When he got into that fight, everyone around me stood up and started cheering. I had never seen so much passion for a fight before. I even felt myself start to respond.
I didn’t like fights. In fact, they made me want to throw up. I didn’t understand how people could appreciate and even cheer for someone hitting another human being. Maybe I was sensitive to it because of my history. It would make sense. But I just couldn’t stomach the thought of being excited or even happy about such a thing.
However, there was something different about the fighting in hockey, something that wasn’t so displeasing. I could be biased because it was Art that was in the fight and I found myself liking Art more and more but maybe it was just hockey fighting in general. There was a point to it, I realized. It wasn’t because Art wanted to go and hit the player - although he very well could have. Judging by the sheen on his chiseled face, it didn’t seem as though he was deriving any pleasure from it.
The reason Art ran out there was because the player had checked Kyle Underwood. I knew from my limited experience with hockey that Kyle Underwood was what the hockey world called a pest. He was sort of player you hated if he was on any other team but because he was on your team, you loved him. Kyle was also one of the players who would drop his gloves if he needed to. He was both skilled and wasn’t afraid to risk injury if he needed to. The only reason Kyle didn’t jump up and start beating up the player was because he had been crosschecked into the boards pretty hard and was slow to get up.
Art, on the other hand, didn’t even hesitate. He sprinted on skates, practically, just to make sure he was right there and knocked the shit out of the player.
I didn’t like fighting. I didn’t. But there was something surprisingly graceful about the way Art looked when taking swings. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I felt my body start to get excited. I felt myself start to respond. I was cheering just as hard as anybody else in the crowd. I was practically jumping even though I was sitting at the glass. I didn’t understand why I was reacting this way. I didn’t know if it was the pull of the crowd or if I actually enjoyed the brute force that made up Art Jackman. Something sparked in my pelvis and I could feel myself start to thrum. Spark.
I didn’t know how to explain it. All I knew was that I liked it. I was attracted to it. My heart pumped blood, rushing through my head. My heart raced but felt slow. I didn’t know how to explain it.
It boggled my mind. I couldn’t get it out of my head.
After the fight, both Art and his opponent were sent to the penalty box. They were both issued five for fighting but the referee decided to tack on an extra two-minutes on Art because he instigated the fight. Everyone at the Palace rained down their boos, including me. How do you give Art two extra minutes when there was a cheap shot on Kyle Underwood in the first place that never got called?
The people sitting next to me had to be aficionados in the sport of hockey because I could hear them talking about certain things that I had no clue about. The more that I listened, however, the more I realized hockey was much more than just a fast sport on ice with fighting. Everything had a point to the game, from the fighting to the puck movement. Some players even intentionally took penalties in order to prevent scoring chances. And fighting... fighting was used as a tactic, not as a gimmick. Kyle Underwood, the Gulls’ subsequent pest, was apparently a dirty player occasionally, which was why there were hardly ever any calls he drew himself. He was hated throughout the league except by other Gulls fans because he had no problem trying to get under people’s’ skin, especially the Hollywood Stars’ goalie Sean Taylor. I had heard the name before but couldn’t remember his face if someone paid me to. Apparently, Kyle Underwood was also in a serious relationship with someone named Emma and he was due to be a father at some point in November.
I could admit my heart melted at the thought. A player that was thought to be a dick in a steady, committed relationship, about to be a father. It was straight out of a romance novel.
Despite my brush with love, I was still hopeful that the right guy was out there for me. I just felt as though I needed to get specific on what was considered right for me. Ambition was always a big deal, as was independence; two traits that Tim had in spades that made me fall for him fast. But after Tim, I realized that I wanted a guy who would let me have my independence, who would trust me with my own feelings rather than tell me I was overreacting, who wouldn’t comment on my attire unless it was to tell me how good I looked or that I had a stain on my shirt from eating too fast. I needed someone who could understand I couldn’t rush things anymore. I couldn’t jump in the sack. I couldn’t give away key pieces to who I was.
I needed trust. Stability. Someone I could be comfortable with.
Sure, it seemed impossible. Trusting a guy after what happened with Tim felt impossible, but I had to believe I was capable of doing it or I wouldn’t be able to do it at all. But there was something inside of me that told me I could do it if I just realized my wants, realized my worth, and trusted myself to love someone again.
Because that was the root of my problem: myself. I needed to have faith that I would be able to trust someone again. That I wasn’t going to constantly make the same mistakes.
Arizona did not score on the power play, but after the two minutes had passed, Art was still forced to sit in the box for another five minutes. He looked indifferent, if a little grouchy, from what I could see, but I thought that was his natural facial expression in the first place.
If I had to guess, I would say he didn’t agree with the fact that he had to sit out an extra two minutes. The referee that called the penalty seemed to only care about the retaliation rather than the initial hit because it didn’t look like they were going to call the other player for boarding Kyle Underwood.
Luckily, Underwood was okay and in the end, the Gulls’ won by one goal.
Hockey was much more exciting than I initially gave it credit for. I had always known it was a fast game, I just hadn’t realized how quick and intense the game could be. My body was thrumming with eager anticipation even after the final buzzer sounded and people started to get up and leave. At this point, I had been instructed by Art to wait. The Gulls always participated in the three stars after a game they won, where players from either team were voted by the media as stars for the game. The losing team wouldn’t come out, but the winning team - if they were a home team - would come out and give fans who chose to stay to watch the quick ceremony a signed stick as a way to say thank you for their support.
I waited until the stars were named - both Brandon Thorpe and Zachary Ryan were stars for the Gulls, and when they finished, a kindly older gentleman named Steve led me to the Gulls’ locker room and told me to wait out here. I noticed a handful of other women and some kids hanging around and talking and I felt myself get nervous. These must be the girlfriends and wives of the players.
“Hey.”
One of the women smiled at me and waved me over to a small group of women.
I pointed to myself before looking over my shoulder, as though I wasn’t quite sure if she was referring to me or not. When I turned around, she smiled and beckoned me over.
“Are you waiting for someone from the Gulls?” she asked when I came over.
This woman was my age, maybe a year or two younger, with dark blonde hair and forest green eyes. She was talking to another blonde, a brunette, and another blonde. Actually, the last blonde looked familiar, as in I probably should recognize her.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, nodding my head, keeping my arms crossed over my chest. “Art Jackman.”
All four women raised their brows as though they were surprised by something.
“I hadn’t realized Art was dating anyone,” the platinum blonde one said. “Kyle always said he was kind of like a lone wolf.”
Kyle. Maybe this woman was his girlfriend.
“I’m Harper,” the first blonde who waved me over said. She pointed to the platinum blonde. “That’s Emma.”
She pointed to the brunette. “Madison.” And to the somewhat familiar blonde. “Katella.”
“Katella,” I said, testing the name in my mouth. “As in, Katella Hanson?”
Katella smiled and nodded.
I shook my head, feeling myself blush. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not big on hockey. I knew you looked familiar though.”
At that moment, Art burst out of the locker room and gave a nod to the waiting women. He offered me his hand and as we left, I waved at them as well, shouting a “Nice to meet you!” over my shoulders.
10
Art
I took the couch. I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to have her tell me she had a spare bed in her second room. I couldn’t be in close proximity to her. I just didn’t trust myself close to her in this moment.
Which sounded so fucking stupid. I had just won game one in the Western Conference Championships. I should be out with the team, getting wasted and fucking some hockey bunny in the bathroom of a club.
I rolled my eyes at my twenty-year-old self.
At the very least, I should be popping champagne. I should be surrounded by beautiful women I didn’t care about. I should be out there with my team.
Instead, I was with Chloe. In her home - on the couch - getting ready for bed. And despite what I should be doing, I realized that this was where I wanted to be.
“Yes, but you realize you don’t have to take the couch, right?” Chloe asked, standing at the foot of said couch, her hands on her hips.
She didn’t waste any time changing in her pajamas and wiping off her makeup the minute we got to her place. She looked... If I said beautiful, it would make me look like a pussy.
Fresh-faced.
Okay, beautiful.
A lot of the women I had been with before Chloe - not that I was with Chloe now, I had to remind myself - had tubs of makeup on. They could be pretty if they realized they possessed natural beauty, but a lot of these women didn’t seem to give a shit about themselves except when they realized they could use their looks in order to achieve whatever it was they wanted. Which meant waking up next to a pillow with makeup from the night before, alone, because she was in the bathroom, applying a new layer to skin she refused to shed around me.
It was all bullshit. I knew it was all bullshit. But I said nothing because I knew I didn’t want a long-term thing so I really didn’t care how these women viewed themselves. I didn’t care how they acted, how they treated themselves. I was only after satisfaction, a mutually beneficial relationship between me and her, and once it was done, it was done. I didn’t need to care about anything else.
It was only seeing Chloe in striped pajamas, a plain white T-shirt, and her blonde hair tugged into a ponytail that I realized I preferred her natural beauty to the facade everyone else liked to put on.
“If anyone tries anything, I’ll be able to hear it from down here,” I told her.
“Oh.” She pressed her lips together and cocked her head to the side. “Well, I could stay with you down here, if you want the company.”
Nope. That was a bad idea. I knew she did not mean sexually. There was an innocence about her that probably hadn’t even considered her words might be interpreted that way in the first place. For some reason, that was exactly where my head went because I was a fucking asshole pervert who found myself getting more and more attracted to Chloe with each passing hour.
But Jesus Christ, I couldn’t help it.
She wasn’t the most beautiful person on the planet but there was something about her that made her stand apart from everyone else. I didn’t know if it was as simple as saying it was her personality or if there was something more, but she had something that I couldn’t explain that made her riveting. Stunning. As in, if I thought about her during that game, I would have played like shit because I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything or anyone else. She would occupy my thoughts, fully and completely.
And that scared that shit out of me.
“You need to sleep,” I told her, trying to make my voice come out as rational. Instead, it came out raspy and strained. Like I didn’t know how to speak.
She plopped down next to me, a yawn decorating her face. “I’m not tired,” she said through her yawn.
I snorted. I slid off my old, green hoodie, leaving me in a white wife beater and grey sweatpants. I typically slept naked but I didn’t want to push my limits with her, with her home. I could deal with some clothes for now. At least her couch felt comfortable.
“That was an awesome game,” she said from beside me, staring straight ahead at her flatscreen television.
It was dark, the only light coming from the upstairs hallway. It gave the atmosphere an intimate feel to it and I shifted in my seat because even though she was sitting on the other side of me, it still felt too close.
“It was my first hockey game,” she continued, turning to look at me.
It was only then that I realized she wasn’t ready to go to sleep. Or maybe she didn’t want to be alone. Either way, she wanted to be around me and even though there was nothing more I wanted than to push her away, I found I couldn’t. Because I wanted to be around her, too.
I also couldn’t blame her, wanting to be around someone after what she had been through. Even if it was me. I didn’t think I was the best candidate for distraction unless we were doing something physical like exercising or sex. Talking was not my strong suit.
“There were lots of fights,” she said, looking at me with a curious look in her blue eyes.
“It changes the momentum of the game,” I explained. “It gets the crowd back into it. If we’re going to lose, especially at home, might as well give the fans some kind of entertainment. I know our ticket prices are decently priced since we haven’t made playoffs in the twenty years we were created but someone is still paying money to put on a good show. I have a generous contract to try hard and do my best. The least I can do is give them something that they want.”
“Yes, but it’s not your fault if you are trying and other players on your team aren’t,” Chloe said. “Fighting can be used as a strategy, sure. It can be used to defend your teammates, especially when there’s no call on the game. But if you’re losing and you decide to fight just because you think you owe us something, that’s when you start to play the fool, Art. Your team is better than that.”
I felt my lips curl up slightly. “I thought you didn’t know much about hockey,” I pointed out.
“I don’t,” she agreed, “but I know about human psychology. I know that it sounds like you take a lot of responsibility for other people.”
“Whether I like it or not, it’s a team effort,” I replied. “My play can only be measured against my worst player. My goal is to make sure that that isn’t me. But even if it’s not, it won’t matter.”
She was silent for a moment, and before I realized what was happening, her head rested on my shoulder. I didn’t even know if she was aware that she was doing it in the first place.
“I thought you played amazing,” she finally said.
I was tense under her touch, completely paralyzed. I didn’t know how to act or react or whatever the fuck I was supposed to do in this situation. All I knew was that her skin was warm and soft and from where she positioned her head, I could smell vanilla shampoo. She smelled wonderful and I allowed myself a moment to breathe her in, to close my eyes and relax as best as I could while being around her. She had this profound effect on me and I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. All I knew was that it was a thing. And I had to deal with it, considering I was the asshole who suggested we pretend to be more than what we were.
Which meant dealing with her close proximity. Dealing with her invading all of my senses until I was too fucking overwhelmed to make sense of what I was feeling and thinking.
“Did you know,” she said in a soft voice that I had to still my breathing in order to hear what she had to say, “that you have so many muscles but that they’re surp
risingly comfortable?”
I chuckled despite myself. I wasn’t expecting that from her. Raw honesty mixed with a sprinkle of innocence. It described her to a tee.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I never knew what to say to anything she said to me. I always felt uncomfortable, as though I wasn’t smart enough to open my mouth around her. I had barely graduated from the University of Michigan after receiving a scholarship to play on their hockey team but was drafted in the sixth round after just after my first year. I decided to defer to college and get my degree because my mom pushed me to do that but I barely went to class and my professors fudged my grades so I could stay on the team.
I felt like such an ass when I was younger, like I didn’t deserve my success later on because of how I acted then. It also made me subconscious about my intelligence. I had been around the block a few times and was confident in my ability to know the streets and possess some semblance of common sense. But when it came to outright intelligence and book smarts, I did not feel like I could hold my own with someone who graduated because they wanted to get a degree.
I didn’t know for sure if Chloe was one of those people but she spoke like she was educated. Even so, she never made me feel like an asshole, like some dumb jock. Even if she did compliment my muscles.
“I met the girlfriends,” I heard her murmur.
I didn’t know how I could tell but I knew she was getting tired and was at the point where she was going to fall asleep soon. I should probably insist she head upstairs but I couldn’t find it in me to move her from my side.
“They all seemed nice,” she continued when I remained quiet. “They were all pleased to hear that me and you were together, just so you know. They think you’re very good looking but they wanted to see you with someone. Settle down. That whole thing. I think you remind them of Hugh Jackman from Wolverine. As Wolverine, I should say.” She suddenly sat up straight and gave me a peculiar look. “You guys both have the same name! Are you related in some way? Because, if so, I can clearly see the family resemblance.”
Trainwrecks & Back Checks Page 6
