With a growl, I moved to the windows overlooking the city, pressing my palm against the cool glass. Fuck my past. It was irrelevant now. I’d made it as an NHL player, something that so many people could only ever dream of.
I let my forehead drop against the window, staring out at the towers in front of me. Somewhere out there, Jude was probably having dinner with his brother, laughing and catching up like normal siblings did. Maybe Brayden was telling him stories about the team, and maybe he’d mention his asshole teammate who kept to himself and barely spoke to anyone.
It was a good thing he didn’t know what that asshole had done to his little brother in a dark corner of a club.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, hoping for a distraction from the clusterfuck of unwanted emotions my brain was forcing me to feel. Opening my messaging app, I found a text from the dad of one of the kids I coached.
Jack (Marcus dad):
Hey Cody. Just wanted to shoot you a text to confirm the time change for next week’s session. Are we still on for 7pm at the community rink? Marcus is excited
I stared at the message, a weird lump coming into my throat.Marcus is excited.
My coaching sessions were the one thing in my life that felt uncomplicated. No media, no pressure, no teammates asking questions I didn’t want to answer. Just me, a few talented kids who might not ordinarily get a chance to play hockey because of the costs involved, and the fundamentals of the game I loved.
Back in Vancouver, when I’d been a scruffy, lonely kid hanging around the rink every day with nowhere else to go, a couple of the guys had taken pity on me. They’d hooked me up with some of their old equipment and taught me the basics, and then I’d begun practising on my own. I’d learned to skate, then to play. And then…well, it turned out I was good at it. Good enough for my talent to open doors I’d never dreamed of before. Now, I was paying it forward, coaching these kids,and somehow, against all odds, they looked forward to spending time with me.Me. The antisocial asshole who was everyone else’s last choice to hang out with.
That was something that I’d never take for granted.
Me:
Yeah, we’re still on. Tell Marcus I’m looking forward to seeing the improvement in his backhand shot
Jack (Marcus dad):
Will do. Thanks. You’re making a real difference
A real difference.What would my teammates think if they knew that the “girlfriend” I was supposedly seeing was actually a group of kids who just wanted to get better at hockey? They’d probably think I’d lost my fucking mind, spending my free time teaching instead of partying or hooking up like a normal twenty-four-year-old.
But when I was on the ice with those kids, I wasn’t the Calgary Bobcats left winger Cody Clements. I wasn’t the grumpy asshole who scared away the media and kept his teammates at arm’s length. I wasn’t the fuck-up who’d been traded here because I’d messed everything up with my previous team.
I was just someone who loved hockey enough to pass it on to someone else. If I could help even one kid avoid some of the struggles I’d been through…maybe that was worth something. And if I let my teammates come to their own conclusions about my personal life, who the fuck cared? It was no one else’s business.
After replying to Jack to say I’d see him and Marcus at the next session, I placed my phone on my kitchen countertop and moved to the other set of windows. The ones that looked out over the stadium.
In two days, we’d be back there for our next playoff game, and I’d have to pretend that nothing had changed. That I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about a certain British soccer player’s body or the way he’d looked at me during practice with those shocked, bright green eyes.
Fuck. Six months ago, I’d been warming the bench for Boston, my three-year contract becoming more worthless by the day as I racked up minutes on the bench instead of ice time. Too many fights, not enough goals—that was what the management team had told me when they’d placed me on unconditional waivers. I’d thought my NHL career was over.
Then Calgary had taken a chance on me, buying out the rest of my Boston contract and giving me a fresh start. I’d been determined to keep my head down, to stay out of trouble, and prove I belonged here. No drama. No complications. Just hockey.
Until this weekend.
Fucking hell. How had I managed to fuck everything up so spectacularly? The second my skates touched the ice, I’d noticed him, sitting alone in the stands. And then one of my teammates had mentioned Nielson’s twenty-one-year-old brother, who was sidelined with an injury and had flown to Canada on a whim.
Jude Nielson. Brayden’s little brother, the soccer player I’d heard him mention once or twice during the rare occasions I’d been forced to interact with the team outside of training and games. The one who’d been injured and had been forced to sit out for the rest of the season.
The one I’d fucked against a wall less than twenty-four hours ago.
I gritted my teeth. Last night had been a mistake. One I wouldn’t make again. Jude Nielson was off limits.
My phone buzzed again, and my heart rate spiked as I took in the words on the screen.
Unknown:
We need to talk
Me:
