I would have sold my soul to play just one more game. Because that’s what the game was to me—a part of my soul, an essential part of my identity.
My chest heaved, and my fists clenched at my sides. I needed to feel something, anything. And the only person who helped with that was keeping their distance, so maybe it was time to seek out an alternative.
Opening my eyes, I spun around to face the wall, taking a step back. I cocked my fist, ready to break my hand by punching solid concrete in my desperation to have some proof that I was still alive.
My bicep shook as I mentally prepared for the burst of pain.
Okay, here we go. Three. Two. On—
“Whatever this is, it looks promising. Care if I watch?” A voice cut through the haze, and I whipped my head to the side, my fist still suspended in the air.
Hannah Moreau—well, I suppose it was Berg now—stood a few feet away, legs and arms crossed, one hip propped against the wall as she eyed what appeared like a mental breakdown.
Okay, who was I kidding? It was a mental breakdown. I just wasn’t expecting an audience.
Palm up, her hand cut through the air parallel to the ground. “Proceed. Don’t let me stop you.”
She was the youngest daughter of Ace Moreau, the Comets’ head coach, and was married to my old college captain, Cal Berg. Hannah understood both sides of the game, having lived with a coach and a player. Maybe therewas a reason that she’d been the one to find me when I was about to inflict bodily harm on myself. It was good that she did; I would have had a hell of a time explaining that type of injury to upper-level management and the training staff.
Dropping my hand to my side, I turned to face her fully, dipping my head in acknowledgment. “Hello, Hannah.”
Pushing off the wall, she stepped closer, a playfully sexy smile on her lips. “Long time no see, Maddox,” she purred.
Hannah was hot, and she knew it. She carried herself with a confidence other women couldn’t match, and they secretly hated her because she also knew how to talk to men.
Had I once been attracted to her? Hell, yeah. There was even a close call at a club in Hartford a few years back.
At the time, I hadn’t realized she was a hockey legend’s daughter. As soon as Cal interrupted us and dropped that little truth bomb, I was out. Ace Moreau was notorious for warning players away from his daughters, and I wasn’t looking to stir up even more trouble in an already heated rivalry. Go figure, Cal had set his sights on the girl himself and stopped us out of jealous rage versus looking out for me.
“Wanna explain why you were seconds away from punching a wall?” she questioned, her blue eyes assessing me carefully.
I blew out a heavy breath. “Existential crisis. No big deal.”
“Sounds about right,” she mused, nodding.
“Your dad ever struggle with his career ending?” I was swallowing my pride big time by even asking.
Hannah’s gaze softened. “No, I think he knew it was time. There was more regret about chasing it for longer than he should have. He struggled to keep up during those final few years, losing minutes to younger guys, and I think that was a huge blow to his ego.”
Ace Moreau had been a three-time champion with the Houston Heroes, the team that had drafted him. Once he was past his prime, they chose to let him go, and he’d team-hopped for nearly a decade, playing into his early forties.
I must have visibly deflated at her answer, as it didn’t help me, because she offered, “Cal, on the other hand . . .”
My ears perked up. “Yeah? He’s not happy in retirement?”
Hannah shrugged. “His situation isn’t the same as yours, but sometimes I think he wishes he was still out there with the guys. They go to practice, they play in games, and he’s forced to watch on. It’s not the same, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” I huffed.
“There’s almost a disconnect. He’s close but not close enough. And it’s hard for him to sit on his hands, acting calmly in the booth when something happens on the ice. He’s forced to analyze it in a neutral way when I know he wants to shove his foot up someone’s ass.” She laughed lightly. “Sometimes, I think he’d be better suited behind the bench, like you.”
“Yeah, because that wouldn’t spell disaster with my troublemaker of a wife,” a deep voice boomed further down the hall.
Glancing over Hannah’s shoulder, I saw Cal Berg striding toward us. He was a big dude, intimidating to most as he gave off the appearance of a Viking, but I knew him when he was just coming into his size. And I wasn’t exactly small myself, my six-three not far off from his six-five.
When he reached where we stood, he looped his arm around Hannah, pulling her into his side possessively. She peered up at him with stars in her eyes, teasing, “Oh, come on, you know I would make the best coach’s wife.”
Cal snorted. “It’s bad enough you text me throughout the entire game while I’m on live television. I can only imagine you barging onto the bench if you didn’t like how something was going.”
