Seriously. Pretty sure at least three of us are injured. A Boston player’s already been kicked out of the game—good—and I think we’ve set a new league record for penalty minutes higher than we set earlier this season.
My time in the box means I’m out for the rest of the game since there are only two minutes left on the clock. I get to watch the rest of the massacre, seething behind the glass, feeling responsible for the two goals Boston scores on the power play.
The team trudges into the locker room, under the heavy weight of the two-to-five loss, with the knowledge that we have to win the next two games, or we lose the cup. We’re so fucking close to raising that cup over our heads. It’s been our best season ever. Losing now would be devastating.
I’m also missing being flung up against a wall as soon as we’re past the locker room doors and kissed until I can’t breathe. Kissed like I might die in the next second. I miss the high of flying with Mercy.
Sparing a glance at him, I try to read how he’s doing based on his body language. Guess I can’t read too much into anything after that brutal fucking game, but … dunno. Maybe I was hoping to catch him staring at me. For a glimpse of our magic within the shitstorm to make sure it’s still there.
There’s nothing.
Our team sits on the benches, and we wait for Coach to tell us how abominable that game was as if we didn’t already know. It’s his job though.
“I have fucking notes for all of you because if you keep playing like that, you’ll be out by the next game. We’re having a short dryland practice tomorrow before our flight out to go over them because I’m too livid right now. It’s at six am so that means lights out is at eleven pm.”
He stalks out of the locker room.I miss when he’d wait around for me so that we could drive back in his Audi.
We’re left to lick our wounds. Some of us have to see the team medic. I’m one of the lucky ones who has only been topically tenderized—lots of bruises, but nothing’s broken or over-strained. I hurt everywhere though and don’t even care that we’ve been sent to bed like toddlers. I want nothing more than a hot bath and my bed.
I plan on sleeping through the flight to Boston tomorrow.
“Harsh,” Casey says for my ears mostly. Mostly because he’s not whispering, but he’s not speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “Can you two kiss and make up so that he’s in less of a bad mood when we get annihilated?”
He’s trying to make me laugh and saying he hates seeing us at odds all in one. I’m pretty sick of it myself. Maybe I should follow after him, bang down his door so that we can make up and then have hot make-up sex? Fuck, I’d take some angry sex right now. Truth be told I’m mad at him. Know what? I can’t deal with him right now.
After we’re done our post-game cardio, I head to the van with Casey, Stacey, Dirk and Dash. We’re gonna pass right out and sleep so hard in about thirty minutes.
From the darkness, like an eighties cartoon villain, Rhett steps out. “Hey, Jack.”
I look everywhere, filled with panic. If Mercy sees Rhett anywhere near me, he’s going to assume I don’t give a shit about how he feels, palling around with Rhett in the shadows. Or worse. Maybe he’ll think I’ve left him for Rhett. It’s pretty clear that he feels betrayed and that I’ve got more loyalty to Rhett than I do him.
That couldn’t be further from the fucking truth.
After the first Boston game of the final round of the playoffs, Rhett texted me. I made the mistake of texting him back. It turned into comfortable banter. It made me wonder if we could be friends. Well, the answer to that is a big fat no. Apparently. If I have to choose between Merc and Rhett, I know my answer without having to think about it.
Thing is, I don’t think Merc would actually give me an ultimatum like that—once he’s calmed down—but knowing it would hurt him to keep Rhett around is enough for me. I never want him hurting, but most especially I don’t want him hurting because of me. I’m making this decision of my own accord.
“Want us to get rid of him, Jack?” Stacey asks.
“Cool your jets, Alderchuck. I came to say goodbye,” Rhett says.
Everyone’s waiting for my okay though. “It’s cool. Can one of you take my bag to the van? I’ll be there in a second.”
I get four different variations on a “I can’t fuckin’ believe them” expression, but I ignore them. If this is goodbye, I want to say goodbye.
“You know, you might be the most beautiful after a game. I didn’t appreciate your worn-out and brutalized look enough,” he says, reaching out to run a thumb over the bruise on my cheek. Rhett used to hate my post-game damage. It was a great way to get onto his shit list and he was a force people wanted to avoid. The first season after our break-up was an eye-opener to just how much carnage he prevented for me.
I give a half smile. “Merc likes it.” Rhett frowns. I know he doesn’t want to hear about Mercy, but I feel the need to remind Rhett that Mercy is real and here to stay. I sigh. Maybe we can’t be friends.
“I’m going to regret not marrying you for the rest of my life.” He stares at the rings on his fingers—Rhett always wears at least one or two—watching them glint under the parking lot’s overhead lighting. “I’m heading back to Vancouver for the off-season. I have a plan to date someone once I’m back. Make it super serious. Eventually, Father will see that I’ve moved on and he’ll forget about you. You’ll see. You’ll be drafted next season for sure.”
I hope so, but it’s hard to let go of the utter defeat that consumes me. I’ll be twenty-five going into next season, I’m gonna be ancient in hockey land soon.
“I appreciate that, Rhett. But only date someone if you want to. This wasn’t your fault.”
“No, but it is my responsibility. You can’t stop me from doing what I feel is right to make up for it.”
“Fine, Rhett. But at least tell the poor guy you’re not into him.”
