I blow him off with a nod, and while he heads back to his stall, I finish getting changed.
When I get home, I grab a beer instead of the bourbon I really want, and nurse it while I watch the game.
It’s well after three by the time I’m done my second beer and game analysis, but I’m in no hurry to go to bed. Coach gave us the next day off, so I click over from the PVR to the TV and flip through the channels, looking for highlights from the other games played tonight.
I wake up six hours later, smelling like beer and sweat and misery. I turn the TV off and head for the shower instead of my bed.
Two nights later, we beat Chicago. Then we play Tampa Bay, and I score a hat trick and we slaughter them six-to-one.
After each game, I turn on my phone when I get home and look through my messages. None of them are ever from Sasha. I’d thought maybe my hat trick might have elicited at least…something, and when it doesn’t, I’m hit with a fresh surge of impotent anger.
Three wins in a row is worth a minor celebration, so when Simec and a few others head out to a pub to celebrate, I meet up with them. But I’m not feeling it, so I have one beer to at least give the pretence of being sociable, then I retreat home to another scintillating night of game tape and hockey highlights.
The team heads into a four-game road trip on a massive high. I find a perverse, painful joy in my suffering leading to my best play all year, and everyone else happily tolerates my new sullenness because they like what I’m doing on the ice.
I like it, too. I’m not so bent around the axle for Sasha that I can’t appreciate what this new trend is doing for our chances. We’ve moved up a spot in the standings, and a wild card spot is now more within reach than before. We just need to keep up the momentum.
And I need to stop wondering if Sasha is watching me play.
39
Sasha
The verdict is in. I’m definitely some kind of masochist. There’s no chapter in the BDSM book for watching my ex-boyfriend goon around on the ice like a killer with a taste of blood, but that’s my preferred brand of torture.
I don’t just watch the games. I devour the few seconds he gives the press, if they’re lucky, afterwards. The clipped, pissed-off bite in his voice. The cold stare in his eyes. Every so often he flicks his attention right into the camera, and it slays me to the core.
Every game, I think about sending him a text message. Good game. You’re climbing the standings. Might make the play-offs yet.
But sending him a congratulatory text is how we tumbled into an ill-fated relationship in the first place.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself, over and over, until I wake up seventeen days after Tate walked out on me, and I decide I don’t care if we’re doomed.
I’m not done with Tate Nilsson. I’m not done with his cocky attitude, or his filthy tongue, or his over-the-top generosity.
I’m still upset about our fight, but more with myself than with him. Given his persistent and nosy nature, he’d been damn restrained throughout our relationship. He never tried to tell me what I should do with my career.
Maybe I should have told him about the position in Seattle.
My stomach twists.
Maybe…
I look at my phone. At the messages he sent me the day I left. At the radio silence since then.
No, a text message won’t cut it.
I won’t know where we stand unless I go to him. I don’t need to pull up his game schedule. I know it by heart. He has a game at home on Valentine’s Day, which is tempting, but I don’t want to do a big public plea. He lives his life out there, but he wouldn’t want a spectacle to detract from the team. And that night, they’ll fly to San Jose for a game the next day.
I’ll have to wait until they get back.
Three days.
I need to clear my schedule. And then I need to go see Mabel.
That afternoon, I pull into the gravel lot at the Weirdaker Games office.
The front door is open, but inside I find the first floor empty. “Mabel?”
From upstairs, I hear a muffled shout, then stomping shakes the light directly above me. I take the stairs quickly, following the sound, and find Mabel stuck on the other side of a door. Or at least, I find Mabel’s voice.
“I’m sorry!” she says through the door. “It seems I’ve locked myself in here. If you’re a potential client, that’s probably good advertisement. If you’re a thief, though, I’d prefer if you forgot that I’m locked in here—”
“It’s Sasha,” I say through laughter that hurts my sides. “How long are you going to be in there?”
“Oh! Hi! Not long if you can help me.”
“Sure thing. What do you need me to do?” This is probably the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had through a door. But since I need her help in the biggest way, I’ll do whatever it takes.
“There’s a tablet in the next room, can you go and get it?”
There are actually a half-dozen tablets in the next room, but only one of the screens is lit up. I grab that, and by the time I’m back in front of the door, I think I get it—this is the administrator view of the game.
She’s completed six of the eight puzzles, and she still has twelve minutes left—but I need her now.
I hit the red button in the corner to end the game sooner, and a shrill whistle sounds from the door handle.
Interesting.
The knob turns, and as the door opens, Mabel pokes her head around it and gives me a sheepish grin. “Hi.”
I wave at her, secretly grateful for the amusing distraction. “Hi.”
“This looks way less professional than it really is. I accidentally locked myself in there, and then…well, I thought, I might as well play the game to get out.”
I hold up the tablet. “You were almost done. Sorry to spoil it.”
“No, of course I don’t mind! Happy to see you. But I wasn’t expecting you today? Or anyone, really.”
I laugh. “Obviously.”
“Next time I’ll lock the door.”
“Nice side benefit of working out here…few thieves.”
She blushes. “Right.”
“Actually, I need a favour.”
“Name it.”
“What do you know about BDSM?”
Her eyes light up and a slow, curious smile curves across her face. “Only what I’ve read in books.”
“How many books?”
“My ereader has seen some scandalous things.”
Good enough. “I need to commission a kinky escape room. A really hard one. And I need to take it with me to Vancouver as soon as possible.”
40
Tate
Another week goes by. We finish our road trip, getting back to Vancouver late—or early, depending on your point of view—so I don’t have to be at the arena for practice the next day until eleven. The late start doesn’t matter to me. I’m not sleeping well anyway, not that anyone would be able to tell from my performance.
Being dumped—or maybe having dumped someone by accident, I don’t know—has been painfully good for my game.
Since I’m up, I head in early. Turns out, I’m not the only one.
Simec, Andrushko, Moore, and Leclerc are all in the lounge area. I grab coffee and an apple, but before I can join them, Coach walks in.
“Moore, Nilsson, a word.”
We follow Coach to his office. He sits on the edge of his desk and waves for Moore to close the door, but he’s got an easy smile on his face. “It’s nothing serious. Figured I’d take advantage of you two being here early to have a quick, informal chat. It’s time for me to start thinking about next season. We’re still very much building our team, and I need to evaluate our strengths, weaknesses, wants versus needs, etc. We’re still focused on snagging a wild card spot in the play-offs this year, and that’s a good goal.”
There’s a but coming, I can tell.
He leans in. “Next year, I want a top three spot.”
“We’ve got
the raw talent,” Moore says.
“For sure we do. But there’s work to be done to get there. The others look up to you two. You’re the ones who lead this team, that’s why you have those letters on your jerseys. And part of leadership is evaluation and making tough calls. I want you both to spend the next couple months evaluating your team, then I’d like to meet with you and discuss your observations.”
I nod. “Whatever you need.”
“Yeah, me too,” Moore says.
“And when we get to training camp, we’re going to give you guys a day. Captain’s Day. No coaches. Just teambuilding, driven by you.”
I look at Moore, and his expression—surprised, honoured, pleased—hopefully is an echo of mine. “That’s a novel concept, sir.”
Coach laughs. “Make it look good for me, will you?”
Moore holds out his hand. “You know it.”
“Great. Now get your asses out of here. I’ve got work to do before practice.”
I shake his hand, too, then we head back to the dressing room.
“What do you make of that?” Moore asks.
I shrug. “Sounds like Coach is preparing us for the next stage of our careers.”
“Agreed. And speaking of next stages…”
He lets the sentence hang. I know exactly what he’s asking. “Not up for discussion, man.”
“Just checking in.”
“As my captain, or my friend?”
“Both. As your captain, I’m all for you to continue writhing in emotional pain, because you’re a fucking rock star out on the ice when you’re tortured. But as your friend—”
“Still not up for discussion.”
Moore nods and switches to a safer subject. Leclerc’s impending fatherhood and what we should get for the baby.
Two days later, on fucking Valentine’s Day, we win at home against Florida, which bumps us up one more place in the standings.
I think of the sappy shit I’d have done for Sasha, and I get two assists and a very satisfying penalty.
The next night, we fly to San Jose for a single game. We lose, but they have home ice advantage and a hot goalie on a streak. Still, I worry that after a string of good games, maybe I’ve become a little too cocky. Or maybe something was missing. That’s something I can think about when I get home and review the game. And it’s what I expect the press to ask about when they crowd around me in the dressing room.
It’s not.
I should have known a sea of microphones and recording devices being jammed up in my face meant something more interesting than a narrowly lost game.
“Have you seen the Facebook post?”
Ah, shit. I try to focus on who asked that, but go for a generic, to-everyone response. “I don’t check my phone on the ice.”
"Over Christmas, did you and your girlfriend swap your first-class seats with a teen with cancer and her mother?"
“Ah…” I frown. “Maybe if you guys give me some time—”
"Is it true?”
“Who’s your girlfriend, Tate?”
“Who’s Sasha?”
“Was it her idea to give up the seats?”
“Have you heard from this girl since Christmas? Have you visited her in the hospital?”
This is a fucking nightmare. I hold up my hands and wait for a chance to speak. “I’m happy to answer any questions you have about the game I played tonight, but at this point, that’s all I can take questions on, since as I established, I don’t check my phone on the ice, and I haven’t seen the post in question.”
Someone was clearly anticipating me saying that again, because a phone is shoved into my hand.
I rub my jaw as I quickly read it. It looks like Bree, Amy’s mother, didn’t know who I was at the time, but Amy’s back in the hospital now—damn. I sigh and look up. “Jesus, guys, don’t spring this on me. And don’t drag a young woman into the spotlight like this, either. I, uh, will definitely be getting in touch with the family—privately—to let them know I’m tickled pink they’re fans. And we’ll probably do something else for them. Privately. Got it?”
I know it’s the wrong answer when it comes to public relations. This could be a goldmine for winning over Vancouver fans and I suspect I may hear as much from the ownership later. But it’s not just about me. At least they don’t know who Sasha is. Fuck, now I’m going to need to call her.
Fuck.
“Come on, Tate.”
When it’s finally clear I’m not going to respond to questions about my personal life, a few reporters grudgingly ask the obligatory post-game questions before moving on.
I wait until I get on the bus to the airport before turning on my phone. As expected, notifications are insane. I ignore everything and go straight to Facebook and find the post.
It’s a selfie of Bree and Amy in their first-class seats. I skim through what Bree’s written, and other than referring to Sasha as my girlfriend, it’s a pretty accurate and appreciative account of what transpired. Apparently they’ve been watching the games and recognized me the other day. The post has been shared thousands of times, and comments and likes are well into the tens-of-thousands.
Fuck me.
I’m happy for them, if it’s what they want. If it makes Amy happy, that’s fantastic.
I check my text messages. There are plenty from Rob, but none from Sasha. Even though she’s cut communication with me, I would have thought she’d have had something to say about this.
It’s only a matter of time before the press figure out exactly who she is, and what that will do to her, how it will make her feel, makes my gut clench.
I send her a text I know she won’t respond to. But I can’t just let her go. I can’t stay silent. Not anymore.
Tate: Just got blindsided with this after the game tonight. I know you may not like it, but…it’s a sweet post. I’ll do everything in my power to keep the focus off you. And it’ll probably pass in a day or two.
I attach the link to the post. Then, like the dam has burst, I text again, because I can’t help myself.
Tate: Also, I miss you. I don’t care if that’s misguided. I’m going to be home in a bit. If you read this, call me.
41
Sasha
Well, Tate hasn’t changed the lock on his apartment. That’s a good sign. I let myself in, then set out establishing the scene.
A Weirdaker Games Do-It-Yourself Escape Room kit is pretty cool, if I do say so myself. I knew it would be, but actually using it in an as-real-as-can-be beta testing way pushes my admiration for Mabel to new levels.
The first thing I do is log in to the app and scan Tate’s bedroom. On the screen of my phone, it’s like I’m looking at the camera app—but there are some things on the screen which don’t actually exist in his room.
Like a disassembled St. Andrew’s Cross in the corner. That would be the puzzle that Mabel had the most fun designing.
I pivot toward the wall, where a row of floggers appears on the screen. They’re all different shapes and sizes. As I move, I see other similar puzzles appear on every solid, blank wall space the camera captures.
The app also prompts me to make some choices. How long do I want the room to be locked, do I want to use a virtual final puzzle or do I have the deluxe kit with the real puzzle.
I look at the wrist-cuffs in the colourful box.
Mabel enjoyed buying those, too. I tell the app I’ve got the real props for the final puzzle.
Then I take a deep breath, because if there’s any part of this that Tate’s going to be seriously what-the-fuck about, it’s the fact I’m taking a screwdriver to his bedroom door handle.
But once I commit to a plan, I’m in all the way.
Besides, this way he can’t storm out again.
Win-win.
The instructions are easy to follow, and before long, I’ve got his door handle off and tucked away in the provided bag for all the bits and bobs.
I carefully install the trick door handle, which is linke
d to the app on my phone.
Then I lie down on his bed and think about all the ways I’ve been a total idiot.
I wake up with a jolt when I hear the front door open. Tate is back. I glance at the side clock. It’s just after two in the morning.
My heart pounds as I listen to him move through the apartment. It sounds like he drops a bag on a chair, then opens the fridge.
Damn it, I didn’t think this through. How do I get him in here?
I look at the books on his bedside table, then at the hardwood floor. I pick up a hardcover and drop it. It makes a delightfully loud clap, and I hear Tate mutter something that sounds like, “What the hell?”
I grab my phone, scurry to my spot behind the door, and wait for him to come and investigate.
It’s not until he steps through the door and I shove it shut that it occurs to me he might not react well to a strange person luring him into his bedroom. In hindsight, that can be added to the list of ways I’m an idiot, but at least this one is motivated by affection.
He whirls around at the first movement of the door, his fist already flying, and I dodge out of the way. “It’s me!”
“Sasha?” He gives me an incredulous look as he rocks back on his heels, his eyes wide.
If his heart is thumping as hard as mine is, I’m really sorry for the panic attack I almost caused. “Hi.”
His mouth falls open, and he rubs his hand across his jaw. “I almost punched you.”
“My fault.”
“That’s now how I’d feel if I— Jesus.” He drops his hands to his side and stares at me, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Right. I lift my phone and press the button to start the game. The door handle whistles and Tate jumps back.
“You’re trapped in here with me for an hour.” My voice shakes as I hand him my phone and explain. “There are puzzles on that app. So you can do those, if you want. It’s a whole thing. An escape room thing. I invested in it, and this is my first time doing it, and I don’t think it’s really intended for hostage-taking, but that door is locked, so I’m happy.”
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