Before Tyler can add something, Timmy asks the next question, sounding a lot like a robot. The kid is comedy gold. “Who dresses the worst?”
It’s Tyler’s turn, so I lean back against the seat. “I don’t think we have a ‘worst dresser.’” Count on him to give diplomatic answers. I would have said Michael, but I bite the inside of my cheek instead. I’ve already mentioned him once; that has to be enough for today. Unfortunately.
“Who spends the most time in the bathroom?”
Before I can answer, Tyler has already done so. “Michael. I think he has a beauty regimen and uses eye cream and that kind of stuff.” And another reason not to like the guy.
“Who owns the most suits?” Timmy is looking at his shoes now and sounds like he’s reciting telephone numbers.
I bite my cheeks to stop the laughter building inside me. I like how this interview is going. “Michael, he has them in all kinds of crazy colors and patterns.”
Tyler stares me down over Timmy’s head, but I raise my eyebrow in return. I’m just answering questions like I’m supposed to.
“Timmy, what do you think about our new clothes?” Tyler looks down at the kid again.
The kid shrugs and looks at his shoes. “Do they have clothes for kids?”
“Not at the moment,” Emilia says from off camera.
“Not at the moment. Well, that’s a big oversight. We’re going to run this by our owner. All right?” Tyler winks in Emilia’s direction.
“I guess.” Timmy sounds like he’s about to fall asleep. He’s awesome.
Emilia chuckles. She looks younger when she’s laughing, more like the woman I met in Positano. Less professional, but more likable. Not that she isn’t likable per se. I appreciate how much effort she puts into this team. Marketing-wise we’re on the right path, and I know she wants the team to succeed on the ice as well. My baby momma might not be as spoiled as I thought her to be.
“I think we’re done. Great work, everyone.” She claps her hands and turns to the cameraman.
“Are you ready for opening night?” Timmy startles me. It’s the first time he’s looking at me as well.
I smile at him. “Sure. Are you ready to cheer us on?”
“Yeah.” He nods twice.
“Will you be there with your family?” Tyler chimes in.
He nods.
“Do you have siblings?” Tyler tries to establish a conversation.
“Yeah.” He looks at his feet, maybe to count the blue stripes on his shoes?
“Are they coming too?” I ask.
He shrugs and presses his lips together. I love this kid.
“Well, whoever is coming, we’re looking forward to opening night. Do you want to see our locker room?” Tyler asks.
Timmy’s eyes become big, and he nods three times. He might not be into fashion questions, but he sure as hell is an Ice Tigers fan.
Emilia turns back to us and bends down to him. “We also have a signed jersey for you and season tickets for you and your family. Thank you, Timmy, for being our junior reporter today. We loved having you visit us. Tyler will show you the locker room and our training area now.”
Timmy throws his little arms around her neck, and she smiles and hugs him back. Then he hops off his seat and takes Tyler’s hand, waiting for him to show him the way. “Come on, buddy. I’ll show you the good stuff.”
My eyes meet Emilia’s, and she smiles at me. Whatever I think of her, she will be a great mom, and that calms me. Somehow.
I stand in front of Tyler, waiting for my name to be called. The laser show for opening night is underway with blue lights, the same color as this year’s jerseys, illuminating the dark arena while classical music enhances the dramatic opening. Emilia and her team have outdone themselves, and judging from the audience’s cheers, they love what they see. I step from one leg to the other, relaxing my muscles and prepare myself mentally for the game.
So far, opening night has gone well. I could have done without the walk over the red carpet, but the fans were cheering for me and welcoming me in my new role as alternate captain.
Taking over more responsibilities has been fun, even though it means more marketing activities for me. In addition to the RAVELLIS shoot, I’ve given countless interviews and shot another campaign with Tyler for Ravelli suits, which turned out to be more fun than the one for the workout gear and didn’t involve torture clothes. The campaign features the two of us wearing black suits and matching sunglasses, making us look like we’re from the movie Men in Black.
Until now, I’ve always purchased my clothes off the rack, having them altered when needed, but having a suit custom-made is an entirely different experience. I wasn’t happy when I had to stand still for over half an hour to be measured, but each of the points serves a purpose and makes for a very comfortable suit. The tailors from Italy know their craft and, with their vast knowledge, helped me find the perfect material for my needs. Since I’m always warm and sweat a lot, I didn’t want the heavy cashmere material the Ravelli Group is famous for but opted for a lighter cotton mix for both the dress shirts and suits.
The line moves in front of me, and I take a few steps forward, glimpsing more of the arena with each step. A rhythmic beat of drums sounds as each player is introduced by the announcer to the waiting fans. My heartbeat accelerates—it’s nearly here, the first game of the season. Half a year can seem awfully long, and yet I can still remember our last game, when we didn’t make playoffs, like it was yesterday. When I close my eyes, I can still see the disappointment, the despair, the anger, and the heartbreak in my teammates’ faces, mirroring what I felt myself. I’ll do everything in my power to avoid feeling like that ever again. And so will my teammates.
Standing in the tunnel, I allow my thoughts to wander, but once I’m on the ice, my focus is on one thing only—hockey. The world and all my problems cease to exist, and it’ll be only the puck and me. Nothing else. I’m aware of my teammates. I’m aware of the fans, and I’m aware of the atmosphere, but all that counts is getting the puck in the net. The black disc and the white surface underneath, they are my world in the three periods ahead of me. Nothing else matters.
But today is different. Today, I have the added pressure of knowing that a loss could result in little to no investments and, in the worst case, a potential sale of the organization. I was right, after all—the Ravelli Group’s involvement did sound too good to be true. I get why Emilia doesn’t want to tell the team. It can’t be easy for her to be caught between her grandfather’s demands and wanting the Ice Tigers to succeed. But it isn’t for me either. I’m torn whether to tell Tyler. He should know, but I don’t want to betray Emilia’s trust in me. Keeping this secret for now might be best for everyone. It’ll come out if we fail, but I don’t have to be the one to disclose it. I don’t want to be the one. Not at this point. Not when the other secret we’re keeping is a timebomb in itself.
It’s unheard of that a player and a GM or a member of the owner’s family are about to have twins with each other. We won’t be able to keep it a secret forever, not when I want access to my children. At some point, we’ll have to come up with a believable story. But now isn’t the time. The problem at hand is the potential sale.
A new owner could result in a move to another city. The Ravelli Group didn’t want us to change the city, but who says it wouldn’t happen with the next owner? It’s something I want to avoid at all costs. Not everyone would want and could go where the team goes. Some guys have families that can’t be easily moved all across the country and would prefer to be traded to a nearby city than stay under those circumstances. I don’t think a team was ever relocated during the season, but it’s a possibility.
With those unwelcome thoughts going through my mind, I barely take notice of my name being called and the crowd cheering when I enter the ice. Gliding on the slippery surface underneath me, I calm down immediately. Standing and moving on a 0.12-inch blade on a surface that’s unpredictable and slippery, I’
m at my very best. It’s my world, and nothing can stop me.
I stop beside Smithy and watch Tyler step onto the ice, accompanied by loud cheers. During the national anthem, I shift from one foot to the other. And then it’s showtime.
The crowd goes crazy counting down the last seconds, and we win the face-off. Smithy gets hold of the puck, and Tyler and I fly next to him over the ice. Smithy passes to me, and I pass to Tyler—not an easy task, since he’s swarmed by three Dallas players, but I find the gap—and when Tyler passes the puck back, I shoot. And miss.
“Fuck.” My eyes meet Tyler’s as I skate around the opponent’s goal, but he shrugs. We’re only thirty seconds into the game and have had one shot at the goal. Under different circumstances, I’d be thrilled, but tonight, losing isn’t an option.
“A little rusty, are we? Maybe your blood flow is still restricted,” Smithy says from my right as we hurry to the bench to let the second line take over. He’s been giving us shit about the tight workout gear ever since he saw the pictures.
“Fuck off.” But he’s right. Practice is one thing, but in a game, there’s no room for mistakes. Not when playing a team like Dallas. I clean my visor on the bench and watch the game unfold.
The first period is brutal. Dallas plays their signature physical game with hard hits against the boards, and I feel like I’ve been overrun by a train only ten minutes into the period. Their game mostly consists of force, confidence, and secure passes. Once they get hold of the puck, it’s nearly impossible to intercept them. Unlike me, Dallas’s Lucas Smirnov scores during that first period. Fuck, if we continue to play like this, Emilia’s grandfather won’t spend a single cent on the team.
In the locker room, I yank my soaked jersey over my head and throw it in the laundry basket before I plop down in my spot on the bench.
“Guys, listen,” Coach Benning says when we’ve all found our spots on the bench. “It wasn’t an ideal start, but don’t be afraid. You’re hesitating. You can’t do that against a team like Dallas. Mirror their confidence. You can do it. I believe in you. Now concentrate and play our game. Don’t be intimidated by their hits but hit right back. We have home-ice advantage tonight. Make use of that.”
I take a sip from my bottle and stare at the floor. I want to say something, but how would I explain why we can’t lose this fucking game? So, I drink more to rehydrate and put on a fresh jersey. Two periods left to shoot two goals. It’s doable. I can make this work.
But theory and reality are not the same. Dallas’s defensemen are everywhere and intercept our passes before we’re even near the goal. The game is fast-paced, and my legs scream after a long shift. On the bench, I bob my knee to release the tension in my thigh; not an easy task when space is nonexistent. Lucas Smirnov gets hold of the puck, and Darren Lawson flies over the ice, outplaying first Michael and then Nessy. The guy is a devil. Our goalie doesn’t stand a chance when he shoots unhindered. Fuck. Another goal was the last thing we needed.
I drop my head but then square my shoulders and jump behind Tyler over the boards for our next shift. There’s no time to sulk. We have one minute left to change this situation for the better. Peter loses the face-off, but Tyler intercepts the next pass and sprints toward the goal. Unfortunately, Lucas Smirnov is right on his heels and puts his stick between Tyler’s legs to get hold of the puck, and the inevitable happens—he and Tyler trip.
Smirnov lands on top of Tyler, and they both crash first into the opponent’s goal—without the puck—and then slam headfirst in the boards, with Tyler bearing the brunt. Shit. I race over to where Tyler is buried underneath Smirnov, lying motionless. The goal, now standing in the left corner of the rink, has slowed their impact, but they were going full speed. If he injured himself…. I don’t want to think about that.
I slow down and drop on my knees next to him, pushing Smirnov off my linemate. “Tyler, are you all right?”
He groans. Good, at least he’s conscious. His helmet is half off his face, and blood oozes from a wound above his eye. Probably from the impact with the goal.
“Don’t move. Let the doctor have a look at you.” I put my hand on his back.
I look up. Nessy and Peter are assisting Coach Benning and the medical staff on the ice. “They’ll be here any second.”
Smirnov, the fucker, gets up without a glance in Tyler’s direction and skates to his bench. I want to punch the smug look from his face, but we can’t risk a penalty. Not when we just lost our best player.
I stand up to give the medical staff some space and motion for my teammates to come over to protect Tyler’s privacy. We look each other in the eyes but don’t say a word. One could hear a needle drop inside the arena. I look up to our skybox where Emilia is covering her mouth with both hands. Trying to find Lily and Danny, my eyes roam the auditorium, but I don’t see them. I know they’re here tonight, but I don’t know in which area they’re seated. Poor Lily, she shouldn’t have had to witness that incident.
It takes ages for the medical staff to asses Tyler’s condition and put him on a stretcher. Fuck, that’s never a good sign. We always try to leave the ice on our own, assisted by teammates, but he’s unable to do so at the moment.
Helpless and fuming on the inside, I have to watch Tyler being taken off the ice, accompanied by Coach Benning and the cheers of the audience.
Smirnov, the fucker, only receives a two-minute penalty for tripping. At least we have a power play at the beginning of the next period.
I wait for the last seconds of the period and make a run for the locker room. Inside, no one says a word. Coach Benning is still with Tyler, and his assistant is talking on the phone outside.
“Let’s play for Tyler, everyone. We can’t let them win, not when they took down our best man,” I say into the silence.
Everyone nods, but the silence is still deafening.
I tape my stick and watch Smithy do the same. The break is nearly over when Coach Benning returns.
“How is he?” Smithy jumps up.
“He’s on his way to the hospital for further checks. He probably has a concussion.”
I throw the tape roll on the floor. Shit, he may be out for weeks.
“Listen, guys. I know it’s hard, but I don’t want them to win this game. And neither do you. Go out there and fight for your teammate. We can still win. Use the power play,” I say, looking at my teammates.
“Let’s go, boys.” Nessy takes his stick and leads the way outside. Even if he retired the role of captain, old habits take the better of him, and we sure as hell can use a leader right now.
Back on the ice, I exhale and get in position for the face-off. I stare at the puck, willing it to come to me. And it does when Peter wins the stick battle against Lawson.
I take off, dodging two Dallas players with my eyes never leaving the puck. My thighs burn, and my lungs are ready to burst, but I’m in shooting distance. Automatism takes over when I lift my stick and use every fiber of my being to smash it in the right direction. And it lands where it’s supposed to be—in the net.
Someone grabs me from behind and pushes me into the boards. I couldn’t care less. It’s a long way to go, but we have nearly nineteen minutes left to win this game.
“Great shot, oldie.” Smithy slaps me on the shoulder.
I nod at him, but my head is already back in the game. I signal Coach not to change lines and get back into position for the face-off. Unfortunately, Dallas is back to full strength and intercept our passes just as they did in the first period.
Our shift ends, and I skate back to the bench but don’t sit down—too much is at stake now.
I step from one foot to the other, trying to loosen my aching muscles, while Nessy and Peter defend the living shit in front of our goal and prevent another goal from Darren Lawson.
At the beginning of my next shift, there are only ten minutes left on the clock. Get your shit together, Walker.
Michael loses the face-off, but I intercept the next pass and stop t
he puck with my left skate. Smithy is occupied by two Dallas players, but Michael is standing free. I pass the puck a second before I’m smashed in the boards by Lawson. Pushing him away, I sprint after Michael, and he passes the puck back to me. I shoot, but Smirnov blocks my shot. The puck springs up and lands back in front of Michael.
“Shoot!” I scream.
I’m not sure whether it’s me yelling at him or if a d-man has at least a fraction of the goal-shooting killer instinct forwards are born with. But he shoots. Right into the net.
I skate over and slap him on the back. “Well done.”
He beams at me with his signature smirk and skates back to the bench while loud music blasts through the arena.
The next ten minutes are frustrating, to say the least. We’re playing our hearts out and get nowhere with it. After being checked in the boards twice more, there is not a place on my body that doesn’t scream in pain. But giving up is not an option. We can still win this game.
During the power break, I remain standing, leaning against the boards and staring down Dallas’s goal. I need just one good shot to make this work.
“I’m doing the face-off,” I tell Peter, skating next to him to the middle of the arena. Not waiting for his response, I get in position right away. We don’t have time to waste anymore.
I stare into Smirnov’s eyes with a murderous glare and push his stick away with full force. Sidestepping two Dallas players with tight turns and quick changes of direction, I make my way to the goal and shoot a fraction of a second before another player crashes into my back. I land face-first on the ice. My head hurts, but I shake off the player like a fly when the goal horn sounds and the crowd goes crazy.
I push myself first into a kneeling position and then stand up with great effort. I’m swaying from left to right, but my eyes are drawn to Emilia, whose smile could light the darkest of nights. When our eyes meet, the crowded arena becomes empty, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us communicating in silence. Before my teammates can reach me, I bow slightly, while she nods like the lady she is.
Center of Gravity: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (An Ice Tigers Hockey Romance Book 2) Page 12