Nate was determined to be on the Krewe’s roster on opening night. Pretend there are no second chances. Failure was being sent down to the minors, even if he could prove himself enough for a mid-season call-up.
Although he’d felt like he suffered a slight disadvantage when he first entered camp, he began catching up with his teammates and for that, Nate was forever grateful to Boone Fowler. The eight-year veteran of the league unofficially signed up to mentor him on the first day. Boone was Obi-Wan Kenobi to his Luke Skywalker, showing him the ways to master the Force that was the highest level of professional hockey. He wasn’t certain what made him worthy of an all-star’s advice, but he decided to heed every word.
On this particular day, after corralling a bag full of pucks, Nate left the practice facility with the only other rookie remaining on the roster. Only 18 and the Krewe’s first round pick from the most recent draft, Markus Mattson had spent the previous two years in the Canadian junior leagues to improve his English and on-ice performance. He was an explosive skater with unbelievable stickhandling skills, who had schooled Nate by beating him during more than a few one-on-one defensive drills.
He planned to drop off Markus at a teammate’s house where the kid was staying then return home, anticipating the chance to finally have some quality time with Tristan. His boyfriend promised to be there when he returned to the apartment, but all thoughts of cuddling with Tristan disappeared when he noticed the front passenger tire on his Jeep was flat.
“Shit!”
“Damn, Wardo. That sucks.”
“Sorry about the ride. Can you hit up one of the other guys? I think Fowler was still around.”
“Yeah, man. Sure you don’t want me to stick around to help?”
“Nah. I got this.”
Despite Nate’s protests, both Markus and Boone assisted him in changing the tire. As Boone placed the jack in the trunk, laying it beside the damaged tire, he said, “You might want to have your mechanic take another look at that. See if it’s salvageable.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Let me know and I can give you the name of the place I use. Actually, I’ll text the information to you. Tell them I sent you.”
“And what? They’ll give me a discount?”
“Nah. My name means nothing in this town. Sometimes I wish Raleigh was at least North of the Mason Dixon line then maybe they’d offer buy one, get three free. If you want to drop it by there before practice tomorrow, I’ll pick you up. Just let me know.” Boone gestured to the young man beside him. “Oh and I’ll take Matty home. Go spend some time with your boyfriend. You’ve already missed out.”
Nate sighed, wondering how much grief he’d receive when he finally returned to the house. He was already an hour late thanks to the car situation.
* * *
NATE AND TRISTAN had chosen an apartment that was as centrally located as possible between the university and the arena, but even the drive from practice rink less than 20 minutes in the early afternoon traffic. When he arrived, he found Tristan snoozing on the couch, his body stretching the full length of the cushions and his head pillowed on the armrest. He had tuned the television to some soccer channel, likely to watch his beloved hometown football club, but had muted the sound.
Nate used the remote to power off the TV. To be fair, they both needed sleep as much as they needed to connect. So rather than disturb Tristan, he placed a kiss on the top of his head then escaped to the bedroom for his own nap.
Later, Tristan woke Nate humming “Afternoon Delight”, making them both chuckle. Tristan’s lips found that spot on his neck and Nate responded with a drawn out moan.
“You could have enjoyed this sooner,” Tristan suggested, lying behind him.
“You looked so peaceful. I know you’re tired.”
“Never too tired to enjoy some time with you.”
Nate sighed then turned to face his boyfriend, so he could see Tristan’s eyes as their tongues tangled in a kiss. “Shall we test your limits?”
Tristan smiled. “Sounds like a challenge.”
“Bring it on.”
* * *
NATE’S MOOD DID a complete flip the following morning when he dropped off the Jeep at Boone’s mechanic.
The bad news: the tire was not salvageable because a sharp object had slashed it – likely a knife or box cutter.
The good news: the culprit never succeeded in seriously damaging any of the other tires, but the manager recommended replacing the second front tire, which also seemed to be losing air pressure, although no marks could be found.
Boone was wrong about not receiving any favors. Mentioning the alternate captain’s name did at least afford quicker service. With two new tires, plus the necessary balance and alignment completed, Nate returned to the road with enough time that there was no need to call for a ride to practice.
As he pulled into the exact same parking spot as the day before, he thought for a moment that maybe his vehicle had been randomly chosen for the vandalism, but somehow that seemed unlikely. Was there really anyway to prove that he hadn’t just run over a piece of glass? He sighed. He wasn’t that naïve. Although without witnesses, how could he call the police to file a report? Hell, with such a lack of evidence, even Tristan would probably just tell him he was being paranoid.
Of course, he did wonder about parking his car in the same lot where the incident occurred, but if he’d learned nothing else in his life, it was not to give in to fear. That whole idea made him angry, though. He wasn’t that person. He was stronger than a lot people realized, and he would prove it.
Chapter 2
HEAD BOBBING TO the sounds of Fall Out Boy coming from the pre-game playlist blaring through his earbuds, Nate wandered into the locker room the following Saturday night for the final exhibition match-up.
The Krewe currently had 25 players, but that list of names would be cut to 22 by opening night. Three more players. Ironically, Nate and JJ Buchanan, likely fought for the last defensive spot. In a strange move, the coaches paired Nate and JJ together for that night’s game against Atlanta.
Buchanan was an aging veteran that the Krewe signed to a professional tryout contract only weeks prior. Even with 500 professional games on his resume, he needed to prove himself worthy of earning even a year-long deal or be cut, which meant a surrendering to an early retirement.
After the first period of play, Nate realized that the coaching staff’s decision was genius. Competition fed the pair’s performance on the ice. Crisp passes. Blocked shots. Cleared screens. Neither one wanted to make a mistake. One particular hard fought shift earned them each a pat on the back and a hearty “Helluva a job, boys!” from the assistant coach.
Five minutes into the third period, Nate learned that it didn’t matter that he and JJ were competing for the last defensive spot. They were teammates first and foremost.
The linesman called the Krewe for icing, and the resulting faceoff returned to the left of Carolina backup goalie Cole Tarkowski. Nate took his defensive position closest to the net on the edge of the circle. He leaned on his stick, watching the puck drop when the Atlanta player next to him growled, “Cocksucker.”
Nate suddenly found himself laid out on the ice.
What. The. Fuck.
He sprang back to his feet and chased after the play, following the puck into the corner. Prodding and digging with his stick, he battled with an opposing player. The puck finally bounced free of the boards and he sailed it across to Fowler, who was streaking toward center ice. Nate followed the play, sprinting toward his position on the blue line. There he accepted a pass from Buchanan and quickly released a slapshot that was initially stopped by Atlanta’s goalie, but Fowler collected the rebound and found space underneath the right pad for the score.
Yessss! He joined in the celebration hug with his teammates before heading toward the bench for the requisite fist bumps of congratulations.
The same players from both teams stayed out for the subsequent faceoff,
which Fowler won to Buchanan, but Atlanta forced the Krewe back into their defensive zone. Nate followed Buchanan past their own blue line then circled behind the net so they could set up the play before advancing into their offensive zone. Sprinting down the ice, Buchanan passed the puck across the open space. It landed on the tape of Nate’s stick, and he dumped it into the zone. Concentrating so closely on the play as it developed in front of him, he didn’t see the Atlanta winger approaching him from the right side. The late hit blindsided him, sending him sliding into the boards. Dazed, Nate heard the same voice that taunted him at the faceoff threaten him. “We don’t fuckin’ need you in the league. Go rot in the minors, cocksucker.”
The words stung but worse was the second stick shove to the kidneys that punctuated the statement. Nate groaned.
“You sonafabitch, McGarrett!” Buchanan’s yell came from the area behind the net, but the clatter of sticks on the ice was much closer. Two succinct whistles sounded from farther away.
The athletic trainer appeared by Nate’s side, leaning over him, comforting hands cradled his torso. “Nate, you okay, kid?” He attempted to raise his head, moaning with the effort. “Where…?”
“Sh-shoulder sep-separated…annd…low-er baaack,” he answered breathlessly. “Kidneys.”
“He knocked you pretty good. You’ll be okay. Do you think you can move?”
Nate blew out a breath and slightly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah.”
“Hey, Bucky, a little help here,” the athletic trainer called.
Buchanan was here? Then who the hell went after the bastard? Nate attempted to turn his head toward the end of the ice as he pushed himself slowly to his skates. The older defenseman supported him on the left side while the athletic trainer cradled his right shoulder gently. As he stepped over the lip into the bench area, Buchanan patted him on his good shoulder. “Don’t worry. We took care of him. Fowler beat me to it.”
“Fowler?” Shit. What was Boone thinking?
As Ryan, the assistant athletic trainer, escorted him to the training room for treatment, the arena public address announced the penalties. “Atlanta penalty to number 23, Iain McGarrett. Two minutes cross-checking. Five minutes for fighting. Carolina penalty to number 12 Boone Fowler. Five minutes for fighting. Two minutes for instigating. And a game misconduct.”
Game misconduct? What the hell did Fowler do?
He followed Ryan into the training room where one of the team doctors waited. He knew what that meant – a one-way ticket to the quiet room. He didn’t remember hitting his head on anything, but the league was so cautious when it came to concussions. He could decline testing, but considering that the medical staff was already examining his more tangible injuries, he would miss the remainder of the game regardless of whether he agreed to submit to the protocol or not.
While he awaited the inevitable pain of his shoulder being forced back into the socket, the proximity of the training room to the locker room allowed him to hear Fowler’s ranting on the other side of the wall. He tried to tally the number of f-bombs, but with his concentration waning, he lost count at eight.
“Ready?” Ryan asked. “We’ll get some ice on it, and then let Doc observe you for a bit.”
No use delaying. “Go for it.” Nate gritted his teeth.
“Relax.” Ryan held his arm in a neutral position at the elbow then rotated the lower arm out before slowly returning to its starting position.
Better than he remembered. Nate blew out a breath as Ryan retrieved an ice pack. They worked together to carefully remove his jersey and suspenders so Ryan could wrap the ice into place and examine the bruising developing on his lower back.
Once Ryan completed the task, he said, “You know the drill.”
Nate nodded as he followed the doctor to the darkened office in the back. It was a less-than-quiet room when he could still hear the loudest of Boone’s rantings.
By the time the medical staff finally cleared Nate, the Krewe had beaten Atlanta, 3-1. He had assisted on the game-winning goal and finished the night at a plus-1.
Of course, the big question was whether or not his abbreviated performance would be enough to keep him with the big club, or would he instead find a ticket to the team’s minor league affiliate in Charleston waiting in his stall? He sighed, thinking of all the hard work, but that trip to South Carolina wasn’t only one-way. He would continue to push for a spot in Raleigh, no matter what it took.
When he returned to the locker room, the rest of his teammates had dispersed. With no one except the equipment and training staff still around doing their post-game clean-up, he showered and returned to his suit as quickly as his sore and uncooperative shoulder allowed. The drive home with a manual transmission would likely be a lesson in patience and pain.
He didn’t want to go home, though. Tristan had warned him that it would be late night at the lab. An empty house meant being alone with only his thoughts for comfort or lack thereof.
As he wandered through the corridor toward the player parking area, he absently played with the keys in his hand. He never did tell Tris or anyone else about the situation with his tires, shrugging it off when Boone and Markus asked the next day. He wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, but if anyone else in the league was as vocal as the Atlanta player, ignorance and bigotry would be tough to ignore.
Nathan Ward wasn’t the type to allow fear to rule his life before, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen now either. He wanted to call Tristan home. He needed to know that he was still doing the right thing. He needed reassurance.
And, dammit, he needed to not be so damn needy.
One positive result of his current situation, the injury meant he would remain with the Krewe for the duration of his rehabilitation and for observation due to the slight concussion the doctor had told him he sustained. No ice time for at least a few days then a yellow non-contact jersey would be his uniform. He certainly didn’t want to be out of the line-up long enough for the coaches to replace him with “The Next One”. At least, Bucky would get his shot at the big club for the time being.
He turned the last corner in the hallway and waved at the security guard as he pushed open the door to the outside world. The chill in the air forced him to cross his arms over his body. At least the security at the arena meant he wouldn’t be dealing with a slashed tire that night.
“Hey, Nate.”
Nate startled then glanced behind him in the direction of the voice. Buchanan leaned against the wall behind the door. “Thought you might need an escort home.”
“I think I’m good.”
“Seriously? What did the doc say? Concussion, separated shoulder, right?” Nate nodded slightly, knowing that moving his head any more might make him faint or vomit. “Let me drive you home, and someone will get you to the rink tomorrow, too.”
Nate sighed. No arguing with Buchanan. He tossed his friend the keys, and the two hopped into the Jeep.
“So what did I miss?” Nate asked as J.J. made the right turn out of the parking lot.
“Let’s see. We won, you probably noticed. Yours truly got the empty netter.” J.J. glanced at him then chuckled. “You’re welcome.”
“Nice.”
“Oh and a certain alternate captain with a receding hair line and fiery blue eyes kinda lost it.”
“What?”
“Yep. Couldn’t tell you how many hockey sticks he broke. Not sure all of them were his. Oh and it looks like the team is going to push for a suspension for that arse who decked you.”
Nate stared at J.J. So much for trying to forget and move forward with his career. “I’d rather forget about it.”
“What? Like you forgot about the arsehole who slashed your tires?”
Nate snapped his head toward his friend then just as quickly returned his gaze to the window. The spinning in his head made him regret the movement immediately, and the signs outside the passenger window seemed to help him focus more than the conversation in the Jeep. Of course, his situation ha
d become general knowledge. Boone likely figured out what had happened, and hockey players gossiped in the locker room more than his sisters did with their friends during high school.
“Yeah, I know about the slashed tires. In fact, I think I saw the bastard. Someone was hanging out near your car when I was leaving the rink that day. Didn’t think anything of it, well, until Boone mentioned your tires.”
“I’d rather forget about that, too.”
“Really? That’s what you really want?”
“I don’t want to be a fucking martyr for some larger cause. I just want to be me, Bucky. Just Nathan Ward. I want to come to the rink and play hockey like I did a year ago. Is that too much to ask?”
“I wish I could snap my fingers and make that happen for you. Rookie year is hell. I remember it well.”
Nate couldn’t help the grin on his face, and it must have reflected in the glass. “Hey,” J.J. said, “I’m not that old.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
“But you were thinking it.”
Nate shook his head slightly. “Won’t deny that.”
“I know you are dealing with a hell of a lot of pressure. We all see it. Boldly going where no one has gone before, even if it’s not something you would have chosen to do given different circumstances. Yeah, Boone told me how you sacrificed yourself to bury the story about the academic issues with your teammates.”
“Is nothing secret?”
“Seriously, Nate, we understand you are championing something so much bigger than any of us. I know you are close to Fowler, but if he hadn’t jumped that asshole McGarrett, the rest of the guys would have lined up behind me to take their own shots at him.”
Changing on the Fly Page 2