by RJ Scott
Ryan bit his tongue to stop himself losing it. Rafferty deserved all the shit he’d got. He’d hit Loki so hard five games back that the safety glass splintered in one corner and left Loki with a torn cruciate ligament, which would keep him off his feet for some time; more importantly, Loki would be out for the rest of the season. Yes, they only had a couple games left, but those games were vital if they had any hope of making the wild-card choice for playoffs.
The hit had been dirty. Rafferty had lifted off his skates, deliberately targeting Loki when his back was turned, right in the numbers on the back of his jersey. Who did that? Who waited until a man had his back to you before you checked him so hard he twisted up against the boards and literally tore his knee?
Aiming for Loki wasn’t a new thing. The Ds on other teams targeted Loki, and Simba, as captain, in every freaking game, shadowing them, attempting to take them out. But Rafferty’s hit had been personal, and it was Ryan’s fault Rafferty had got through to get anywhere near Loki. They’d been chirping all night, and Ryan hadn’t been innocent; he’d checked the other team and checked them hard, but that was the game.
“Spit it out, son,” Coach said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers.
“It’s okay,” Ryan lied. “I’m okay.”
They entered into one of their rink-famous staring matches. The ones where Coach wanted to know how he really felt, but where Ryan said nothing. Because if he actually told Coach, then the temper that coiled inside him, laced with regret and missed chances, would spill unchecked into the small room.
“If that is what they say he deserves, then I’m in no position to say otherwise,” he evaded.
Coach sighed heavily, then stood up and closed the door. “Now say what you really want to say.”
“Coach?” What? The coach had never shut them in a room together. Didn’t he know that Ryan was right at the limit of talking about anything to do with what happened to Loki?
Guilt flooded him, recalling the way he’d taken out the center on the other team, legitimately checking him with a clean hit, and how the team’s D-man, Rafferty, had sought retribution for his teammate. If Ryan closed his eyes, he could see the hit on Loki from Rafferty, hear the noise, watch as an off-center Loki with his back to the rink, slammed into the wood and Plexiglas, and fell to the ice.
Coach cleared his throat. “Look, son, we both know you’re on edge. You’re pretending everything is okay, but you know it isn’t. So all of it, Seventeen, out with it now, into this room where it stays.”
Ryan reacted instinctively to the use of his jersey number; his heart raced as it would in a game, adrenaline rose, and a feeling of control gripped him hard. When they called his number, he had to listen. Years of conditioning and respect came to the fore.
What does Coach want? The truth.
“Rafferty should have got more than one game for what he did to Loki. It was a dirty hit. And I saw the replays of what he did to Jackson last night, and it was even worse.”
“Okay.” Coach tilted his head a little, waiting for more. “And?”
“Rafferty only targeted Loki because I took their center out, but mine was clean. Rafferty was on Loki like white on rice, pushing him, stick across the back of his knees. And that jump, his skates left the fucking ice. If Loki hadn’t half turned at the last minute, he’d have been shoved face first into the glass.”
He realized he’d stood up and clenched his fists at his sides. Rafferty was a fucking asshole and needed to be taken down, and the next time they met his team, Ryan would show Rafferty the ice in an up-close and personal way, with his fists doing the talking.
“Sit down, Seventeen,” Coach said in his best authoritative tone, the one no one argued with.
Ryan sat, but he was right on the edge of the chair, his thighs taking the strain of balancing so he could move at a moment’s notice.
“Rafferty will serve his one game. His team is fucked for playoffs anyway, trailing us by ten, and next year, gloves off as soon as the whistle blows, and you take him down clean. But you do not take this anger you have going on anywhere near the ice tomorrow in Carolina. If we lose tomorrow, then we are mathematically unable to get to the playoffs. Understand?”
“Coach.” Ryan knew the stats and agreed immediately, even if the acid inside him still churned and he really wanted his hands on Mark Rafferty right then. The big bad D-man was an inch smaller than Ryan and ten pounds lighter; shifty, sneaky, and a bastard on the ice; but Ryan wasn’t going to take out the anger on another team just because he couldn’t release it on its intended target.
He had that much control, for fuck’s sake.
“Okay, go take a shower. And shut the door again on your way out.”
Dismissed, Ryan stood for some time in the corridor outside the office. Rafferty had gotten off lightly. Of course Loki would be back for the next season, starting offense, first line, a power play expert, but for now, he was at home in pain, and fuck if that didn’t make Ryan angry.
“Okay?” Simba asked, coming to a stop next to him.
“Rafferty got another one-game suspension for his hit last night against the Kings,” Ryan spat.
Simba sighed. “I know, Coach said I needed to keep an eye on you.”
Ryan frowned. “I’m not a child.”
“He’s hyper about our next game. If we win….”
“And if Boston loses… yeah, I know the stats.”
This was the first year they’d gotten this far. The group of them had settled now, handing out longer contracts to the core of the team. They had the Colts to take new guys from; the AHL team was packed with new guys who worked hard. The Dragons’ defense was solid, their offense made plays that turned into goals, and they were so close to the teams at the top of their division. If not this year, then next for sure.
“Coach give you the talk about not taking your anger onto the ice tomorrow?” Ryan nodded. “Good. Then I assume you won’t. That you’ll leave your anger, resentment, and worry in Vermont with Loki.”
Ryan closed his eyes briefly, pulling back all the emotions that were shooting from him, and all the panic. Remembering in slow motion Loki’s knee bending awkwardly, knowing it was damaged, seeing Rafferty skate straight to the bench and knowing he’d be called on his shit, without Rafferty feeling one single shred of guilt.
“Not a problem,” he bit out.
The shower was hot and empty of his teammates, and for the longest time, he leaned on the tiles and let the water beat at his neck. The worst of Loki’s accident was recalling sitting outside the room, waiting for the call on how much damage he’d sustained, and then having Kat show up and sit next to him.
She hadn’t outright accused him, but when she looked him in the eye and asked him what the hell had happened, he didn’t have an answer that made any sense. He’d let Loki down, and she knew it. She must know that.
The Dragons had taken a chance on him last season, and he hadn’t let them down right up until Loki’s hit. One hundred and forty-two games for them, and along with Karly, his line mate, he was part of the best damn blue line pair they had. But that flash of unrestrained temper was just on the edge of him, blurred and undefined, the same thing that had him traded and spending most of his rookie years in the minors.
That same temper had him wanting to slam Rafferty into the ice, had him regretting that he’d left Loki alone to handle it when he should have gotten there first.
That temper would be his undoing.
One down in the third period and this game against the Wings was going to shit. Didn’t matter that Simba was skating like a man possessed, nor that Ryan’s defense kept the hits on the Dragons’ net to a minimum. Either way, the Wings were on fire, and the Dragons didn’t stand a chance. An ill-timed hit from the other side on Simba had the Dragons on a power play, five on four, and abruptly there was hope as the game tied. Ryan covered as he watched Simba and Lee passing, finding space, but nothing came of it, Simba
likely too exhausted to be out there a second longer.
Ryan went back over the boards to the bench and watched the second D-pair skate to the red line.
“Simba’s gassed,” Karly hissed.
The other half of his defensive pairing leaned in, and Ryan could hear the worry in his voice, but their second power play unit was missing that vital Loki link. Simba was just covering.
The Wings managed one more goal ten seconds from the buzzer, and the Dragons, disheartened, went back to the visitors’ changing rooms. They’d done what they could, and Coach said all the right things, but a loss was a loss.
Wings versus Dragons games were clean, and this result had them equal in wins over the times they’d faced each other. They’d needed a win. One more point needed. Just one. Otherwise, they’d finish too far down in the Atlantic Division, and the dreams of getting a wildcard spot and playing for the Stanley Cup would be gone.
The locker room was quiet after Coach left, not the disorganized chaos and high of a win or the mutterings of a loss they had nevertheless fought hard for. This was defeat, two-one, and frustration simmered just below the surface.
“Fuck,” Arkin said, loud enough that the words hung in the room and startled quite a few of the guys who’d sunk into thoughtful grumpiness. “That was shit,” he added, seemingly unaware that as a rookie he shouldn’t really be analyzing play like that. He should respect the other guys and leave them to their thoughts.
Then it hit Ryan. If Loki was here, he’d be doing something similar—swearing and snapping his fingers and getting up in guy’s faces, telling them to get their heads out of their asses.
But Loki wasn’t here, and the loss was probably because he wasn’t here and the team relied on him too much.
Was Ryan the only one in the room thinking they could only win with Loki? That was a dangerous mindset.
“Yeah, shit,” Simba added like an afterthought to Arkin’s comment or something.
Simba wasn’t one for standing up and making grandiose speeches. He wasn’t that kind of captain. He led from inside the team: a careful word here, a group discussion there, a strong, steady, dependable scorer who likely missed Loki on his wing as much as the rest of the team did.
But when Simba stood, everyone looked at him. “So, we’ll do better next time,” he said.
Simple and to the point, but filled with hidden meaning. Their special teams for the power play would be better; their defense would stop the puck before it got anywhere near Drago; their offense would thread the eye of the other team’s blue liners and score. They would become a team, and they needed to pull themselves together and get with the plan.
Had each man in the room felt like him? Like there was no point? With only two games to go, the playoffs unlikely, and their most effective wing taken out, had everyone else gotten the feeling that they could give up?
A couple of the guys hit the shower, but Ryan sat for a long time staring at his skates, remembering each time the opposing team’s offense got past him and Karly.
Simba tapped Ryan’s skates with his stick, and Ryan looked up. “Okay?” he asked, just as he had in the hallway.
Ryan nodded. “No offense, Cap, but I think I should have taken some of my anger on the ice, after all.” He was tongue-in-cheek, but he realized one thing: he’d been so busy containing the anger that he’d completely fucked up.
Never again.
“Yeah,” Simba said with a raised eyebrow. “Maybe you’re right.”
By the time the team was on the plane to the next and last games of the season, things had leveled from absolute misery and introspection to pretty much normal. Coach’s mantra was “focus on the next game,” and they could do that.
When they pulled back and won 3–2 in overtime against the Sabres with a quick goal from Simba, the mood lightened. They’d lost the chance of being wild cards for the playoffs, but each man had come to terms with that, and Ryan was even working his way through the self-blame. He’d facetimed Loki, still flushed with the win, and part of him, a tiny part he hid away, had hoped that Kat would be there with her brother.
“No Kat tonight?” he asked as casually as he could.
Loki raised an eyebrow. “No.” He began as if he wasn’t sure why Ryan was even asking. “She’s on a late shift, and then she’s seeing Evan.”
Ryan’s heart took another cut. “Seeing Evan” had him imagining the horror of her in bed with the idiot or kissing him. He grimaced, then realized he was still facetiming.
“Passing you to Simba.” He handed over his iPad.
“Yo, Loki.”
Ryan tuned out and worried at his lower lip. It was stupid how much he’d hoped he could have seen her face, her smile, teased her, maybe even winked at her and had her winking back. The kiss was still in his mind, right at the front, right there where he could dissect it whenever he shut his eyes.
Thirteen years he’d been in her life.
But kissing her, taking things any further, possibly even mentioning they should have dinner? With her having a boyfriend, with Loki being her brother, and with his own fucked-up head in the mix?
She might leave his life altogether, and he couldn’t face that.
He was not going to mess this up.
CHAPTER 5
Evan slid into the seat opposite Kat, smiling and thanking the waiter as he handed him a menu.
“This was a surprise,” he said as he glanced at the food on offer. “A welcome break.” He looked up and closed the menu.
Kat wasn’t convinced he even looked; he always had the same thing. He was only in town for the single day, and she’d avoided him on the phone. This had to be done face-to-face. “How are you?” she asked.
Evan reached over the small bistro table and grasped her hand. “No, baby, how are you?” He pressed his other hand to her face, peering close. “No marks,” he said.
“I hid them with makeup.”
“Good idea.” He squeezed her hand.
That irritated her. Evan calling her baby irritated her, as did the way he checked her face. Even his concerned smile was making her tense. “Evan, we need to talk.”
“Wait, what did you order?” he asked as though he hadn’t heard her at all.
“I didn’t order.”
“Why? Are you not hungry?” He frowned and squeezed her hand again. “I know you want to stay slim, but only exercise will get rid of those last few pounds. I told you, my friend Henrique in New York is a wonderful personal trainer.
“We need to talk.” She interrupted, speaking firmly, and slid her hand from his grasp.
“Okay, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
She looked down at her hands pressed flat on the table, and waited for inspiration to hit. Nothing. Her brain emptied of anything useful. The small restaurant was blessedly quiet, and she’d chosen the corner table for privacy. Still, she wanted to be quieter.
“I’m not going to marry you,” she said with conviction, channeling her brother’s tone when he got bossy and firm, in the hope that Evan would back off.
“Kathryn?” he asked, confusion on his face.
He’d asked her twice, and she’d said no twice, but this here had to confuse him. After all, he hadn’t actually asked her today.
“I’m sorry, Evan. This isn’t your fault,” she lied. “This is all me.”
“I know you’re nervous about leaving Burlington, but you know Nicky could be traded anytime.”
“Nicky’s latest contract is a four-year with a no-move clause,” she inserted helpfully.
Evan didn’t listen to that. “Things change. He may go to the Rangers. That would be wonderful—not far for us to travel to games.”
“Evan, listen to me. I’m sorry. I think we should stop seeing each other.”
He watched her silently, and then he sighed. “You were clearly shaken in that assault. I can see how that might mess with a person’s mind. Everything will be okay soon.” He leaned forward again, and instinctively she sat back befo
re he could grab her hand. For safety, she put them in her lap.
“This has nothing to do with what happened,” she lied again.
It had everything to do with having a gun at her head and seeing her life stretch out in front of her like an endless river of boredom in a relationship that was wrong for her. He watched her carefully in that observant way of his whenever she had an opinion on something. From films to politics to hockey, he always judged her, silently and warily.
Nothing like Ryan, who argued and shoved and told her what he thought.
Keep your mind off Ryan.
“It’s unhealthy,” he said out of the blue.
“Sorry?”
“This thing you have with your brother—codependence, or whatever it is. You’re your own woman, Kathryn.”
“My brother has looked out for me since forever. He’s my family.”
“And you can’t even move to another state that you can fly from in half a day to see him.”
“Sorry?”
“You’re selfish to think that I would stay in Vermont just so you can live close to Big Brother Nicky.”
“Nicolas,” she corrected again, with heat. “I have a career here—”
“They need paramedics in New York—”
“And I’m ending things because I don’t love you.”
They spoke over each other. And then silence.
He stared at her and clearly had things he wanted to say.
“Evan?” she asked. Anything to prompt a response.
“Okay, you’re flustered.” he finally said. “And when you feel better—”
“You’re not listening. I don’t love you, not enough for me to be with you for the rest of my life.” Irritation and sadness had trickled into her voice; she couldn’t help it.
“Hush, you’re getting upset, sweetie. Is it your time of the month.
I want to punch him in the throat.
She had no ready answer for that one that wasn’t full of curse words. “What?” she asked, finally, not sure she’d heard entirely right.
“Well, you know you can get touchy.”