Gametime: A Moo U Hockey Romance

by Jami Davenport

  “No, Dad, I did. I shoulder the majority of the blame. I didn’t have to go along with any of it. I didn’t listen to my heart. I didn’t fight for what Paxton and I had. I let my pride interfere.” I cleared my throat. “I called you tonight to ask you if it was possible to have a good relationship with a professional hockey player. I wanted to know if I’d made the right decision or if I should’ve hung in there and made this work.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I’m brokenhearted. I can’t study. I can’t sleep. I cry at the drop of a hat. I miss him so much the it hurts like someone ripped open my chest and put a stranglehold on my heart.”

  “That’s how I felt when your mother died.” His voice was so soft I strained to hear the words.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” Silence stretched between us.

  Dad sniffled, or what sounded like a sniffle. “Don’t be,” he said in a voice suspiciously husky. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered. I made things worse instead of better. I’ve been pushing you in a direction you haven’t wanted to go for a long time.”

  “Especially when it comes to skating?” I joked.

  “Especially that.” He laughed then sobered. “Naomi, I know I’m a controlling, hard-nosed ass at times, and I haven’t been the best father or husband.”

  “You did the best you could.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Being with a hockey player isn’t all glamour and fame. There are a lot of lonely nights where you’re left wondering what’s going on with the person you love. Wondering if they’re being faithful. Your mom and I had our good times and bad times, but through it all, I loved her and she loved me. I wouldn’t trade what we had for anything.” He blew out a long breath, and I could tell this wasn’t easy for him.

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You know in your heart what you want and how badly you want it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Naomi, I want you to know I’m proud of you, and I love you.”

  I choked up even more than I had before. “I love you, too, Dad.” Everything was going to be okay despite what happened with Pax and me.

  “If you love the boy, go after him. I chased your mom until I finally caught her.”

  “How did you catch her?”

  He chuckled as if reliving a fond memory. “I made a grand gesture.”

  “A grand gesture?”

  “I spent every penny I had, which wasn’t much back then, and rented a rooftop garden in the city, hired a chef, and invited her to dinner under false pretenses. I almost thought she wasn’t going to show up, but true to form, she was thirty minutes late. The rest is history. I won her over that night.”

  “That’s so lovely, Dad. Why have I never heard that story?”

  “I don’t know. Too painful, I guess, or too personal? Naomi, love is something you don’t walk away from no matter how many obstacles are in your way. You’re facing obstacles. Do you find an inner strength to overcome adversity, or do you give up and walk away? Look, I need to go. Let me know what you decide.”

  “I will,” I promised, but he was already gone.

  37

  Showdown

  Paxton

  The weekend’s games had been a mixture of the good, the bad, and the ugly. The bad was how I played in the first period of Friday’s game. The ugly was my further-strained relationship with Patrick on full display for all my teammates to see. The good was what happened after the first period.

  Maine had fought tough on Friday night, and by the end of the first period, neither team had scored. I wasn’t playing badly, but I wasn’t quite right either. I struggled to get in the zone, and my brother wasn’t helping things. He barked orders at me like a general. He was on my ass every time we hit the ice. I wanted to pulverize him, but losing my temper wouldn’t help the team.

  “Paxton, a word.” Coach Garf motioned me out into the hall. I followed him.

  “What’s up, Coach?”

  “I’ve been hearing rumors you’re going through some personal issues.”

  “Yeah, somewhat.”

  “It’s not that I don’t sympathize, but you’ve come too far this year to blow it all in a few weeks. Listen to me, and listen well. You must have a professional mindset. Do you know what that means?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it means that you don’t let your personal problems affect your game.”

  “That’s the gist of it.” Garf leaned against the wall in a deceptively casual pose that didn’t fool me. He was intent on getting his point across. “Whatever is happening to you personally cannot collide with your professional ambitions. You must compartmentalize all else and concentrate solely on hockey. There’ll be time for personal healing later, but hockey doesn’t wait for your feelings to catch up. Hockey comes now. You must have a single-minded purpose to play your game and keep the crap out of your head. I’m so proud of what you’ve accomplished. I know you can do this.”

  “I can,” I stated firmly with conviction. “And I will,” I added with a grin, knowing my coach hated the word can.

  He snorted at me and slapped me on the back. “Good. Let’s win this game.”

  I took a step toward the locker room when he called me back.

  “One more thing. Coach Keller and I decided we’re moving you to right wing on the second line.”

  “But?” I’d always played left wing on the first line with my brother. Always.

  “This isn’t a punishment. Maine’s goalie is red-hot tonight. We need your scoring ability to hold down the second line, while Patrick can handle the first line. I believe in you, Pax. Trust the plan.”

  I understood the strategy, and I had to agree with it. I’d have more opportunities to score on the second line, and my brother and I wouldn’t be at each other’s throats. And right wing? Usually I played left, but Lex played left on the second line. I had more experience, and it made more sense moving me.

  We held on somehow and won on Friday night, and I did score a goal from the second line.

  I approached Saturday night’s game with a single-minded purpose. I was about to be a professional, and professionals did not let their personal relationships affect their play. I mentally prepared using Garf’s techniques. I also swapped rooms with Lex’s roommate to lessen the friction between Patrick and me.

  I couldn’t believe it had come to this. He’d always been my best friend, always had my back, and I missed him as much as I missed Naomi.

  I stepped onto the ice that night mentally prepared and played a lights-out game. The gamble of moving us to separate lines paid off for me. Patrick not so much. He struggled and missed every shot, while I shined. I braced myself after the game, expecting to be the object of his frustration and anger. Instead, he didn’t speak a word to me.

  We got home early Sunday morning, and I didn’t go home. I slept on the couch at the hockey house. I got up before noon, worked out, and studied at the library until Lex texted me a few hours later. A bunch of the guys were at the Biscuit, and I was starving. Even better, Patrick wasn’t there. I couldn’t avoid him forever, but I hadn’t arrived at any kind of viable plan on how to fix this problem between us.

  I’d tossed and turned half the night, rotating between missing Naomi and frustrations with Patrick. I needed a drink and sustenance. Garlic Parm wings sounded like just the thing.

  When I got to the Biscuit, our usual table was filled with teammates and no Patrick, thankfully. Maybe he’d decided to study for once. Finals were looming on the horizon, and my brother wasn’t known for taking his studies seriously.

  I ordered a beer and wings and settled into my seat next to Lex. We talked about the game and gave each other shit, a normal night at the Biscuit with my boys. I was chomping on my sixth wing, enjoying the garlic goodness when our raucous table became oddly quiet. I frowned, put down my wing, licked off my fingers, and wiped them on a napkin. Everyone was staring at me or a point behind me. I turned my head to look over my shoulder.


  Patrick stood a few feet behind me, hands on hips and wearing a big scowl. “Move over,” he ordered Lex, who looked to me. I nodded, and Lex vacated his chair so Patrick could sit there. The conversation resumed, but our teammates continued to cast wary glances in our direction.

  My twin stole one of my wings, but I didn’t put up a protest. Normally, he didn’t like that flavor, but he was fucking with me. I shrugged and sipped my beer, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. No one was fooled. The tension between us was thicker than the slop they called gravy in the dining hall.

  “Where’ve you been? You didn’t sleep at home last night.”

  “Slept at the hockey house,” I muttered.

  We ignored each other for several minutes. Patrick ordered a beer and some wings, striking up a conversation with Tate sitting across from us. We’d diverted a disaster. Or so I hoped.

  “Why’d Coach move you to the second line, Pax?” one of the freshmen asked. The second the words were out of his mouth, he realized his mistake.

  I stared straight ahead, not looking at my twin. The table went silent again as all eyes turned to me and our team captain—my brother.

  Michael, our alternate captain, rushed to fill the silence. “Pax is having a good scoring year. More scoring opportunities for both Pax and Trick if they’re on different lines.”

  “He’s showboating. Hogging the puck. Moving him was punishment,” Patrick muttered.

  “What the fuck did you say?” My blood boiled, and my head was so filled with rage I couldn’t see straight.

  “You heard me.” He lifted his chin in defiance and looked me straight in the eyes.

  “Guys, we’re teammates, and you’re brothers. Let’s get along,” Tate admonished us.

  Patrick’s glower told me all I needed to know. He wasn’t through with me yet. He stood and moved to the end of the table. An hour and many beers later, things seemed to have blown over.

  But I was wrong.

  I got up to leave, and Patrick followed me out the door. I waited until we were away from the windows and prying eyes. I whipped around, ready to take this wherever it needed to go.

  “You wanna settle this right here?” I asked.

  Patrick shook his head and said in a deadly quiet voice, “Meet me at the rink tonight at midnight. On the ice. Wear your skates. This is between you and me. I don’t want anyone else there. We’ll settle our differences then.”

  From the look on his face, he was angling for a fight. I was ready for him. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one, because I was fucking sick and tired of his entitled behavior.

  38

  Kicking Ass

  Paxton

  Several hours later, I strapped on my skates and stepped onto the ice. Patrick was already skating lazy circles in the center of the rink. I skated up to him.

  “You’re an ass,” he said simply, keeping attention on the perfect circles he was skating.

  “Better than being a prick,” I shot back. All my plans to handle this diplomatically and mend fences flew out the window as emotions overcame any logic.

  Patrick ground his skates to a stop and faced me. “You asked to be moved, didn’t you? So you could showboat.”

  Anger and resentment I didn’t know I had bubbled to the surface. “You’re an entitled prick who thinks every member of our team should do your bidding. We don’t play hockey to glorify you or make your game look better.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you,” I said back, knowing on some level we sounded like children rather than twenty-one-year-old men. I had to get away from him and calm down before we ended up brawling on the ice.

  This wasn’t going as planned. I dug in and sped off, skating a couple feet from the boards. Patrick caught up with me and matched me stride for stride. I skated faster. So did he. I turned on the speed. So did he.

  Faster and faster we went, rounding the corners at a dangerous pace and somehow keeping our blades under us. We hit the straightaways with breakneck speed, neither conceding to the other. We’d raced before but nothing like this. We were on a mission to prove who was better. I’d die before I backed down. I was as talented and driven as Patrick, and he’d damn well learn to live with that fact. I’d allowed him to be number one too many times, content to exist in his shadow, not wanting the adulation and star status he enjoyed. Tonight, I wanted the acknowledgment from him that I wasn’t second-best.

  I’d skate with him until my heart burst, my legs gave out, or I passed out. But I would not stop.

  We flew around the rink at a dizzying pace, and I lost track of how many laps we’d made. My heart pounded, and my lungs screamed for air. Sweat ran down my forehead and burned my eyes. I didn’t give a shit. I ignored my body and pushed harder.

  Chunks of ice flew against the boards as we rounded another corner. I heard Patrick’s labored breathing over my own and chanced a look at him. We were mirror images of each other down to my being left-handed and him being right-handed. His face was red, his eyes bugged out, sweat soaked every inch of him. I had to look the same.

  I lost a little ground by chancing that glance and dug in, finding some last well of strength to pull even with him again.

  We were going to die in this fucking arena trying to prove which one of us was better when we were identical in physical stature, fitness level, and ability. Regardless, I wouldn’t relegate myself to second-best. I’d done that too many times, fulfilling my role as the secondary character in the play of our life. Not this time.

  We rounded another corner, not letting up. My lungs screamed for oxygen. My eyes blurred either from sweat or because I was about to pass out. My heart jackhammered against my rib cage.

  As we started to come out of the corner, we both faltered from exhaustion and drifted in each other’s path. My skates hooked up with his. We went down in a tangle of limbs and skate blades, sliding across the ice on our backs.

  And that’s where we stayed—in the middle of the ice on our backs. I gulped in air, trying to breathe despite the pain tearing through my chest and thighs. I stared up at the arena lights. A few feet from me, Patrick sounded as if he was struggling as much as I was.

  I prayed he didn’t find an untapped reserve and scramble to his feet to resume our mad race. I’d have to do the same if he did, and I’d much rather lie here and bleed out, even though I wasn’t bleeding. At least not literally.

  I was unable to focus and squeezed my eyes shut. The cold from the ice seeped into my overheated body.

  I didn’t know how long we lay there. At some point in time, I heard the scraping of Patrick’s skates and his gasps as he struggled to his feet.

  Oh, fuck no. I scrambled to stand, ignoring my abused body’s outraged protests.

  We faced each other with five feet between us, both bent over at the waist, holding weary upper bodies with hands braced on our thighs.

  We eyed each other like two prizefighters sizing the other up before the big fight. I prayed he didn’t start this insane competition over again, and my prayers were answered. Patrick didn’t seem any more interested than I was in finishing our race.

  He raised his gaze and met mine. I glimpsed a new measure of respect in his blue eyes so much like mine. “I won.”

  “Like hell you did.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he gasped, still short of breath.

  “Doing what?”

  “Changing the way you play. Hogging the puck.”

  I started to dispute the hogging claim and snapped my mouth shut. Maybe Lex was right. Maybe I’d overdone Coach’s instructions. I’d accept some of the blame. I’d never explained what was going on to my best friend in the entire world. Looking back, I’d made a grave error in judgment by not discussing Coach’s mandate with him. I hadn’t trusted him enough to have my best interests at heart, and I was ashamed I’d been such an ass.

  “Because the Sockeyes coach talked to Garf. He wanted to see more out of me, and Coach Garf knew there was more in there
. We’ve been working on my confidence problem. He felt I passed too much when I had a good shot. He challenged me to play to my potential.” I spoke between gulps of air.

  “Coach Garf was part of this?” Patrick rose to his full height, and so did I.

  I nodded. “I wanted out of your shadow. Do you fucking know what it’s like being the overlooked brother?”

  A muscle jumped in Patrick’s jaw. “I thought you enjoyed your role. We had an understanding, this weird twin mojo where you always knew when to pass the puck to me so I could score.”

  “We did. Did you ever think of passing it to me when I’d set up a good scoring opportunity?”

  Patrick flinched. “It’s not like I’ve never done that.”

  “Not often. You’ve been programmed to believe you were the better player by our dad, our coaches, anyone remotely related to hockey in our lives. I was told to play a secondary role as the guy who enabled your greatness and to be happy with that role.”

  Patrick gaped at me as if dumbstruck. “I never saw it like that. Never knew it bothered you. I thought you were happy with how well we clicked.”

  “Do you know what it’s like living in your shadow, being compared to you, and always coming up lacking?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said honestly.

  I squinted at him, not understanding.

  “Do you know what it’s like being known as the dumb twin? The one who barely passes his classes? To be told by Dad that I’d better have a hockey career because that’s the only thing I’m good at? The only thing I’m smart enough to do?”

  My turn to be shell-shocked. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “You know what else? You want the truth?”

  “Yeah, I fucking want the truth,” I said.

  “Here it is, plain and simple. I’m jealous of you. You’re graduating early with honors. You’re going pro. And you have Naomi.”

  “I don’t have Naomi. Not anymore. Besides, you and Dad are the ones who claimed she was using me.”