Today’s annual pre-season barbeque only reminded me of the first day we met. I would never forget how brazenly she’d marched up to me and then proceeded to lecture me on the deficiencies of my playing style.
She’d left me speechless in more ways than one.
That was the day she became the bane of my existence. Ten years later, she still proudly wore that crown.
Speaking of crowns, it annoyed the hell out of me that she was out here holding court like she was the Queen of the Connecticut Comets. Glowering at her, I watched her flitting from group to group, acting like the hostess.
Where did she get off?
Sure, she was Coach’s daughter, but if anyone should be taking on the female leadership role, it was her best friend, Natalie. As the captain’s wife, she was the top dog among the women of the Comets, but I knew from experience that no one ever told Hannah no.
That was why she was so out of control. She was a spoiled brat.
Coach might go out of his way to protect her from the big bad hockey players, but he enabled her outrageous behavior. He let her run all over the rink and practice facilities like she owned the place.
She wasalwaysthere.
Probably because she couldn’t hold down a job to save her life. Hannah was thirty-one and had no direction. I loved Coach and his wife, Amber, but they’d failed that girl. She didn’t know how to survive in the real world.
Then, there was the mouth on that woman. Not only did she know her shit about hockey, but she went out of her way to provoke a reaction from anyone and everyone. She had no filter and didn’t give two fucks about what anyone thought of her.
It was infuriating and it was appalling, but God help me, it was a fucking turn-on.
For the past ten years, I’d given as good as she gave. We’d become verbal sparring partners. Partly because I wanted to put her in her place, and partly because making her hate me was easier than succumbing to the attraction I felt for her. An added bonus was pissing her off beyond all reason. She was a feisty one, and I could only imagine how that translated to the bedroom.
Stop it.
As if on cue, the reason why I could never act on said attraction walked into my field of vision. Coach crossed the manicured country club lawn to take a seat next to me at one of the makeshift bars.
Ordering a beer, he casually asked me, “How’s your body feeling?”
Time was a fickle bitch, and the older I got, the more eyes were watching, waiting for signs that I was too old to play the game I loved.
I didn’t need anyone to remind me that I was past my prime. At thirty-four, I felt it every time I took the ice. It took twice as much effort to achieve the same results, and post-game recovery hurt more than ever. But I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. As long as I could still make an impact and a team was willing to take a chance on me, I was going to play.
This game was all I had ever known. The thought of what my life would look like after I stopped playing scared the living shit out of me. My college years earned me a communications degree, but we all knew student-athletes were given a lot ofleeway. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I’d slept through most of my classes.
I had no marketable skills outside of what I could do on the ice.
I could see it now. Handing over a resume that said: great at handling his stick.
While true, that would likely lead me to jobs as a male escort. Pass.
Sure, I didn’t need to work; I’d earned more than enough in my ten-year professional career to set me up for life, even if it weren’t for my smart investing. But I knew a life of leisure would drive me insane. I wasn’t cut out to spend the rest of my days bullshitting on the golf course. I needed action, a constant adrenaline rush. It’s who I was.
Needing another drink myself, I ordered a whiskey neat before answering Coach. “Feels great. Can’t wait for camp. Humbling the prospects is my favorite way to initiate them.”
Coach chuckled. “You always were highly competitive.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Without my competitive drive, I wouldn’t have made it this far.
The bartender placed our drinks before us as Coach mused, “You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger. I pushed so hard until there was nothing left.”
I was flattered. Coach was a legend, a three-time champion, and a defenseman like me. But those three rings would always separate us.
My time was running out, and I only wanted one. This year might very well be my last chance. If my body gave out—the implication in his opening question had been clear—I wouldn’t have a choice.
“I want it so bad,” I breathed out.
