She pressed her hand flat against the surface, spread her fingers wide then drew them together. Again and again, until Caleb's hand closed over hers. Warm, heavy. He turned her hand over, cradling it in his before slowly threaded their fingers together. Then he gently squeezed, silently encouraging her.
Shannon kept staring at their joined hands. If she focused on them instead of the man sitting next to her, maybe she'd be able to get the words out. "I was always the oddball growing up. I never fit in with the girls, never understood why they wanted to play with dolls or dress-up when it was more fun running and climbing and getting dirty. But I never really fit in with the boys, either."
"Shannon—"
"It wasn't so bad when I was younger. We were just little kids, you know? But when I got older, the boys realized I was different. And different wasn't good." Shannon paused, raised the bottle to her mouth and took a long swallow. Caleb didn't say anything, just sat there holding her hand. Waiting.
"My best friend growing up was Russell Matthews. He lived a few doors down and we were always hanging out together, doing stupid stuff. Building forts, climbing trees, that kind of thing. We played hockey together, too. Until I turned thirteen."
"What happened then?"
"Puberty." Shannon laughed, the hollow sound just a little too loud. "Well, that, and Russell decided he wanted to be a goalie. It was a new travel team so we had to try out, not like the previous years, when we were just playing rec."
"Let me guess: you kicked Russell's ass."
Shannon laughed again, the sound sad and bitter, devoid of all humor. "Yeah. And my best friend, the one I had done everything with for the last six years, turned on me. He told me there was something wrong with me, that I wasn't normal. That girls shouldn't play hockey and that I scared all the boys. And then he never spoke to me again."
The room fell quiet, filled with nothing more than the sound of their soft breathing and the low hum of the shiny black refrigerator standing in the corner. Caleb finally squeezed her hand, his heavy sigh echoing around them.
"Russell was an ass."
"True."
"So am I."
Shannon laughed again, the sound surprising her. "True, too."
"But I'm not Russell. And you don't scare me, Shannon."
She turned her head and their gazes met, held. She didn't look away, didn't try to hide the doubt and worry she knew he could see. "Maybe not, but I pissed you off. Is that really any different?"
He opened his mouth and Shannon held her breath, knowing he was going to say it was. Knowing he was going to make an excuse or blow it off. But he surprised her instead.
"No, it's not."
"Oh. I thought—"
He squeezed her hand, silencing her. "The difference is that I know I was wrong and I'm willing to admit it."
"What if it happens again? I meant it when I said I can't change, Caleb. I don't want to change."
"Nobody is asking you to."
"But what about next time?"
"If there's a next time—and I don't think there will be because I don't think I'm really as bad as Russell—you'll just have to sit me down and lecture me."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then you can take me outside and beat me up." And damn if he didn't smile when he said that, the devilishly crooked smile that deepened that damned dimple in his cheek.
"I think you'd enjoy that too much."
His smile widened, danced in his eyes. "Maybe." The smile faded and he leaned closer, reaching out with his free hand to tuck the hair behind her ear. He caressed her cheek, traced the line of her jaw, ran his thumb along the fullness of her lower lip. "What we've got going here, Shannon...I'm not sure what it is, but I'd like to see where it goes."
Her heart pounded in her chest, a steady thump-thump-thump that echoed in her ears. This was it, the chance she had been so afraid of. She could either take it...or she could walk away and always wonder what if.
She didn't want to wonder. And if it didn't work—well, that was a chance she'd have to take. A chance she wanted to take.
She leaned in, brushed her mouth against his, felt her body soften and melt as his arms folded around her and pulled her closer.
"Me, too."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"What the fuck do you mean, he's not available? Where the fuck is he?"
Coach Donovan's desperate voice echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the concrete walls and spilling through the open door of the locker room. Caleb rested his arms on his knees, trying to pretend he couldn't hear every single word.
Just like the rest of the team.
His gaze slid across the room, stopping to rest on Corbin Gauthier. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back and resting against the wall. His chest rose with each deep breath, fell with each silent exhalation. If Caleb didn't know better, he'd think the goalie was sleeping. But he did know better, knew the man was simply meditating, or doing whatever the hell that whole breathing thing was to mentally prepare. He'd done the same thing before every game since he'd been back. The only thing that surprised Caleb was the fact that he was doing it here, instead of the spare room down the hall where Dan Lory usually went before games. Gauthier was going to be in net tonight, not playing backup like he had been, so there was no reason he couldn't use that room now.
Because Dan certainly wasn't using it, not when he was in the bathroom, throwing his guts up.
Another loud retch drifted in from the bathroom. Ryan Grant paled just the tiniest bit and looked away, a damp sheen breaking out on his forehead. He noticed Caleb watching him and forced a brittle smile. "I wish he'd just go home before he gets us all sick."
Caleb was pretty sure that Ryan was more concerned about puking his own guts up instead of catching whatever the hell Lory had, but he didn't say anything. And Christ, how many times could one man hurl? He'd been at it for the last hour, ever since he finally made it to the arena. Pale, sweating, shuffling like a condemned man taking his final steps to the gallows.
Donovan had taken one look at him and swore—then swore some more when Lory admitted he'd been throwing up since this morning and had just barely made it through game-day skate.
"Why the fuck didn't he tell anyone?" Logan asked the question to nobody in particular, his voice pitched low so it wouldn't be overheard by anyone except those around him. Caleb wondered the same thing. Only Dan could answer that, though—and he was in no position to talk, not with his head in the toilet bowl.
Ryan winced when more loud retching drifted from the bathroom. He got up and moved to the door, slamming it closed just as Dan started dry heaving—but not quick enough to hide the sound of bowels exploding.
"Oh for fuck's sake, you have got to be kidding me." Ryan hurried to the other side of the room, his face paling even more. "There's something seriously fucking wrong with him."
"Food poisoning."
Everyone turned to look at Jaxon. He shrugged, his gaze focused on the blade of his stick as he wrapped it with tape. "Vomiting. The shits. Just saying it sounds like food poisoning, is all."
More yelling drifted in from the coach's office, the words unintelligible. Caleb didn't need to hear them to know they were in trouble—none of them did. They were down a goalie and they couldn't play without a backup. Normally they'd pull someone up from the Bombers but the Bombers were a few hundred miles away. No way could either of their goalies get here in time for the game, not when puck drop was in forty-five minutes. If Lory had come clean this morning...maybe. But even then, it would have been cutting it close.
And apparently the team's EBUG—emergency backup goalie—was MIA. Listening to Coach Donovan's desperate yelling was enough to clue everyone into that little newsflash.
Hunter leaned forward. "You think he'll use Mitch Halterman?"
"No idea. Wouldn't be the first time a goalie coach was used as backup."
"True. Of course, he could always use one of us. That's happened before."
Evan Leeds laughed, the sound short and sarcastic. "Yeah, but how long ago has that been? And who would he use? The only one of us who ever played in net was Ilya."
The other man's eyes widened and he shook his head. "Da nyet. Too many long ago. Not good."
Caleb wasn't sure if Ilya meant not good in that he wasn't any good, or not good in that the whole situation sucked. He didn't have a chance to ask because Coach Donovan barreled into the room, with the assistant coaches John Solon and Terry Dreistadt right behind him. John kept going, straight into the bathroom—probably to check on Lory. Hopefully to take the man to the hospital.
Or at least get him out of earshot before everyone else started hurling.
Donovan's fingers tightened around the papers curled in his hand as his gaze swept the room. He pulled in a deep breath then ran his free hand over his jaw, the rasp of his beard whispering in the silence surrounding them. "We need an EBUG."
Nobody said anything. And Caleb had to choke back a laugh when Ilya actually slid down on the bench, trying to hide behind Jacob. Did the big Russian think that would work, when Jacob was at least a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter?
The laughter Caleb had been choking back abruptly died. He started to speak, swallowed back the words, shook his head. No. It was ridiculous. There was no way—
"Got something to say, Johnson?"
He started to shake his head again, thought about joining Ilya in hiding behind Jacob. Then he stopped. Why not? The worst thing that could happen was everyone would laugh at him and think he'd lost his mind.
But he hadn't. And the more he thought about it—
"Well, Johnson? Out with it."
"I just remembered that the Blades are here tonight. For that whole intermission thing they do."
Silence descended over the room, quick and complete. Heat filled his face but he refused to back down, refused to shrink under the weight of every single gaze focused on him.
Shane was the first one to speak up, his voice filled with surprised laughter. "You're out of your fucking mind. No fucking way."
A few more voices joined in, echoing Shane's words. But only a few, their tone not quite as disbelieving.
Coach Donovan wasn't one of them. In fact, the man said absolutely nothing. He just stood there, staring at Caleb, his expression carefully blank.
Then surprisingly thoughtful.
"They're here now?"
Caleb glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall then nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
Donovan ran a hand along his jaw again then shifted, turning back to exchange a look with Terry. "Are you coming up with anything else?"
"Not a fucking thing."
"Coach, you can't be serious." Disbelief filled Shane's voice as he started to stand, his hands waving frantically in front of him. Donovan leveled a dark glare in his direction and Shane quickly sat back down, not saying another word.
"Gauthier, how are you feeling tonight?"
Corbin opened his eyes, meeting Coach's direct gaze with his own. "Fine." The chilly tone in his voice matched the coach's and Caleb wondered once more what had caused the tension between the two men.
It didn't matter, not now. Not when Coach Donovan was watching him now. And why the hell was he looking at him that way, like he'd suddenly grown two heads? Caleb wanted to look away, to drop his gaze and pretend he hadn't said a fucking word. But he didn't, because Coach was suddenly talking to him, asking him a question he never thought he'd hear.
"You going to be okay with her sitting on the bench?"
Her. Shannon. Because holy shit, Coach was actually considering using her as the EBUG. He had to be, or he wouldn't ask.
"Yes, Coach." Caleb didn't try to hide his smile. "I'm more than okay with her being on the bench with us." Because unless something happened to Corbin, she wouldn't leave the bench. She'd be there as a backup only, just in case something did happen. And if something happened and she ended up in the net? He'd be fine with that, too. Shannon was a great goalie, he knew that from firsthand experience.
Donovan glanced around the room, his gaze resting on each player before moving to the next. "Anyone else have a problem with it?"
Nobody said a word, not even Shane.
Donovan finally nodded, almost like he was trying to convince himself, then turned toward Terry. "Find her and get the paperwork signed."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Seven minutes left in the game.
Seven minutes.
Her nerves had lasted this long. Surely they would last seven more minutes.
Shannon still couldn't believe it. The last two-plus hours were still fuzzy, cloaked in that dream-like quality that filtered everything in shades of wispy gray. But this wasn't a dream—not in that sense, anyway. This was reality...a reality she had never thought would happen.
She was playing in a real, professional hockey game. In an arena filled with close to twenty thousand people. On a bench surrounded by players who made millions of dollars a year.
Not in a quasi-semi-pro league that still struggled to sell tickets.
Not in a charity exhibition game that was supposed to have been played more for fun than anything else.
A real game.
Her. Shannon Wiley. Goalie for the Chesapeake Blades.
And now the emergency backup goalie for the Baltimore Banners.
She was wearing one of Dan Lory's jerseys, number thirty-seven—which just happened to be her own number. The nameplate from her Blades jersey now sewn over his—because they didn't have time to get her a jersey of her own. Everything had happened too fast. So fast, her head started spinning every time she thought of it.
She had been downstairs in the back hall of the arena, not doing much of anything except hanging out with Taylor and Sammie and Dani while they waited for everyone else to show up. TR was there, joking about doing a live broadcast from one of her social media accounts during the intermission—and teasing Shannon about her new mission to convert her into a social media junkie. Shannon had been ready to toss the soccer ball at TR when Coach Reynolds had come running up to them, followed by some man she didn't recognize.
Then Coach Reynolds looked at her, something glinting in her dark eyes, and told her to grab her gear, that she was going to be playing some hockey.
Like an idiot, Shannon had simply stared at her. Had almost said, "Duh." That was why they were here, right? To play some hockey during intermission.
Then the man stepped forward, explaining everything to her as he led her down a long hall. The Banners were short a goalie and their normal EBUG was out of town. They needed someone else to fill in.
And hey, by the way, sign this ATO and suit up because the Banners needed to be on the ice in twenty minutes.
Shannon had stared at the paperwork, completely baffled until Coach Reynolds leaned in and explained it was an amateur tryout contract. That, for one night, she'd be playing for the Banners.
Now. Tonight. Here.
Then she was whisked away to some office so she could change, while someone else—the equipment manager maybe, she wasn't sure—grabbed her jersey and disappeared with it. He came back a few minutes later with another jersey and pushed it toward her. She glanced down at the ball of blue material in her hands, frowning when she noticed her nameplate had been sewn over someone else's name.
Because that was all they had time for and she needed to hurry up, now, because it was time to hit the ice.
Then Caleb was there, his face close to hers, his brows pulled in a low frown as he watched her. His voice had been quiet, meant for her ears only when he spoke.
"Are you okay?"
And Shannon had looked at him, shook her head, and in a clear voice that still surprised her, told him she thought she was going to hurl.
Caleb had simply chuckled and said that was why she was here to begin with, then nudged her into line ahead of him.
And then she was on the ice, skating around for the pre-game warmups with ev
eryone else. The Banners' new goalie, Corbin Gauthier, urged her into the net with quiet words of reassurance. There was something about him—his penetrating eyes and softly accented voice—that calmed her. And that was what she needed—calm reassurance.
After that, things settled a bit. At least, everything besides her nerves. She had time for some breathing exercises, time to relax just a bit during the first intermission as she sat in the locker room with everyone else—the locker room, not by herself in some small musty office with barely enough room to move.
Coach Donovan came in, talked about strategy and sticking to the script and keeping their heads in the game. Shannon almost laughed because Coach Reynolds did the same thing at every Blades' game, only with less colorful language.
The second intermission was a little more tense—which was odd, because Shannon's nerves had lessened just a little bit. They were going into the third period leading the game two-to-one, they needed to go out shooting hard to keep the lead. Instead of focusing on Coach Donovan's words, she let her mind drift, searching for her zone. She wouldn't need it—she was the backup in name only, there only if something horrendous happened and Gauthier couldn't play. She knew enough about these guys to know that wasn't going to happen, that they'd play through anything short of a heart attack or a sliced carotid artery.
And now the game was nearly over. Seven more minutes. She only had to last seven more minutes. And yeah, that was a long time in a hockey game, anything could happen. She hoped it didn't, at least not on Pittsburgh's part, because she didn't want the game to end in a tie and be forced to go to the three-on-three overtime and then, God forbid, to the shootout. She was fairly certain her nerves would finally snap and she would hurl if that happened.
She closed her eyes and took another cleansing breath, surprised she wasn't hyperventilating from taking so many. It was the only way she knew to make certain she looked calm on the outside. That, and frantically chomping down on the gum Coach Donovan had given her.
Playing Hard_A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance Page 20