The locker room was subdued, to say the least. Thankfully, Eriksson wasn’t on the list of players who had to give interviews, but for obvious reasons I hung around the questioning area instead of immediately hitting the showers.
Jennie stood in the back of the room with her hands on her lower back, waiting her turn to approach my teammates. Since hitting the awkward stage in her pregnancy—her words, not mine—she preferred to delay her interviews until the room had cleared out a little.
The caveman in me wanted to pick her up and cart her off so she could rest. I hated the idea of her straining herself to ask a bunch of jocks basically the same questions as everyone else had asked. I wanted my pregnant wife to be at home, as comfortable as she could be.
The start of her sixth month of pregnancy had brought about even more changes. Every night I rubbed moisturizer on her growing belly, kissing it lovingly as I went. Her sensitive skin was drying and cracking under the strain of her body making room for our baby. I felt useless. I wished I could do more to aid in her comfort—not that she complained about it much.
Sleeping was also an issue. From the pictures I’d seen, Jennie was bigger than your average six-months pregnant woman. She did have a hefty appetite, but her weight gain seemed excessive. Again, from what I’d read, some women gained more than others. She tossed and turned with no easy effort, and still couldn’t get comfortable.
I did my best to go to every doctor appointment she had. The baby’s heartbeat was strong, and even though she’d gotten pretty big, the doctor wasn’t concerned. Jennie was the picture of health.
When we finally got home after her interviews were done, I wouldn’t even let her walk in the house. I carried her up the four flights of stairs. “We have to think about getting a better house, sweetheart. I can’t imagine you having to carry the baby up these stairs all the time—let alone groceries or whatever else needs to be brought up.”
She turned her head to me. “But it’s okay for you to carry me and the baby.”
“That’s different. I’m the man.” Her smile gave me joy, but then her looked turned serious.
“Mags, I love this place.”
“I do too, but I love you more.” Her hand caressed my face as she placed a chaste kiss on my cheek.
Jokingly, she said, “We could always put a bid in on that house down the block on the corner.”
The house she mentioned was at the end of the island on the last corner lot—and it had an elevator. The ocean sat in front of it while a seldom-used inlet park resided on the side. The building looked as if it housed two or three condos, not a single-family home like it did.
I knew she wasn’t serious, but I’d actually already looked into buying it. I was put in touch with the architect directly. The house wasn’t completed yet, and since there was no buyer in line, we could pick the finishing touches if we bought it.
The price was a bit daunting, but I had that tenfold. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to drop that much money on one property. Although…
Ocean City properties, especially those with a view, brought in enough rental income to pay for themselves. If by chance I got traded, renting was always an option. I hated the idea of renting a property I owned, but I knew if I left it unoccupied, the house could become neglected quickly in a beachfront environment. Besides, houses needed to be lived in.
“Should we?” I put her down while I unlocked the door.
She stretched her arms up, letting go of a big yawn in the process. “Should we what?”
“Put an offer in on that house.”
The door was opened and she went in, flicking the hallway light on before turning to me. “Are you serious? What about next year? You don’t even know if you’ll have a contract here or not.”
“No, but I will soon. Avery’s working on it and she said she’s close to getting something signed. Whether I’ll like it or not, I don’t know.”
My agent had been relentless in her pursuit of a worthwhile extension of my contract. After all, the more money I made, the more money she made. Avery was my third manager since I’d gone pro, and she’d be my last. She was the only business woman I’d ever dealt with who didn’t bullshit me just to make another dollar. She wanted to take as much money from me as she could, but she wanted to earn it. I’d latched onto her when she was just coming up in the agent world, and because of her forthright reputation, she had a waiting list she’d probably never get through.
“It’s a really big house, Mags. I don’t know. It’s your money.”
If I had still been holding her, I would have dropped her. Well, not really, but I’d have wanted to. “Jesus, Jen. How many times do we have to go over this? It’s not my money. It’s our money.” Her lip quivered immediately, even though she tried to stop it by squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. I’d never learn. “Ah, shit, honey. I’m sorry. Forget I said that. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”
“No, Mags. I’m sorry. I’m just tired and sore and…tired. Are you ready for bed?”
“Sure, babe. You go do your thing, I’ll lock up and meet you in there.”
Five minutes later, I’d put the house to rest. When I slipped under the covers, Jennie was already lightly snoring. As gently as I could, I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her in close. My last thought before I gave in to the pull of sleep was how very much I adored my wife. It always was, just as it was my first thought every morning.
Jennie
The Breakers won the next two games in the final round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. Magnus was beside himself. He didn’t know whether to be proud, amazed, or scared. Proud that they’d made it so far in their debut season as a team, amazed that they had the wherewithal and stamina to keep going, or scared that they might fuck it all up at the last minute.
I went with proud. No matter what the outcome, the Breakers had outdone themselves.
“Hand me a couple more Tums, Iz?”
Magnus was taking advantage of his free Sunday. I sent him off to bond with the boys down at Chelsea’s while Izzy and I decorated the baby’s room that Mags had finished painting a few days earlier.
“Do all you baby mamas have this much heartburn?”
I let out a decidedly unladylike burp before I answered. “No idea, but it’s killing me. This baby is going to come out like Cousin Itt.”
“Cousin Itt?”
“Haven’t you ever seen The Adams Family? You know, Cousin Itt—the dude whose hair covered his entire body. Supposedly the worse the heartburn, the more hair the baby has.”
She nodded with a sympathetic air as she handed me the antacids. “Ah, yes. Cousin Itt. Sorry, honey.”
Every miserable thing I had to go through was worth it, because along with the miserable came the incredible. My hair was freaking fantastic, my nails were stronger, Magnus waited on me hand and foot, and the best thing? I had a beautiful life growing inside of me. I could deal with a little heartburn—provided the Tums were within an arm’s reach.
Izzy held up an oil painting of Noah’s ark against the green wall. Green would have to do until my baby moved to a better position to reveal the sex. The tech couldn’t be sure, so we didn’t assume. “Here?”
“No. Call me paranoid, but I don’t want something hanging over the crib that could fall on the baby.”
“Good point.” She moved over to the wall with the chest of drawers. “What about here, over the bureau?”
“Perfect.” I stopped looking through the wall decals to walk over to my dear friend. She’d been with me every step of the way, and I didn’t take that lightly.
Something was different about Izzy lately, and I wanted her to know that no matter what I was going through, there was plenty of room for her concerns too.
I waited until the picture was perfectly hung and put my hand on her shoulder. “Iz?” Her smile was bright, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She never had been able to fool me—not since the day we met
. Izzy and I had some kind of special bond. We were soul mates. In a different way than Mags and I, but soul mates all the same.
“It’s nothing, really.”
“It’s not nothing. Let me help.”
She shook her head. “Really, Jen. It’s nothing. This guy I thought I would like turned out to be a real jackass. I hardly know him. I don’t even know why he stays in my head.”
“Is this the same guy who came to your door the night I was there?”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t have the first idea what was going on, but I feared for her. “He’s not, like, stalking you, is he?”
I was relieved by her frown. “Huh? No! No, he’s not dangerous or anything, just kind of a jerk.”
“I know Magnus and I have been caught up in our own lives lately, Iz, but you know Mags would do anything for you, right? Who is this guy? Where did you meet him? I could always get Mags to give him a little talk, you know?”
She waved away my concerns. “It’s not like that, really. He just rattles me. Forget about him.”
“If you think he’s a jerk and he rattles you, why do you even care? Why is he still in your mind?” I had so hoped Izzy would get over the way she dealt with men who didn’t deserve her. “You try too hard to keep unworthy men around.”
“I know, but that’s just it. He is worthy, but I don’t want him.”
Well, that was a conundrum. “I’m not sure I know what to say to that.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
***
Game four was minutes away. The Breakers were playing in San Jose, so I was happily watching from my couch with Izzy and Pop for company.
“This cute baby bump of yours makes a perfect popcorn stand.” Pop delighted in balancing anything he could on my big belly.
“You’re crazy, Pop.” And I was well past baby bump size.
“Not yet, but give it time.” He’d had a string of bad days in the past couple of weeks, but when he had good days, they were really good. Tonight was one of the good ones. “Oh, look. The game’s starting.”
He grabbed his popcorn bowl from its resting place and sat up, giving his complete attention to the television. “I still can’t believe our brand-new team is in the finals. This is so exciting!”
I seconded his opinion.
In the first ten minutes of the game, a fight broke out between our Mitch Simard and the Shark’s enforcer, Boyle. Izzy was on the edge of her seat the entire time, as were Pop and I.
Mitch’s beat-up face took the brunt of Boyle’s meaty fists, although he landed a few well-placed jabs of his own. “That’s one way to get five minutes of fame, I guess.”
Izzy normally liked a bit of fighting in her hockey. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Simard just seems like he wants to be in the limelight. He’s kind of stuck on himself.”
“I never got that impression. He’s an enforcer—his job is to fight.”
Izzy shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn’t care less. “Whatever.”
The game declined from there. At the end of the second period, the score was four to two, Sharks. At the end of the third, it was still four to two. The Breakers had lost and now the series was tied at two games apiece.
Magnus
We’d come to game five, and I wasn’t feeling good about the series any longer. Even though we’d made it to the finals and were tied in wins, being a new team, the Breakers were still considered the underdogs. And tonight we felt like it. We simply couldn’t keep up with the Sharks’ stamina any longer.
Nothing we tried worked. When we did finally get the advantage of a power play or even simply an odd man rush, we didn’t capitalize on it.
Cage was doing everything but standing on his head, and we were hanging him out to dry. At the end of the first period, we were down by a goal.
No one spoke as we waited for Coach Martin to join us in the locker room during the first intermission. He signed as he spoke, but it was a bit jumbled from his palpable anger. It was easy to understand what he was saying, though. We were stinking up the joint.
I don’t get it. What happened to this team? Is it because we’re in the finals? Well, forget about that. We’re just playing a game. We’re playing a fucking game of hockey. That’s it. No more, no less. He stopped talking and began to pace with jerky movements.
Okay. How about we look at it this way? Maybe you guys want to help your goalie out, huh? Work maybe half as hard as he is. No one liked being talked to like a child, but there wasn’t one of us in there who would argue with him.
We went out to start the second period with a bit more piss and vinegar than we’d previously exhibited. And it didn’t help a damn bit.
By the end of the second period, we were down three to nothing. We were treated to another rough speech in the locker room, which again, no one could argue with.
Booker, you’re done for the day. Kingston, you’re up.
Cage chucked his helmet into his cubby with more force than was wise, but there wasn’t a soul in that locker room who didn’t know about our goalie’s temper. Including, of course, the coach.
Don’t try my patience…just…don’t.
Simard wandered over to me after the coach left the room. “You think I should come out swinging again? I’m sure I could get someone to drop gloves. Would it help, you think?”
I slapped him on the back. “I really don’t know at this point, but we better figure it out fast or our cup run is over.”
“Yeah. It’s not looking good, is it?”
O’Dell heard us talking and slammed his glove down on the floor. He pointed to Simard and me as he exploded in anger. “This! This is why we’re losing. You don’t talk like that. Don’t like the way the game is going? Then fucking change it!” He looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention, which he did. Before he spoke again, he faced me so I wouldn’t miss anything.
“Winning or losing this game is a choice. We have the skill, we have the endurance, but what we don’t have right now is the drive. So you guys tell me…what’s your fucking choice? Win or lose?”
I had to give it to him. His speeches came from a place of purity. Rio lived hockey. We all did, but he went that extra mile. We left that locker room a hell of a lot lighter than we’d entered it. I didn’t know if it was enough, but I knew I’d gotten a new spring in my step.
Just like he’d talked about, Simard dropped gloves after Rob Wolf from the Sharks landed a questionable hit on my line mate, Nikita Borodin, as he shot the puck forward on his way off the ice. In all honesty, Nikita could take care of himself, but he didn’t have to. That was Simard’s job.
Both players willingly took their helmets off, a sign of strength and respect from fighters in our circle. They danced around each other, left hands reaching for the other’s jersey. Wolf got a hold first and landed a brutal punch to Simard’s temple, causing Mitch to falter. It was just enough to throw Wolf off balance and Simard got hold of his jersey, using the support to get himself back in a good position.
Mitch threw his fists for all he was worth, but one more nasty hit from Wolf to his temple, and he went down like a sack of potatoes. Mitch was a fantastic fighter, but even the best enforcers lost a bout now and then.
Any momentum we’d gained after Rio’s speech was lost. It was like the Breakers were one big balloon and someone deflated the whole team. At the end of the second period, the score was four to zero. Zero. We hadn’t scored one fucking goal, but they had. We’d lost our third game in the series.
***
We put the last game behind us and focused on the sixty minutes in front of us. As always, Rio kept his face to me as he addressed the locker room. “Okay, guys. This is it. If there was ever a game you wanted to win, tonight’s is the one. You know how it works. It takes four games to win a round. We have two, they have three. If they win tonight, the Cup stays here in San Jose, and we’re done. Let’s make them move that fucker back to Atlantic
City for game seven, shall we?”
It was the perfect speech to get us pumped up. What else was there to say? We knew what we needed to do. I couldn’t speak for the rest of the guys, but I’d already made my choice. I chose winning. We were going to win tonight and take it back to A.C. where our fans would cheer us on and ride the victory wave with us.
My attitude worked and seemed to be infectious. I scored my first goal in the fourth minute of the game, and Bucknell scored his just before the horn sounded ending the first period.
Well, hello Breakers! Welcome back. Thanks for joining us. Keep it up. That was Coach’s speech during the first intermission. When Coach was pissed, he rambled like he didn’t know what he should say to break through to us, but when he was pleased with our play, his talks were short and to the point.
Instead of being deflated, the Sharks came out hard in the second, scoring two goals of their own. We were tied, so it was as if we were starting the game all over again.
“Come on. Do it. You want to drop your gloves?” A new guy who was filling in for one of the Shark’s injured players wanted to get his fight on, and he wouldn’t quit antagonizing me. I’d had enough. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, and I’d take it easy on him, but I was done with his taunting.
With one shake of his hands, his gloves flew off. It was almost comical. The kid had to weigh forty pounds less than I did. He was also about three inches shorter, but holy hell, he had a nasty left hook. I didn’t feel so advantaged after that first haymaker. Fuck that. I hit him back hard, and down he went. To his credit, he got back up, but I’d raised my hands so the refs knew I wouldn’t hit the kid again.
I was halfway to the penalty box to serve my five minutes for fighting when the kid launched himself at me. Never in all my days of hockey had that happened to me. I had no idea what had gotten him so riled up. As far as I knew, he’d only dropped gloves with me to mix things up for his team—and maybe to gain a bit of the spotlight, since he mostly played for their farm team in the AHL. This kid was seriously pissed off, though. There were one or two guys like him in the league. Guys who fought for no other reason except to put a hurt on someone. I swatted him off of me and ignored him as he continually gave me the finger from inside his own penalty box.
Silent Defender (Boardwalk Breakers Book 1) Page 20
