Fighting against Gravity: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 3)

by Isabella Cassazza

  Even if they weren’t our biggest enemy, we need to win tonight if we want to make playoffs, and I want that playoff spot more than anyone else on this team. Tonight I’ll fight for my lifelong dream with every fiber of my being.

  I’m going to win the Stanley Cup. For me and for my dad. He worked two jobs so I could always have the best equipment and private skating lessons. I won’t let him down. He deserves a day with the Cup as much as I do.

  On the ice, I stretch my legs, do some sprints, and get a feel for the puck—not that I expect to shoot any goals tonight, I’m a defenseman after all. But you never know. I’ve already had my obligatory goal earlier in the season. My moment of glory.

  But who says I’m not entitled to another one? Only one thing is a given in hockey—anything can happen.

  The first period is frustrating, to say the least. Tyler misses a ton of shots. And so do his linemen, Matt Walker and Julian Smith. We have a fantastic first line, but tonight a five-year-old would do a better job than what they’ve delivered so far.

  It’s one of those frustrating games where nothing functions. For us.

  Dallas hasn’t found a remedy against our defense yet, but I’ve thrown myself in the way of Dallas’ players so many times I’ve lost count. They’re wearing us out. And with no answer from our offense, this isn’t bound to go well. I want to smash my stick into the wall. One would think we’re a freaking junior team and not a fully trained NHL team. What’s wrong with the forwards?

  At least I’m doing my job tonight. I’m the fucking keeper, not only protecting the goal but also the goalie from sudden attacks.

  Each and every player has his assigned task. In a perfect game, we work together like gear wheels. Tonight the stupid things stick together harder than super glue. We’re working against each other. The timing is off.

  I storm into the locker room after the first period. Angry at my teammates. Angry at… not myself. I did my fucking job.

  While Coach gives some kind of speech, I zone out. It’s not my fucking fault the forwards have forgotten how to shoot goals. Their problem. Not mine.

  When I walk back to the arena, my strides are determined and I’m willing myself to forget the first twenty minutes of the game. We have enough time left to win and we will. We have to.

  Ten minutes later, I’m not so sure anymore. I’m waiting for my next shift when Dallas’ Darren Lawson breaches the second defensive line as if they’re ice sculptures and unable to move. What is wrong with them? Can’t they move their fucking asses?

  Lawson isn’t a beginner and doesn’t waste an opportunity handed to him on a silver platter. Now we need two goals. Instead of shooting one, we struggle to keep Dallas from shooting a second one during the remainder of the period.

  Back in the locker room, I pop my knuckles and drink some water. Then I turn my head from left to right to loosen my neck muscles.

  “Boys, let’s go. We have a period left to turn the game. We just need two goals. No mistakes. We just need two goals. Remember, we have a score to settle with Dallas. Let’s go.” Coach Benning’s voice sounds more desperate than convinced. Just two goals. Pathetic really, when our first line consists of top scorers—top scorers who’d better go back to training. Time to man up.

  Ten minutes and no goal from our side later, Coach Benning’s speech still rings in my ears as things turn from bad to worse. I’m not sure what exactly happens during the face-off between Matt and Dallas’ forward Darren Lawson, but all of a sudden, fists are flying. And when I say flying, I mean at lightning speed. I don’t remember ever seeing Matt fight. Right now, he seems… possessed, as if he’s lost it. Am I the only sane person on this team?

  I’ve always thought Matt the silent, brooding type. Until now. Until he snapped. There’s no other way to describe it. He fucking snapped. Marrying our team owner’s granddaughter must have gone to his head. There’s a reason for nonfraternization policies. These two chose to ignore it, and look where it got us. He can’t go nuts on the ice just because he’s married to the boss.

  When Lawson drops to his knees, Matt follows suit, still smashing his fists wherever he can hit his opponent. Tyler grabs his jersey to pull him off Lawson, but Matt isn’t having it. It takes two refs and Tyler to stop his lunacy.

  I shake my head. My teammate has gone crazy. I hope for his sake that he has a plausible reason for his actions. The penalty that follows isn’t a surprise. He gets banned from the game. I wouldn’t be surprised if his aggressive behavior will lead to additional consequences after the game. He sure as hell has a lot of explaining to do.

  I shake my legs out and tap my stick on the ice while I wait for the game to continue. We have nine minutes to win. Nine fucking minutes, no first line, and a team that could use a leader.

  I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. I can do this.

  Peter loses the face-off to Dallas’ Justin Towler, who flies toward me after he gets hold of the puck. Another freaking defenseman in pursuit of a goal.

  Well, come on, big guy. Let’s have some fun. He means business, but so do I. I sprint and then take my stance, making myself appear wider than I am to block his way. Quick shifts from leg to leg and I’m level with him. Our sticks collide twice, but he still has the puck in his possession. His eyes are like laser pointers glued to the goal, but I’ve learned to read my opponent’s minds. The laser-focused expression on his face tells me he’s ready to shoot any second. He has to if he wants to get the puck in the net.

  I use my entire body to block him and smash him into the boards. The puck is mine.

  I’m not sure how many times I’ve practiced how to control the puck. It doesn’t matter. Each time has brought me closer to the level of skill I need right now. I fly past the other players and take off in the direction of Dallas’ goal, passing the puck from one side of my stick to the other until it feels as if my stick is simply an extension of my arm.

  In this moment, I’m certain no one can snatch the puck away from me. I just know. It’s the most powerful and gratifying feeling in the world. Calm settles over me. I can turn the game. If our forwards don’t know how to do their job anymore, it’s my time to shine. I can fucking do this. My dad will be so proud of me. I can’t wait to see his eyes shine with pure joy.

  I fly over the ice while the cold air glides over my skin. There’s nothing like it. An inner peace floods me while adrenaline pumps through my veins. I’m unstoppable. Un-freaking-stoppable. Time for Dallas’ players to look like ice sculptures. I breathe out and prepare to shoot.

  Instead, I buckle over. Out of nowhere a stick collides with my knee area. I hit the ice with full force but don’t take my eyes off the puck.

  As if nothing had happened, I scramble up in a kneeling position and set one foot on the ice to get up, just to fall over again.

  Pain, like I’ve never known before, explodes inside my body. Pain like no human being should ever have to experience. Pain like something has irreversibly broken and never can be fixed.

  I can’t even locate the piercing sensation. It’s shooting through my whole body. And… I gasp. My left foot is turned away from my body in what can only be described as the most unnatural angle possible.

  I rip my bucket off my head and throw it aside. Why? I don’t know. Maybe to take my mind off the pain.

  Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, but my eyes are glued to my leg. This can’t be happening. I’m the fucking king. I can’t be put on the Injured Reserve list. I won’t allow it.

  I’ve never had a severe injury in my entire career, just the occasional swollen eye or sore muscles. But those aren’t injuries.

  They’re inconveniences.

  Scratches.

  Unimportant.

  This is different.

  Idiocy takes over. Pure stupidity on my part. I can’t be lying on the ice when my team needs me. I turn to my side and try to push myself off the ice. If I can get up, it can’t be that bad. It may be only a dislocated knee. Yeah, a dislocated
knee doesn’t sound so bad. I can handle that. I’d be out for what? Three weeks. That’s doable.

  Before I can do something as stupid as put weight on my foot, Tyler pushes me back on my side. “What are you doing? You’re making it worse. Wait for Dr. Miller.”

  A second later, the team doctor kneels down beside my head and asks where it hurts. I point to my leg and close my eyes. Boy, do I wish I hadn’t seen his concerned expression. His face said it all. I’m out for more than three weeks.

  A month, maybe. I can do a month. Tyler was out with his concussion for eight weeks. That’s two months, and it seemed he was back in no time. No, a month doesn’t sound so bad.

  Dr. Miller puts his fingers around my knee. Sweat trickles down my neck and then breaks out over my entire body. In seconds, I’m drenched. My perspiratory glands have turned into waterfalls.

  I bash my fists on the ice when the team doctor presses his fingers in the area around my shin. My scream resounds through the arena and comes back to me. Only then do I realize that the arena is silent. Deadly silent. I’ve never been in a quiet arena. Not during practice. And certainly not during a game. Even when I was training on my own, my skates were scraping the ice or slaps sounded when I hit the puck. This is wrong. Everything is wrong.

  Through a fog, I hear the words “broken” and “hospital,” but I don’t register much more. Pain shoots through my brain without finding an outlet. I clench and unclench my fists, not that it helps, but I’m no longer in control. I can’t lose control. Control keeps me sane. Control is… everything.

  Two paramedics put me on a stretcher. On a fucking stretcher. I’ve never been on a fucking stretcher. What will my fans think? What will the little boy think for whom I signed a jersey yesterday? Or everyone that’s ever rooted and believed in me? I owe those people my career. I owe them to bring home the Cup.

  Even more important, what will my mom and dad think? I don’t want them to see me like this. I don’t want them to worry about me.

  My leg is broken, but I don’t want it to be. I’m the untouchable king. I don’t know what’s worse, my leg or the stretcher. It’s just not me. It can’t be. I want to scream again, but I’m not a fucking girl. I don’t scream. Ever. And whatever is flowing down my cheeks—it can’t be tears.

  The audience cheers as the paramedics push me off the ice. For the first time, I don’t want to hear them. For the first time, a crowd shouting my name feels downright wrong.

  Is this how they’re going to remember me, on a fucking stretcher? A fucking orange stretcher that clashes with my dark blue jersey…. This has to be the worst nightmare ever.

  “I need ice,” Dr. Miller says once we’re in the locker room.

  I hear commotion, but don’t know who’s causing it. The blue and white LED lights on the ceiling shine right into my face. Funny how I never noticed them before. It might be my last opportunity to look at the glittering Ice Tigers’ logo…. No. No. Today can’t be the end. I want the Cup. I deserve it. I fucking do.

  My dad deserves it too. I can’t disappoint him. I don’t want to. He calls me after every game and tells me how much he loves watching me play. I can’t take that away from him. To banish the unwelcome thoughts from my mind, I close my eyes.

  Seconds—or is it minutes?—later, someone falls on his knees next to me and hands an ice pack to the team doctor. I open my eyes. If it weren’t for the pain, I’d laugh as loud as possible.

  Matt Walker can’t even fetch the right ice pack anymore. That fucking thing is pathetic. Good thing he’s married to the boss. How else would he keep his job?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as more people, one of them, Matt’s wife, enter the locker room.

  “How are you?” Emilia drops down next to me.

  “Don’t you worry. It’s probably nothing,” I say through clenched teeth. Nothing. Hah. Who am I kidding? It must be the shock talking.

  “We’re taking you to the hospital for further examination.” Dr. Miller puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Do you want me to call someone?” Emilia asks.

  I shake my head. “I’m good. Don’t you worry, I’ll be back in no time.” Why do I keep saying that when I know deep down it isn’t so? Wishful thinking?

  I close my eyes when I’m put on another stretcher. This one is white. Not that I care anymore. All I want is to turn back time.

  It dawns on me that this might be the last time I leave a hockey arena in my gear.

  The paramedics turn the stretcher to push it inside the ambulance. My eyes find the Ice Tigers’ logo on top of the building.

  And then I know, I just know. I’ll never play hockey again.

  Game over.

  Chapter 2

  Michael

  Fourteen weeks later

  I tap my fingers on the couch while the phone rings. Come on, babe. You know you want to pick up.

  “Michael?” Kendra’s voice sounds as if she’s surprised I’m still alive.

  The corners of my mouth lift. “The one and only. Can you be at my place in an hour?”

  “An hour?”

  This isn’t going as I expected. Three months ago, she’d have begged me to invite her over and bend her over the dresser the moment the door fell shut behind her. My hands clench into fists. The dresser isn’t an option anymore. The bed will have to do. And even that could be difficult.

  “An hour consists of sixty minutes. For reference, that’s the amount of time you spend in the bathroom each morning.” Kendra has never been the brightest bee on the planet, but I’m not calling her because of her IQ. As it is, I don’t expect her to talk tonight. The fewer words, the better. But I can’t let her die dumb.

  “You’re so funny.” She giggles. Funny? That’s one way to describe what I am now.

  Her high-pitched laughter hurts my ears. I had remembered it as breathy and sexy—not screeching, like fingernails on a chalkboard. I shudder. Why can’t anything be the way it is supposed to be anymore?

  When it comes to my life, I lost the remote control, and it’s nowhere to be found.

  I should just throw a party, but what would I do there? Sit around? Hobble-dance? Get shit-faced drunk?

  I’m willing to do a lot of things to please the crowd, but I won’t make an idiot out of myself. None of my regular guests has called me. Not a single one. A few get-well-soon messages on my Instagram and a handful of DMs, that’s all I got in return for my legendary parties. Ungrateful pack.

  “I expect you in an hour.” I sound rude but can’t help it.

  “I can’t.”

  Wait, what? Chicks don’t say no to me.

  I dig my fingers into the armrest. “Come on, babe. I can make it good for you.” Since when does she need persuasion?

  “I’m with Justin now.”

  “Justin?” Now I’m the one with the high-pitched voice.

  “Yeah… you know… Justin Towler.”

  I hang up. If I were standing, I’d fall back on the couch. Justin fucking Towler. The one responsible. The one who also got my… whatever Kendra was. A fuck buddy maybe? But wouldn’t buddies call to make sure I was okay after my injury? She never did.

  I shake my head and open the contacts in my phone. Good thing I’m not a one-woman guy.

  My finger hovers over Candace’s name. No, definitely not her. I delete her number.

  I scroll farther down the names. Yeah, Candy will sweeten my evening. The phone rings four times before it goes to voicemail.

  I try Jenna next.

  Then Mandy.

  None of them answer.

  I throw the phone to the other end of the couch where it lands with a plop.

  What’s wrong with these chicks? Before… my accident, they would have danced naked on the streets to receive an invite to one of my parties, and now they can’t even pick up the phone when the king calls?

  It’s because you’re not a king anymore, a tiny voice whispers next to my left ear. Women want real men. Not cripples. I clen
ch and unclench my fists.

  The girls and the party crowd want a perfect king, not the broken careerless version.

  I close my eyes. When I open them again, I zoom in on the vase on the coffee table, the one the interior designer insisted would make energy flow through the room. I bend forward at the hip and take the smooth glass in my hand. For a second my thumbs caress the surface. Then my gaze finds the opposite wall.

  Let’s get the energy flowing for real. I reach back and throw the ugly thing against the white surface with all I’ve got. It leaves a dent. Not a big one, but one that destroys the smooth perfection.

  Now the wall looks just like my knee after they took out my fragmented meniscus.

  Fitting, isn’t it?

  The doorbell rings, and I swear under my breath. How many times do I have to tell my mom she should stay in her hotel room? Surprise visits is what you get when you don’t answer your mom’s calls.

  What does she expect me to say every time she asks me how I’m doing? Freaking good? I’m not a liar. She, of all people, should know what the accident has done to me. She and Dad worked their asses off for me to play hockey. Money was an issue, and if it hadn’t been for their willingness to work two jobs each, I’d have never made it to the NHL. They could have saved themselves the lack of sleep and sacrifices. In the end, it was all for nothing.

  My career is fucking over. Isn’t the fact that I have to limp with a fucking cane enough of a statement? Does she need me to spell it out? I’ve told her to stay away. I’ve told her a million times I’m not in a good place.

  Why doesn’t she and the others understand that I need more time to accept that my lifelong dream has ended?

  I have to acknowledge that my career is over. But it doesn’t magically happen overnight. Not for me.

  In my dreams I still fly over the ice at lightning speed, only to wake up in the morning, struggling to make it out of my own bed….

  A muscle in my jaw tics. I’ve lost my focus. My identity. My… everything.