Delay of Game (The Baltimore Banners Book 6)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  Like Mat, sitting on the bench a few feet away, stretching his legs out one at a time, muttering something under his breath with each kick. Kenny was on his other side, wrapping his stick with care, pausing every few minutes to tap the blade on the side of his skate. Wrap twice, tap. Wrap twice, tap.

  Noise in the room was slowly dying down, fading away as everyone began their own rituals of preparing. Some of the rituals were mundane, nothing more than simple prepping. Others looked simple on the surface but meant so much more. Like JP Larocque, standing away from everyone else, leaning against a wall as he spoke into his cell phone, no doubt talking to his girlfriend, Emily.

  Randy Michaels sat on the bench across from Justin, tying and retying his skates. Five times for each one, no matter what. Alec Kolchak was in another room, away from everyone else, no doubt bouncing balls off the wall, warming up. Justin knew the last thing he’d do before completely suiting up was look at a picture of his wife and son, giving it a quick kiss before heading out.

  Others were a little more outrageous or unusual, like Harland Day’s. Harland was off in a corner, balancing himself in a steady handstand, his large feet resting high on the wall. He’d stay that way for at least five minutes, if not longer, until his face turned so red an overripe tomato looked pale in comparison.

  Simple rituals. Complex rituals. It didn’t matter. Whatever worked. Everyone had something, even if it was as simple as sitting still and breathing.

  Justin closed his eyes again and took another two deep breaths. At the end of the second, he slowly fisted his hands then rapped his knuckles three times against his thighs. A twinge of pain shot through his left hand, quick and biting.

  Justin opened his eyes and looked down, glaring at his hand like that would help. The trainer had iced and taped his finger, giving him a dubious look before letting him go and moving to the next casualty.

  Bumps, bruises. Pulled muscles, cuts, and scrapes. Nothing more than business as usual. They’d be wrapped, stitched, iced or massaged, sometimes all of the above, sometimes none of the above. Whatever worked.

  Justin flattened his left hand, fisted it, flattened it again. He’d taken a hit against the boards, a hard one, in their last game and ended up with a broken pinky finger. His freaking pinky finger. He hadn’t expected it to hurt quite as much—but nowhere near as much as the loss. The Banners had their asses handed to them, losing to Tampa five to one. The loss had forced a seventh game. Do or die time. If they won this one, they’d move to the third round. And after that—

  No. He was getting ahead of himself. No thinking about next week, or the week after that. Stick to the game plan. One game at a time. And right now, it was all about tonight—and only tonight.

  He stood and shrugged into his shoulder pads, rolled his head from side to side, then pulled on his jersey. Everyone else was doing the same, getting ready, heads in the game.

  The coaching staff walked in and silence descended over the room as Sonny looked around. His gaze was slow, stopping on each player for a full second before moving on. Calculating, assessing. Justin wondered what went through the coach’s mind when he did that, wondered what he saw, what he was thinking when that cool gaze landed on him. Justin swallowed, flexed his left hand by his side, and waited.

  Sonny tugged at his tie and rolled his own shoulders, like the suit fit just a bit too tight across his broad back. He rolled the stack of papers in his hand and tapped them across his palm then spoke, his booming voice loud in the quiet room.

  “You’ve all heard the speeches, every single one of them. I’m not going to say them again. We’re a good team. The best. Now let’s get out there and show them.”

  Shouts erupted, energized and insane. Everyone grabbed their sticks and headed out into the hallway, fist-bumping along the way. They stopped as a group before heading out to the bench, music from the arena pumping them up as much as it pumped the crowd. More fist bumps and some crazy hops from a few of the players. Harland did his wacky-ass limbo walk, bent over half-backwards as everyone tapped him with their sticks as he went by. Brad took up his post near the entrance, grabbing each player by the neck and doing a quick head-butt as they walked by.

  Round two, game seven.

  It was time to play.

  ***

  “Stop biting your nails.”

  Val shrugged Alyssa’s hand from her wrist, not even bothering to look at her. If she looked, she might miss something. “I can’t.”

  She moved her hand away from her mouth anyway and put it in her lap, leaning forward to watch the play on the ice. Tampa had possession of the puck, moving it down the ice, sliding around the Banners’ defenses, moving even closer. Val watched, not daring to breathe, as they passed it back and forth, setting up a shot in front of the net. One, two. There, a quick one-timer. Randy dove in front of the puck, stopping it midair and deflecting the shot by catching it straight in the ribs. Alyssa winced beside her, her sharp gasp swallowed by the cheers exploding around them. Val grabbed her hand and squeezed, trying to offer silent comfort as Randy sped toward the bench, bent over and clutching his side. Nikolai Petrovich jumped over the boards, taking her brother’s place on the ice and barreling after the players in white.

  If her brother didn’t have a broken rib or two after that, it would be a minor miracle. At the very least, he’d have one hell of a bruise.

  He wouldn’t be the only one.

  Val’s eyes raked over the players on the bench, stopping on Justin. He’d taken a high stick to the mouth near the end of the first and was sporting a busted lip, hastily stitched at some point, probably during intermission. She knew he hadn’t left the game during the period, even though less than five minutes remained. And he’d skated at least two other shifts, his neck and the collar of his jersey stained with blood.

  Her entire body hurt with sympathy pains. She couldn’t imagine how sore Justin was—how sore all of them must be. She’d been around hockey all her life, had seen Randy’s collections of bumps and bruises growing up. But she had never really been aware of them, never really appreciated what toll the game took on the players, not really.

  Not until she started dating Justin.

  Her eyes darted back down the ice, just in time to see JP Larocque shoot the puck into the net. The horn blared, quickly drowned out by the 18,000 people surging to their feet, screaming. Alyssa grabbed Val around the neck and hugged her, both of them jumping at the same time, each of them screaming as well.

  Val looked up at the giant screen, the bright red numbers showing the score. Three to two. The Banners were now in the lead, with nine minutes left in the second period. They were just over the halfway mark of the game and already Val’s voice was hoarse from screaming, her throat scratchy and sore. She leaned forward and grabbed the large bottle of water, taking a long sip as she watched the replay overhead.

  Her gaze moved back to the ice, where the ice crew was just finishing clearing the surface. She looked across the rink, over to the players’ bench, her gaze immediately finding Justin. No, he couldn’t see her, even if they were sitting on the glass. She didn’t expect him to be looking for her, didn’t even expect him to be thinking about her, especially not during the game. But just seeing him was enough for now.

  Which was so silly. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other since the playoffs started. They had. Not nearly as much as when they first started dating, true. His schedule was too grueling, too demanding. Their limited time together was spent mostly at her place. Talking, maybe watching television. Cuddling. And sex. Definitely sex. And the sex was mind-blowing. Beyond wonderful.

  Val swallowed and took another long sip of water, wondering if her face looked as red as it felt. And she had to, once again, remind herself that orgasms did not translate into love.

  Not even close.

  Justin hadn’t thanked her again, which made her wonder if maybe she had just overreacted. Probably. She hoped so. In fact, it was like the last few months before they da
ted no longer existed. Whatever Justin had been going through was gone, nothing more than a memory—whatever it was. He smiled more easily, the tension she had seen in him before no longer there. And while he hadn’t been out of shape—his partying hadn’t gotten to that point, not even close—his body was definitely harder than before, leaner, stronger.

  Yeah, she definitely noticed that. She noticed every inch of it.

  After tonight’s game, there was no doubt his body would also be more bruised and battered. If things went well tonight, the players would have a few days before their next game. A few days to recuperate. Yes, they’d still be practicing, still working hard. But at least they wouldn’t be getting battered as much.

  A whistle blew and players from both teams lined up for the face off. Val leaned forward, her eyes on the number 90 sewn on the back of Justin’s jersey. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her hands folded in front of her, clasped just below her chin, almost like she was praying. The puck dropped and Mat Herron passed it behind him, straight at Justin.

  Val held her breath, watching as the play moved closer to them. Justin passed the puck across to JP and skated closer to the net, tapping his stick on the ice. JP passed it to Mat, who passed it to Justin.

  Back and forth, the puck flying between them as they moved closer to the net, setting up the play. Justin made one final pass to Mat, who shot it toward the net. The loud clang of rubber against steel echoed around them, mixing with the collective sigh of the crowd. The puck flew through the air, hitting the glass and dropping to the ice in the corner right in front of them.

  Val jumped from her seat, screaming and banging her hands against the glass as Justin raced for the puck, his head down, the blade of his stick digging for the solid piece of rubber. Val’s eyes rested on Justin for a split second, noticing the furrow on his brow as he concentrated, noticing the gash on his lower lip and bruise along his chin. She banged on the glass again, along with everyone else around them, shouting his name, urging him to go as his blade finally caught the puck and shot it behind him, back to Mat.

  A blur caught her attention, a flash of white from the corner of her eye. Her gaze moved away from Justin, just a fraction of an inch, watching as a Tampa player skated straight toward Justin.

  “No!”

  She banged on the glass again, this time in hopeless warning, screaming Justin’s name as the other player left his feet and surged through the air, barreling into Justin from behind and slamming him against the boards.

  Val watched in horror as Justin crumpled to the ice, not moving. Players swarmed to the corner, flashes of blue and white, fists flying as fast as the curses. Whistles screeched, the shrill sound echoing off the ice, nothing more than a distant shriek in her ears as refs hurried to the pile, pulling players off each other.

  Val pressed her face to the glass, looking down at Justin’s body, so still on the ice as several of the Banners surrounded him. Cheers and shouts faded into silence as the crowd finally realized something else was going on, something besides just a fight as one of the trainers for the Banners raced out onto the ice in an odd shuffle-slide. Val’s eyes never left Justin, her lungs burning as she held her breath, watching. Waiting.

  Alyssa tugged her arm and said something to her, the words making no sense through the buzzing in her ears. Val brushed her hand away, shaking her head as she just stood there and watched.

  “Get up. Get up. Get up.” Val repeated the words over and over, the knot in her stomach heavy, growing. She released her breath in a rush when Justin finally moved, rolling to his side and clutching his left arm with a groan. He got to his knees, tried to stand, fell back down and landed on his right shoulder with a grunt of pain just as the trainer reached him.

  Val heard her name, knew Alyssa was talking to her again, trying to tell her something. But she could focus only on Justin. On the way he clutched his arm, on the unnatural angle of the limb hanging by his side as the trainer pushed the sleeve of his jersey up.

  Nausea swelled inside her, followed by a phantom burst of pain in her own arm. Justin’s lower arm was broken, it didn’t take a doctor to determine that, not with the bone poking through torn and bloodied flesh. Val swallowed, her hands curling into fists against the glass, red-hot anger simmering in her veins. She wanted to jump the boards, to chase after the player who had done this. To pound on him and hit him, over and over.

  The anger was raw, unlike anything she had ever experienced, forcing the breath from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw, took a deep breath, tried to push the irrational emotion away. When she opened her eyes again, Justin was being helped to his feet, his face pale and covered with a damp sheen, his hair matted and sweaty. A look of fierce determination etched his face, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed, his jaw clenched beneath the scruffy beard. But his eyes were focused on the bench across the ice, as if it was taking every ounce of concentration he possessed to make it over there as the crowd cheered and clapped.

  Val blinked and swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, thick with something she didn’t quite understand. She blinked again and noticed her brother on the ice, only a few feet away. His eyes were narrowed, focused directly on her. He nodded his head then, very discreetly, motioned toward the bench. She frowned, not understanding, then watched as he lifted his stick and pointed.

  Not to the bench. To the locker room. Or the medical room. Whatever it was called. Val looked away, finally noticed the grip Alyssa had on her arm. She was being tugged, her friend pulling her out of the aisle, away from the seats.

  “My bag—”

  “I have it. Come on, let’s go.”

  “But Justin—” She motioned behind her, not sure exactly what she meant to say. Justin was injured, out of the game.

  “I know, Val. Come on, snap out of it. Let’s go.” Alyssa kept tugging her, leading her up the wide steps as the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, reading off a list of penalties that had the crowd screaming.

  Good? Bad? Val wasn’t sure, couldn’t quite make sense of everything that was going on. It was like her mind had gone on vacation, leaving nothing but a hazy buzzing in its place. But Alyssa kept tugging her, urging her to follow, so that’s what she did, all the way to the concourse.

  “I want to kill him.”

  Alyssa finally stopped and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed on Val. She stopped and took a deep breath, her gaze never flinching. “Kill who?”

  “The guy who did that.”

  Alyssa blew out a deep breath and patted Val on the shoulder. “Yeah, thought so. I could see it on your face. That’s what happens when you’re in love.”

  “What?” Val almost staggered back, like she had been slapped. Then she shook her head, feeling some of the hazy buzzing finally leaving. “That’s not—”

  “Stop. You can argue later. Come on, we need to get down there.”

  “Down where?”

  “To see Justin. You do want to see him, right?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Val blinked and shook her head once more, trying to clear it all the way. Yes, she wanted to see Justin. Needed to see him.

  Alyssa grabbed her arm again, dragging her along the concourse, not worrying about who they pushed out of the way.

  Yes, she needed to see Justin. To make sure he was okay, to make sure it was nothing more than a broken arm, that he was fine.

  She needed to see him because she cared. Of course she cared. But what Alyssa said? No, that had nothing to do with it.

  She just needed to see Justin. That was all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gray. No sound, no color, no feeling. Just gray. He could sense light off in the distance, knew there was sound there as well even though he couldn’t hear it. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to see the light. It was better here in the gray. He didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel, didn’t have to worry.

  That last word caught him off-guard. Worry. What did he ha
ve to worry about? He wasn’t sure, just knew there was…something. Something waiting for him, something he didn’t want to consider, didn’t want to face, didn’t want to acknowledge.

  No, it was better here in the gray. Safer. Not quite comforting. He wasn’t sure how he would describe it. Then again, he didn’t have to. All he had to do was stay here and experience it. It would be so easy to just stay here, to lose himself in the gray and not have to worry about anything.

  Had the gray turned to black, just for a little bit? He wasn’t sure, had no way of knowing how much time had passed, or if any had passed at all. He seemed to recall slipping deeper into the gray, deeper to where it was almost black, where nothing existed. But now the gray was back, along with that annoying light, coming closer.

  “Justin. Justin, wake up.”

  He frowned, recognizing his name, the sound almost distorted. A flash of memory, nothing more than wispy smoke, swirling just out of reach. Something was wrong. He recognized the voice but it was off somehow. Or maybe it wasn’t the voice he remembered. No, it couldn’t be. The voice he remembered was soft, musical, kind and laughing and warm. This voice was anything but. This voice was insistent, impatient, with an edge of something to it he didn’t quite understand.

  He didn’t want to see the voice. Could he see voices? Maybe. It didn’t matter. All he knew was that if he saw it, there was something else he’d have to see, something he didn’t want to face. Better to slip back in the gray, to ignore everything and pretend the voice didn’t exist.

  “Now you’re just pissing me off. Come on, wake up.”

  The voice was louder, closer. He shook his head, his mind searching for the grayness that was being pushed away, trying to hold onto it as it faded. It was no good. The gray dimmed, fading even more, replaced by a watery light.

  Justin fought to open his eyes, his lids too heavy, resisting his attempts. He tried to move his arm. Burning pain, quick and sharp, exploded along his left arm. He bolted upright, only to fall back when more pain shot through him, sending stars shooting across the inside of his eyelids.