Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  Tory offers a slow, curling grin when he glances from his brother to me. “Pro,” he murmurs in a silky voice that’s cultured and refined, just like the slacks and pressed shirt he’s wearing, “Weston’s doing what he loves, even if it’s not what our parents would want from him.”

  “No?” Carmen hums her interest beside me. “What would he be doing instead?”

  “Real estate.” Mr. Cain shrugs, then rakes his fingers through his hair, which is more white than blond, like his sons’. “It’s been a family business since the turn of the century.”

  Weston clears his throat. “He’s talking about the twentieth century not the twenty-first . . . in case that was in question. Regardless, the business will still be there when I retire from the NHL. I’m not worried about the commercial real estate market drying up anytime soon.”

  I don’t want to ask the question and throw a wrench in the easygoing conversation, but I can’t get Steven Fairfax’s comment out of my head about Weston retiring after this season. Forcing a casual note, I ask, “And when do you think that’ll be? Any concerns about the injuries you’ve suffered over the last few seasons?”

  Laid-back or not, Weston’s gaze hardens as he studies me. “On the record or off?”

  I kick my chin in the direction of the camera. “Technically on, but it’s whatever you feel comfortable with. None of us will ever air anything that you don’t want to be seen.”

  He’s silent for a moment, staring directly at the camera like he’s determined to discover if it’ll spill his secrets or not. Swirling the beer bottle, he says, “On the record, then.” He sets the bottle down and clasps his hands together on the table. “The thing about hockey is that it thrives in my veins. I want my career more than I want a position in the family business”—he glances at his father with a shrug—“sorry, Dad.”

  Mr. Cain shakes his head with a rueful smile. “It’s not anything I don’t already know, West.”

  Weston’s answering smile is fleeting. “Like I was saying, I’ve never craved anything more than I crave being on the ice. Not a woman, not a job, not the need to keep up with friendships from outside the hockey world. I’ve got my team. The game comes first, and I’ll continue to play for as long as the Blades will have me.”

  Carmen beats me to the punch, asking, “What about if the Blades won’t have you any longer? Will you go somewhere else?”

  “No.”

  It’s not Weston who answers but Tory, and we all look to him. Unlike his twin, who practically exudes bullish testosterone, Tory is all cool elegance. That’s not to say that he’s any less masculine, but whereas Weston is fierce and bright colors, Tory is more remote, more . . . gray, as though he’s struggled with something far deeper than being pummeled on the ice and has sunk back into his shell in response.

  He’s here but not fully present.

  And he reminds you of you.

  I swallow hard and sit back as Tory plows onward. “West is loyal to a fault, and that’s the con of having him play in the NHL. He’s the Tedy Bruschi of the NHL—he signed with the Blades at the start of his career and when they decide his time is up, whenever that is, he’ll retire.” He trades a glance with his brother. “It’s been his plan from day one, and he’s not someone who changes his mind once it’s made up.”

  Well, then.

  If Getting Pucked chooses to air this clip, the Blades are either going to love Weston for being so open and vulnerable or they’re going to . . . well, I don’t really know what they’d do. Coach Hall values guys like Weston.

  Guys like my ex-husband, who have always put the sport first.

  Weston picks up the beer bottle again. “The good news is that the Blades need a guy like me around. I’m younger than Beaumont and just as tough. While King Sin Bin ships off to the world of marriage and children and white picket fences, I’ll still be here getting the job done. We’re all replaceable at some point, but for now, I’m still dealing the cards and I’m not going anywhere.”

  The Cains have a garden that could rival an English estate’s.

  After dinner, Carmen and Adam sit down with Weston and his parents for a more exclusive interview. They adjourn to the blue parlor—there are three parlors, as you do when you’re filthy rich—with tea and sweets.

  I bring Tory, Weston’s twin, out to the gardens.

  He’s quiet as we walk, reminding me a little of Jackson, in that both men exude confidence without having to voice everything in their head.

  My shoulders twitch at the thought of my ex-husband. Our hot-as-heck kiss. My red-eye flight out of Chicago when the panic hit me hard after receiving his heart-stopping, earth-shattering text.

  The message both terrified and thrilled me all at once, eliciting a cacophony of emotions that simulated the sensation of balancing on a tightrope suspended twenty feet in the air . . . with Jackson waiting for me down below, arms opened wide, silently daring me to take a leap of faith.

  Most terrifying of all? How very much I wanted to jump and let him catch me, even knowing that we could end up as we already have: divorced, single, and not ready to mingle with anyone not in possession of the surname Carter.

  Incredibly specific, I know.

  I’m not proud of the way I flew out of Chicago, like a thief stealing away in the night, as my grandmother’s words snuck their way back into my head while I hastily packed.

  You love too hard, Holly-bear.

  Do you see him banging on that door?

  Is it wrong to love too hard? Is it some sort of defect in my wiring?

  Is there something wrong with me for wanting Jackson back? Society would tell me yes. Statistics of divorced couples reuniting would tell me hell yes. My emotions, unlike the perfectly manicured garden before me, are a hot mess.

  “Maybe I should be interviewing you?” murmurs Tory as we settle in at a rotund iron-cast table on the patio. “Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  Nope, just trying to cling to the solitary sensation of being in a marriage and feeling so alone before I do something insane, like throw myself at my ex-husband and beg him to make the hurt go away.

  It’s times like these that make me feel grateful that my job is behind the camera and not in front of it.

  I prop my tripod on the table, lowering it to its smallest height, and attach my camera to it. “Just running through some of the questions I’ve got for you, that’s all.”

  Tory brings one leg over the other, hooking his hands over his shin as he fixes his attention on the equipment. “Can we retake anything if it sounds bad? I’m not . . . I’m not Weston. By that I mean, I’m no good in front of people.”

  “What’s your role with the family business?” I ask, genuinely curious. “I mean, I’m assuming you work with your dad?”

  Weston’s twin nods. “I’m on the backend. We don’t only sell properties. We build them, design them. I suppose you could say that I’m the mastermind behind the scenes.” He scratches the back of his head. Shrugs loosely. “I handle the software the architects use to create the plans.”

  “So you’re a designer?”

  His laugh rings out, shy and reserved. “No, definitely not. I create the software, troubleshoot any and all website bugs, that sort of thing. At company meetings, I don’t think I ever say a word.”

  “Hey,” I say, patting my tripod as I take a seat, “not all superheroes wear capes, am I right? The world needs us behind-the-scenes folks, too.”

  Tory grins. It’s not flirtatious, which I’m thankful for, but the kind of smile you only give another person when they get you. “I’d need a black cape,” he finally murmurs. “There’s got to be some sort of contrast with all the angel-blondness I’ve got going on.” He points at my head. “Same for you.”

  The interview moves smoothly after that, the ice already having been broken by our superhero-cape conversation. Tory is funny in a British-humor sort of way, and it’s obvious within minutes that he’s the very antithesis of his twin.
/>   “Did you play hockey?” I ask.

  “I did for a day.” Tory laughs, probably at whatever memory is skirting through his head. “I played for a whopping two hours before I begged my mom to put me in something else.”

  “Did she?”

  “Well, she tried—I guess that’s what matters.” He tips his blond head back, gaze lifting to the darkening sky above us. “Weston had this . . . hell, it was like a fire, you know? You saw him at dinner. The guy knows what he wants and goes for it with no reservations.”

  “Was it intimidating?” Even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but let my brain flit to Jackson. He’s ignited by that same fire as Weston, both men so driven, so focused, that standing beside them often feels like you’re still in the outer periphery, looking in, wondering how the hell you can create some of that fire for yourself. I wipe my palms over my jeans, ridding my skin of the clamminess. “I mean, did you ever feel like—”

  “Like I was an extra in the Weston Cain Show?” Tory meets my gaze. “Who wouldn’t? We’re twins, which I’m sure made it more difficult during my teenage years. I tried football and baseball and, hell, I even took up archery at some point.”

  My eyes go wide. “How’d that go?”

  “Besides the fact that I nearly skewered another kid when I misfired on my first day? Not so bad. Granted, they didn’t ask me to come back, but still, could have been worse.”

  Laughter bubbles in my chest at the visual he’s created. I lean back in my chair, arms over my chest as I study Tory Cain. “So, despite the fact that you stumbled from sport to sport while Weston kept on with hockey, you finally found some of that fire of your own with computer programming?”

  He glances at the camera. “I felt lost. I went to UConn with West and he was a powerhouse. Me, on the other hand? Bouncing from major to major until I accidentally signed up for a computer class. It was love from there on.”

  I’m so wrapped up in the conversation that I forget we’re filming until Tory lifts a fair brow and I jump back into action. Stop comparing yourself to Tory Cain, I yell at myself, there is no comparison. Out loud, I’m all laid-back while I wrap up the interview.

  “Anything else you want to add about growing up with Weston?”

  Tory sucks in his bottom lip, deliberation written all over his face. Then, finally, “I learned a lot from West. I’m older, even if it’s only by three minutes, but I spent our younger years looking up to him. He’s . . . magnetic, I think is a word a magazine used once. And when someone is magnetic like he is, it’s easy to lose yourself in that forcefield. But the way he is—the way he doesn’t see obstacles as more than a speedbump in the road—that’s something you can’t help but admire. He’s loyal, driven, quick on his feet. All that makes for an excellent hockey player.” He shrugs, fingers moving to the table to drum lightly. “Off the ice, it just makes him him. You can take it, you can walk away, but at the end of the day, West is who he is. He won’t change for anyone and I wouldn’t want him to.”

  Do I want Jackson to change who he is?

  Loyal, driven, quick on his feet.

  Tory is talking about Weston, girl, not your ex.

  My brain doesn’t separate the difference, and I spend the entire drive back to Boston analyzing every word that Tory said and applying it to my own life. Do I carry the same passion for photography that Jackson does with hockey? I love my business, I love my employees . . . but am I fired up about it? Did I simply latch onto the very first thing I seemed good at when faced with Jackson’s magnetism on the ice? Just how Tory fell into computer programming by accident?

  By the time I climb into bed around one in the morning, I’m no closer to figuring it out. Confusion roils through me, pulling me apart at the seams and making me question everything. I toss and turn the whole night until sometime around four, I reach for my phone and type my name into Google.

  I study every image of myself that I come across—noting my smiles and excitement over whatever award I’m being given—and when I’ve seen as much as I can handle, I look up old photos of Jackson and me together.

  The way I’m positively glowing in the first picture, taken after his first game with the Dallas Stars, tells me all that I need to know. Photography fills me with pride for all I’ve accomplished.

  But photography, and all of its accompanying material and financial successes, has never made me smile the way I am in this picture with Jackson, with my hand on his chest and my head thrown back in laughter. I want that again—the love, the knowledge that I’m standing next to my best friend, my other half. I just don’t know if it’s possible to reclaim what’s been lost . . . or if it’s even worth the possible risk of failing all over again.

  I fall asleep with my nose kissing the glass screen, my arm thrown out to the left side of the bed, reaching for a man who isn’t there.

  18

  Jackson

  It’s not every day that I feel ancient, but today . . . today I feel two steps from the grave.

  Tightening my core, I bring the heavy-as-shit bar down to my chest. Push the weight back up in the air. Once. Twice. Thrice. With each press, my pecs and biceps protest vehemently. My head, jam-packed with tunes from System of a Down, throbs with an unyielding ache that hasn’t eased since our away-game stretch two weeks ago.

  Fucking Fitzgerald.

  Both ESPN and Sports 24/7 have yet to stop replaying that clip of my helmet colliding with the Plexiglas, and each time I see it on TV, it feels like I’m getting pummeled all over again.

  Sweat beads on my brow as I heft the bar back onto the rack. I focus on my breathing as I stare up at the training facility’s ceiling.

  Captain or not, veteran or not, I’m not the same NHL rookie that took to the ice a decade ago. I can admit that, even if only in my head, but I’ll be damned if I allow myself to skip this season and retire too soon, too early, when I know we’re in a prime position to take what I want most. There’s an instinctive feeling in my gut that this is our year to take the Cup home—a first for the Boston Blades.

  What will undoubtedly be my last run for hockey’s holy grail.

  I’m thirty-four.

  That’s 238 years old in dog years.

  At least four-hundred in hockey years.

  The muscles in my neck relax as I sink into the bench’s padding, then throw my legs over the side so I can sit up. My head swirls like I’ve put the damn thing in a blender and flipped the switch just for shits and giggles.

  Makes sense, since the team doctor told me that Fitzgerald bulldozed me hard enough to hand-deliver a concussion like I haven’t felt in years.

  As I lift my weight off the bench, the heavy metal blasting in my ears drowns out the dull thudding in my skull. I’m the only one in the training facility—have been since I arrived earlier for an extra workout before our next stretch of games—and I’m thankful for the solitude when I step forward and my body sways with nausea.

  Fuck. Not again.

  I’ve pushed myself too hard the last two weeks, refusing to take it easy with so much at stake. The guys look up to me. To them, I’m damn-near invincible. Seeing me as I am now would be more than cause for concern—swaying like a drunk, blinking rapidly against the bright lights as though I’m taking a turn in the next Twilight movie, right hand tingling with pins and needles as it always does when the headaches return.

  And they always return, more frequently than not in the last year.

  With slow, even steps, I gather my car keys and energy drink where I left them, and then head for the parking lot. It’s dark out already, the time eclipsing somewhere past eight, and not a single office door is open as I pass them.

  That’s because most people have a life outside of hockey.

  I used to.

  Back when Holly and I were married, I had that life. Fuck, I had the wife, the beautiful house, and a body that didn’t feel like it might crash and burn at any moment. Although it ended up crashing and burning anyway—my marriage, I
mean.

  On a normal night, I’d give myself a healthy dose of a reality check. Tonight, I feel weak at the knees, literally and figuratively. Tonight, if I were the kind of guy who slept with one woman while dreaming of another, I’d head downtown and meet up with the guys at The Box, our regular hangout, and flirt with a woman who isn’t Holly for the first time since I was twenty years old.

  Wedding ring or not, though, my ex-wife has me by the balls and no one will do but her.

  The soles of my tennis shoes scrape along the uneven concrete as I step out into the cool, October night. Removing the earbuds, I turn off the heavy metal and tuck my phone and headset into the pocket of my nondescript basketball shorts.

  Lift my head as I pull out my car keys and then stop dead.

  There’s enough ambient light from the arena’s security lights to spot the lone figure leaning against my driver’s side door, arms folded over her chest and her blond hair pulled up in one of her usual messy buns.

  My heart rate kicks back into gear around the same time that my gait resumes, and I gruffly ask, “You need to get into the building or somethin’?” At this time of night, security is long gone. Most of the permanent staff and players have a key card to access the practice arena during off-times, but Holly has always been a contracted employee via Carter Photography.

  No access key card to slip into her wallet and use whenever she wants.

  My ex-wife’s arms fall to her sides, her fingers diving into the front pocket of her pants—jeans, I think. Dark-washed, if I’m not mistaken, and tight enough to make a man lose all blood in the head on his shoulders.

  “Or something,” she says after a beat, not moving or stepping aside when I stop before her.

  The last time we were together, I had my tongue down her throat and she was grinding on me like she’d taken up mechanical bull-riding and was determined to ride until her minutes were up. She’d put on a hell of a performance that night, and then proceeded to ignore my calls following our return to Boston.