just his teammates...anyone. The image of Shannon laughing with anyone else—of spending time with anyone else, of being with anyone else—curled his stomach. The bitterness of loss filled him, churning his gut until he wanted to heave.
Fuck.
Fuck.
He had to make this right. Had to apologize.
Playing Hard_A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance Page 17
