Playing Hurt_An Aces Hockey Novel

by Kelly Jamieson

  Maybe I’d had a crazy crush on her before I met her, but after I met her…it was a helluva lot more than a crush.

  I eyed my phone again. Swallowing, I picked up it up. There were a bunch of notifications, including one from my dad. I shouldn’t have looked at it, but I did.

  What the hell happened? You let Larsson rob you of the puck! It cost you the game.

  I closed my eyes. Yeah, Dad, thanks for telling me that. Like I didn’t know.

  It shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t hurt me after all these years. Actually, I was already hurting so bad, it didn’t really make much difference. I didn’t reply to him.

  I closed that app and opened Twitter.

  I saw Jordyn’s tweets right away, tweets about the game, then a reply to someone who’d called me out for screwing up and losing the game for us. Don’t blame Hartman entirely. That was a bad line change leaving him all alone.

  It felt like the world actually stopped. Everything else faded away as I stared at that tweet, my chest expanding, swelling painfully, stealing my breath. Warmth radiated slowly through me.

  She’d defended me.

  I’d screwed up…so fucking badly…and she’d defended me.

  I’d hurt her. And she’d defended me.

  Mind. Blown.

  I just kept staring at the tweet, reading it over and over. Then I scrolled and read more…

  No defense whatsoever! He was all alone there!

  That was a shitty line change!

  I dropped my phone onto my chest and closed my eyes. Every muscle in my body felt stiff. My throat constricted painfully, and a fire burned in my chest and my gut.

  I couldn’t say nobody had ever defended me before. I’d had some damn good coaches in my hockey career, coaches who’d praised me and believed in me, who’d stood up for me and helped me learn from my mistakes. If it hadn’t been for them…I don’t know how I would have made it.

  I thought about six-year-old me, so scared because I felt like my parents didn’t love me anymore. I thought about all the times they’d been disappointed in my mistakes and how much their disapproval had hurt.

  Hot pressure built inside me. I squeezed my burning eyes shut, trying like hell not to cry.

  The only way I’d known how to make it better was to do what they wanted. Try harder. Try to be perfect. I’d spent the rest of my life trying to earn their love again.

  I knew they loved me, in their own way. Maybe at first, my motivation to excel had been to earn their approval, but at some point, playing hockey had become more about my own needs than theirs. To prove to myself I could do it. And I did love it. But still…those memories were painful.

  I couldn’t hate them for that. They were my parents. They’d done so much for me, and when it turned out I actually loved hockey and was pretty good at it, they’d made sure I had whatever I needed to be successful. It wasn’t like they smacked me around or abused me…except I knew that it sort of was abuse, withholding love from a child like that. And it had apparently left some pretty deep scars. Because now I felt that without hockey…I wasn’t worth loving. By anyone. And when Amanda had dumped me…and my old team had dumped me…and Jordyn had tried to push me into doing what she wanted, making me feel like I had to or she wouldn’t care…I’d been that six-year-old boy all over again, alone and hurt.

  Now hockey was being taken away from me by something else, by a stupid fucking injury that I’d been trying to deny and ignore, because if I didn’t have hockey…why would anyone care about me? My parents. The team. The fans. Jordyn.

  But Jordyn had defended me.

  I remembered her talking about how her friends thought she interfered in their lives. I remembered her saying that she did it because she cared about them.

  A harsh sob rose in my throat. Because I’d fucked it all up.

  Even knowing I was hurt, even knowing I’d have to give up hockey for a while at least, even knowing how stubborn and stupid I’d been about it all, she’d defended me.

  I’d never had that before, someone who had my back even when I screwed up.

  Maybe Brick was right? Maybe she was really into me. And maybe…even with my stupid fears and flaws, I was actually worthy of her love? I was almost afraid to believe it…but I wanted to.

  I jackknifed up on the bed, staring wildly around the shadowy hotel room. I loved her, and I’d screwed everything up. I had to do something. I had to fix this.

  I had no clue what to do.

  I had a moment of déjà vu, remembering the night I’d been watching her on TV, me in Ottawa, her in New York, when she’d lost her voice. I felt the same…a desperate need to get to her. To fix things. A frantic feeling of helplessness.

  I paced the room, over to the window, back to the bed. My mind felt way too empty. I needed a plan. I needed to get my shit together.

  Chapter 22

  Jordyn

  This was torture.

  I was dying. I needed to know what was happening with Chase, but I couldn’t call him. Or text him. I was still so hurt and angry. But worried. Really worried.

  He wasn’t playing. The news reports said he was out with an “upper body injury.”

  I knew what that meant. It was his wrist. But what had happened? Why wasn’t he playing? Had he hurt it even worse? Was that what had happened in that last game he’d played?

  I felt sick thinking that he might have done more damage to his wrist. I was having a hard time concentrating on anything lately. I’d been having a hard time even before that, because my heart was broken and I missed him so, so much, but now it was even worse.

  Tonight was game seven between Minnesota and the Aces, back in Chicago. Somehow the Aces had pulled off three wins, and the series was tied at three games each. Tonight was do or die for both teams. One would go on to the next round, the other would be eliminated, their season done.

  And Chase wasn’t playing.

  This was what he’d wanted so badly, and he wasn’t there. My heart ached for him.

  Malik had invited me to go to a movie premiere tonight, but I’d told him I didn’t feel up to it. Which was sort of true. But really, I’d wanted to stay home and watch the game.

  I settled onto my couch with a container of ice cream—chocolate cherry chunk, my favorite. I’d been scarfing down way too much chocolate cherry chunk lately. I winced as I dug the spoon into the creamy treat, but ate it anyway. I’d work out extra hard tomorrow.

  I had my phone on the table in front of me, as usual, ready to follow the Aces hashtags. A notification appeared. Huh. I leaned forward to tap the screen.

  My eyes flew open wide.

  Do or die for these 2 teams tonight. Maybe @JordynBanks would like to make a wager on the outcome?

  I swore my heart stopped. For long painful seconds I didn’t even breathe as I stared at Chase’s tweet.

  He’d tweeted at me.

  Why? Why now?

  My hands shaking, I picked up the phone. For a few long minutes, I had no clue what to do. What to say. Then I thumbed in my response. Hmmm. What would we be wagering?

  I waited for his reply, barely breathing, my stomach full of birds’ wings.

  Oh I don’t know. How about…a date?

  My lungs seized up again. What was happening? I set my fingers over my mouth and stared at my phone. Okay. Okay. I could handle this. Maybe. It took me a few tries to type my response because I kept messing up. The only problem is, we’re probably both cheering for the same team…

  Okay. Aces win, we go on a date. Wild win, we go on a date.

  I laughed out loud, then covered my mouth again. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. I gasped in a breath and laughed again.

  What was this? It better not be some cruel joke that he didn’t even mean.

  Another tweet showed up. I hope you kno
w I’m serious and intend to collect on my bet.

  The tears squeezed from my eyes and slid down my cheeks. With a tremulous smile, I typed my reply. Okay, when are we doing this?

  I waited for his response, my breathing shallow and harsh, my heart galloping.

  How about right now?

  I literally sobbed. I couldn’t make sense of this, my poor bruised heart was beating wildly, painfully in my chest, my brain was shorting out.

  A knock sounded on my door.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.” I dropped the container of melting ice cream and my phone on the coffee table, scrambled off the couch and raced to the door. It couldn’t be. Could it? No. But who else could it be? Oh my God.

  I peeked through the side window and saw Chase standing outside my front door. Another sob burst from my mouth and I squeezed my eyes shut, resting my head against the carved wooden door. Then my fingers fumbled on the dead bolt, and I flung the door open.

  It took about two seconds for me to drink in his handsomeness, the warmth of his eyes, the sexy curve of his mouth and his tousled hair, before my gaze zeroed in on the cast on his arm. “Oh, Chase.” My eyes shot back up to his. “Are you okay?”

  “My arm? Yeah.” He thumped his chest with his good hand. “Right here? Not so much.”

  I stared at him. “I don’t know what that means.” I was afraid of what that meant. Afraid…to hope.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Y-yes.” I stood aside to let him in.

  He walked into my house. His soft-looking navy T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, chest, and flat abs, and faded jeans showed off his tight ass and long legs. I couldn’t stop looking at the cast.

  I shut the door and gestured to my living room. He swept the house with his gaze as he strolled in. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks. I, uh, just rent it.” The house was a contemporary style, with shiny Brazilian cherry floors, pale walls, and large windows. “I liked it because of the views. And it’s nice and quiet, but close to Hollywood.”

  “It’s a gorgeous neighborhood. Makes me wonder why you came back to Chicago in the winter.”

  “I love Chicago.” And I love you. “H-have a seat.” I motioned to the taupe sectional in a corner of the room.

  He sat on one side of it, still taking things in—the framed photographs on the walls, the TV playing the game, which had started, mounted on the wall above the wood-burning fireplace I never used, now filled with fresh flowers. His lips twitched at that.

  My knees were about to give out so I sat too, on the other side of the sectional, perched on the edge. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.” He rubbed his hands up and down his jeans. His throat worked as he swallowed.

  “Okay.” When he didn’t say anything, I said, “You had the surgery.”

  “Yeah. Last week.”

  “It went okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. The doctor said it was a total success. I have some rehab to do, and it’ll be a while, but hopefully I should be good as new by training camp.”

  I eyed him. “I guess you’re not happy about not playing right now.”

  “Not really. But it’s for the best.” He met my eyes, and his were steady. “You were right. I needed to do it. I should have done it a long time ago. Hell.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Athletes are stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  “We are, because we’re willing to risk being seriously injured so we can just keep playing. Even though I knew in my heart and my head that what you were saying was right…that I could do more damage to my wrist…that need to be out there, to not let my team down, to not let the fans down, was way stronger. Maybe it’s part of the hockey culture—that ‘ice warrior’ mentality. Hockey players are tougher than anyone. But you were right…playing through pain is one thing. We all have those times where we have sore muscles or bruises or some kind of nagging ache. We block a shot, get checked hard into the boards. That’s playing hurt.”

  “We’re all playing hurt, Chase.” I touched his face, understanding better now about where his head had been. To me it had seemed crazy to put himself at risk. But for him…he was an ice warrior. “In one way or another. Sometimes they’re bruises you can see. Sometimes they’re things you can’t see.”

  He pressed his cheek into my palm. “Yeah. That is so true. So that’s how I felt…we had all those injuries, guys called up from the farm team, going into the playoffs…I felt I had to keep going.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t understand it. I’m so sorry. I…I admire your loyalty and unselfishness.”

  He closed his eyes. “But if I’d taken care of this early in the year when it was first bothering me, maybe I’d be playing right now.”

  My heart bumped, then squeezed with sympathy for him. My bottom lip quivered. “You tried,” I whispered. “You tried so hard.”

  “There is no try.”

  I moved my head from side to side. “That’s not true, Yoda. I don’t believe that. I know you want to be the best. You think you need to be perfect. But nobody is. It’s not about being the best…it’s about trying your best.”

  “Christ.” He hung his head. “Where were you when I was six?”

  “Huh?”

  “I want to tell you a story.”

  I pressed a hand against the rolling, fluttery feeling in my stomach, my mouth dry. “Okay.”

  “You asked me one time, why I’d said something…about people only caring about me when I’m perfect.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. I told you about my parents. How they’d pushed me into hockey. How I’d wanted to quit and it hadn’t gone well?”

  “Yes.” I thought way, way back to our first date. “I got the impression your parents were determined you were going to play.”

  “Yeah. That’s putting it mildly. I was only six when I started playing, and I wasn’t very big. I didn’t skate very well. I hated it.”

  My heart clenched.

  “I was actually scared out on the ice but I wouldn’t admit that to my parents, I just told them I didn’t like it and I wanted to quit. They let me quit. But they shut down on me. It was how they let me know their disappointment. No affection. No love.”

  “Oh my God.” My hand flew to my mouth. “Of course they loved you, Chase.” That had to be true. It had to.

  “I know they did, in their own way. But they made my life so miserable. I don’t know if you know how scary it is for a kid to feel like he’s on his own, unloved. Fuck.” He pressed his lips together and gave his head a shake.

  “I don’t.” My lips trembled even more. “I can’t even imagine.” My parents had supported me and encouraged me, no matter what. I couldn’t stop myself from getting up and moving over to sit beside him. I had to. I had to touch him. To comfort him. I laid my hand on his leg and squeezed.

  He covered my hand with his, so big and warm. He kept his head down, as if looking at our hands.

  He told me more…things that horrified me and made me ache. What a brave kid he’d been to go back out there on the ice when he was afraid. Times he hadn’t played well and had been punished with silence and disapproval. Times he had played well when he’d been rewarded with smiles and hugs. Coaches who had saved him from becoming consumed with a fear of failure, from feeling isolated, who’d believed in him and encouraged him to believe in himself. And yet…doubts remained.

  “I know I didn’t handle it well when you pushed me to take care of my wrist.” He curled his fingers around mine, turned my palm so our hands were clasped. “It made me feel the way I did when my parents bugged me because I didn’t play well. Didn’t try hard enough. Didn’t live up to their expectations.”

  “Oh, Chase.” My voice broke. “That was not at all how I meant that.”

  “I know that.
I figured it out. I saw your tweets about the game last time…when I screwed up…and…you defended me. Over and over.” Now his voice cracked, and I felt the emotion welling up inside him. “I just…it just wrecked me.”

  I was shaking everywhere now, inside, outside, both hot and cold, my chest tight. “Chase. I love you.”

  I closed my eyes. I probably shouldn’t have said that. I still wasn’t sure why he was here exactly. Hope was unfurling inside me, along with the pain of hearing about his childhood, but I didn’t know if he felt the same.

  It didn’t matter. I pulled in a long breath through my nose and straightened my shoulders. It didn’t matter, because he deserved to know he was loved.

  “I love you,” I said again, this time more firmly. “I will always defend you.”

  “Christ, Jordyn.” He vibrated with tension. “I was a dick to you. And I screwed up that game and lost it for the team. You should hate me.”

  I lowered my eyes. My heart crashed against my ribs. “I don’t hate you. That’s not what love is…hating you when you screw up or act like a dick. You don’t have to earn my love. I love you for who you are…not what you do.”

  He made a rough noise, a painful noise, and I lifted my gaze to his face. Anguish tightened his features, which hurt me deep down inside. “I love you too, Jordyn. I didn’t know what that was…what that meant…until I saw your Tweets and understood. And I remembered you getting shit from your friends for being all up in their business, and how hurt you’d been by that because you only did it because you cared about them. And it all came piling down on me, realizing what I’d lost when I walked out of your place that night, how much I’d fucked things up because I was so goddamn stupid and scared.”

  “You kept saying you weren’t scared.” I squeezed his thigh. “What were you scared of?”

  He tipped his head back, his face tightened into stark lines. “I was scared to have the surgery because…because what if they fix my wrist, but I still play like crap?” He swallowed. “If I don’t have hockey…who would care about me? The team only wants me if I can play well. My parents would be pissed. Fans would disappear. And…I was afraid…so would you.”