In It to Win It

by Kelly Jamieson

  “Fuck!” I yell at Martinez. “Hit me like that again and I’ll drop you, motherfucker.”

  Bergie passes cross ice to Johnny, then to me. I don’t have a lane, so I pass it back to Bergie on the blue line. He takes a one-timer. The goalie makes the save and smothers the puck. The whistle blows.

  Martinez skates up to me and circles me. “Frustrated, man? Not getting enough of that sweet pussy?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I growl, turning to face him. I glide closer to him, my blood heating.

  “Taylor. Just remember…I was there first.” He smirks. “She likes to share that sweet pussy. So tight and—”

  He doesn’t get out the rest of what he was saying because I’ve dropped my gloves and punched him. He drops to the ice immediately, blood running down his face. I’m on him, but he’s not even fighting back, and that pisses me off even more. I’ve been fucking played.

  The linesmen are there right away, pulling me off. A bunch of Preds arrive and surround us menacingly, quickly followed by my teammates. My chest is heaving, adrenaline slamming through my veins. “You’re the fucking pussy,” I spit out at Martinez, then hate myself for using that sexist slur. “You fucking douchebag prick!” I can’t even think of insults bad enough for him. For what he just said.

  “Enough,” the linesman holding me back says. “You’re out of the game.”

  “What the fuck?” I glare at him. “He said—” I stop dead. There’s no way in hell I want to repeat what he just said with cameras on us and possibly microphones picking it up.

  I am so fucked.

  “Last five minutes of regulation time,” the ref barks. “You’re out.” He drags me across the ice.

  Meanwhile, Martinez is getting attention for the blood dripping down his face. He didn’t even drop his gloves! Rage billows inside me, hot pressure that makes me yank myself out of the linesman’s grip and try to go at Martinez again. This time my own teammates rush at me to grab me and hold me back.

  “Jesus, man, calm the fuck down,” Dutch says in my ear. “What the hell?”

  I take in a shuddering breath. Yeah, I’ve lost it. I’ve totally lost it, and no amount of compartmentalizing or deep breathing or thinking calm thoughts is going to help me right now. I skate over to the gate, jump off the ice, and stalk down the tunnel to the visitors’ dressing room.

  “How’s your hand?” Benny asks with unruffled composure.

  I shake it out, only realizing now that the knuckles are grazed and throbbing.

  “I’ll get you an ice pack.”

  I drop to the bench in front of my cubby, toss aside my helmet, and let my head fall forward.

  Then I hear it. A roar from the fans, so loud it almost drowns out the goal horn. Fucking Nashville scored.

  I close my eyes, my heart still trying to pound its way up into my throat.

  Benny hands me the ice pack and I hold it on my knuckles. “Thanks,” I mutter. “They just tied it up, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I’m stuck here listening and fuming as the game goes into overtime. And we lose.

  The mood in the room is grim afterward. The guys are pissed and Uncle Mark is yelling at me. “What the fuck were you thinking? We were up by one goal! There was only four minutes left in the game, goddammit!”

  I know. I know.

  The air in the room is heavy. I can see everyone trading glances.

  “Oh, for Chrissake.” Uncle Mark rubs his face. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  I nod miserably. I know I screwed up, but come on! I’m supposed to let him get away with that? “He was on me all night,” I say. “You guys saw it. He was trying to get a rise out of me.”

  “It worked,” Frenchy says dourly.

  I take a deep breath. Can’t argue with that.

  Jordan Zorby, our communications director, is organizing media interviews and tells them I’m not available. I should probably face the music, but I’m glad I don’t have to tonight. After showering and changing into our suits, we all board the bus back to the hotel. Once there, Dutch says, “Come on. Let’s go get a beer.”

  Like I want to go and be chewed out for losing my shit. Then I catch Dutch’s eye and he’s not looking at me like he’s judging me; he looks like he’s concerned about me. “Okay.”

  We head out toward Broadway. Nashville is usually one of my favorite places to visit, but tonight I’m just cranky. Kitty’s, a bluegrass place, is packed, but some bills trade hands and we soon have a table and a waitress with a big smile and bigger hooters standing next to us to take our drink orders.

  “Okay, what happened?” Dutch asks once we’ve all got beers in front of us and the flirty waitress has departed.

  A live band is playing, so I have to lean in and shout to tell them what happened. “You guys saw it, right? He was riding my ass all night.”

  “He was.” Copper shakes his head. “Dickhead.”

  I draw in a slow breath. “He said something about Taylor.”

  Everyone makes identical “Ooooh” noises.

  “What did he say?” Dutch asks.

  “Never mind.”

  “Did he insult her?” Copper demands.

  I glower into my beer. Steel guitar and banjo whine before the singer starts in about good corn liquor. That’s what I should be drinking. I lift my hand and the waitress hustles right over. She’s been watching us like a hawk.

  “A round of your best corn whisky.” I manage a smile for her.

  “Did he insult her?” Copper asks again.

  “Yeah.”

  “He can’t do that.” Dutch scowls and narrows his eyes. “She’s a sweetheart and doesn’t deserve that.”

  Dutch flirted mercilessly when he first met Taylor, and still does, but I know it’s all in fun. The guys all like Taylor. He narrows his eyes. “Just wait till the next time we play them. He’s a dead man.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Copper agrees.

  “Yeah, yeah, the code, yadda yadda. We don’t settle things that way anymore.” My effort to be reasonable is half-hearted.

  “In fact, I kinda want to go find him right now,” Abs muses, cracking his knuckles. “We could beat the crap out of him.”

  “Off the ice we’d get arrested for assault.” I shake my head. Holy crap, I’m the voice of reason here. We’re in deep shit.

  “Is he that hung up on her?” Dutch asks.

  “I don’t get it.” I shrug. “He could’ve had her. He moved to Nashville and barely said goodbye to her.”

  “Guess he regrets that.”

  “No shit. But why is he taking it out on me? I didn’t steal her from him.” I catch their glances and my gut goes stone cold. “No! I did not! Why are you looking like that?”

  “We heard what happened at Théo’s wedding.”

  “They were broken up then! I didn’t even know they’d ever been together.” I meet their eyes resolutely. “It’s the truth. I didn’t move on her until I knew she wasn’t with anyone else.”

  They all nod.

  “What about you?” Dutch asks slowly. “Are you that hung up on her?”

  “Me?” I open my eyes wide. “Nah.” I drop my gaze to my beer. “Just having fun.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seriously.” I shrug, trying for casual.

  “Didn’t look like it, the way you reacted.”

  I’m not falling in love with her. I know better than that. I make bad choices all the time, as I’ve so clearly displayed tonight. She doesn’t need that. Like Dutch said, she’s a sweetheart and I can’t be relied on to do the right thing. After all the stupid things I’ve done, I sure as hell would never expect someone to be serious about me.
/>   “I don’t think Martinez is that hung up on her,” Copper says slowly. “I think he was just trying to get under your skin.”

  “I already figured that out.”

  “He just said that because he knew it would get to you.”

  I fill my lungs with air and let it out. “You’re right. I knew that. But when he said it…I lost it.”

  “Understandable.” Dutch lifts his chin. “That dickwad knew exactly what to say.”

  “It won’t happen again.” As I say it, I realize what a huge mistake I’ve made.

  I can’t get involved with someone to the point where I lose it during a game. I can’t care that much about someone. I can care only about hockey and playing my best and working on self-control and managing my emotions.

  Christ…look what just happened. I lost a game because of my temper. Because of…Taylor.

  I’m not blaming her. Not at all—don’t even think that. I’m blaming myself. Totally.

  I’ve lost control of my emotions because of her. I got all riled up because of her. I’m feeling shit I’ve never felt before, and I can’t. I just can’t.

  * * *

  —

  Things only get better the next day, when the Department of Player Safety slaps me with a one-game suspension, which is automatic for instigating a fight in the last five minutes of regulation time. I know that rule, but it was the last thing I was thinking about. And that’s on top of the two minutes for roughing, five for fighting, and ten-minute misconduct I got.

  Dad’s on the trip with us and after we land in Tampa Bay, he searches me out in the hotel to have a word with me. I can feel the waves of disappointment rolling off him.

  “Look, I know I overreacted,” I tell him. “I’ve had time to think about it and calm down.” Sort of. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do better.”

  “There are times we need to do things to send a message. That wasn’t one of them.”

  “I know. Believe me. Uncle Mark and I already talked about this.”

  Uncle Mark has calmed down from last night, but he’s still pissed that my penalties lost us the game.

  “It won’t happen again,” I add glumly. I have to make sure of that.

  Tonight I’m watching the game from the goddamn press box with Brando, who’s out with a bum ankle. I’ve got a cardboard cup of coffee in my hand and it’s all I can do to keep from crushing it, my fingers flexing with anger and frustration, wishing I were down on the ice. Wish they had something stronger than coffee in there.

  Dad passes by on his way to the visiting management box and stops to speak to Brando about his ankle. To me, he’s Dad; to Brando, he’s the team owner. Brando even calls him Mr. Wynn. I still feel Dad’s displeasure. But hey, no one’s more pissed at me than I am at myself.

  I watch Sokolov from the Lightning get possession of the puck and skate in on net. He fucking undresses Johnny and scores a goal that has the arena exploding. The coffee cup dents in my hands and my teeth grind together.

  Brando and I exchange unhappy looks.

  “Bad turnover,” he says mildly.

  “No shit.”

  We lose again, three–one, not a great way to start off after the Christmas break. We’re going home and I know what I have to do to make things better.

  Chapter 25

  Taylor

  “What the hell was that fight about?”

  I know that’s not a great way to greet JP after he’s been away for a few days, and he probably feels like shit about getting suspended, but I was so furious when I saw what happened. I had been watching the game, and I actually jumped up off the couch and stood in front of the TV with my heart lodged in my throat.

  “You punched him in the face for no reason!”

  JP’s face is rigid, his jaw set. “Yep. No reason at all.”

  I pause and narrow my eyes. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes you just gotta have a good throw down.”

  I toss my hands up in the air. “No, you don’t! What the hell? I thought you were trying to stay out of fights!”

  “Well, I failed. As usual.” His bitter tone makes me flinch. “And apparently you’re pissed about that.”

  I blink. I kind of am, but…“I don’t like it when you fight.”

  “It’s part of the game.”

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started this conversation as soon as you walked in. I was upset about the fight, but I’m not that mad. Come in. I’ll get you a beer.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  I’ve turned toward the kitchen, but I swing back around. “What?”

  “I can’t stay. I’m meeting the guys. I just came to talk to you because I didn’t want to do this over the phone.”

  My heart stops beating, then lurches into an uneven rhythm. My breath sticks in my throat. “Do what?”

  “Break up with you.” His mouth is a thin line, his chin jutting.

  I stare, my jaw loose. “B-but why?”

  “I don’t want to be a dick, but…Well, I guess I am. Sorry. I shouldn’t have let things get this far with you. I’m not cut out for relationships.”

  I try to swallow, but it hurts. My eyes burn. My head is a vast, empty space. Maybe clouds are floating through there, but that’s it. This can’t be happening.

  I try to marshal my wandering thoughts. In all fairness, I wasn’t looking for a relationship either. I knew this would end at some point. Better now, than thirty years from now. Right? I swallow.

  Only…I’d just started having stupid, hopeful thoughts about a future with JP. I’d just come to see that even though I kept telling myself I didn’t care about love, I really did still want it. I wanted it with JP.

  I’d felt so close with him. The gifts he’d given me were so sweet. We fought and we apologized and we made up.

  How stupid could I be? I should have known that was crazy.

  I draw a long breath in through my nose, my lips quivering. I’m afraid to speak because my voice will come out shaky. Finally I nod slowly and manage to say, “Okay. I get it.”

  He glances at me. It’s quick, but enough for me to see the misery in his eyes before he looks away. “Good. Okay, then. Yeah. Good.”

  I pause. I still have a million questions zinging around inside me, but none of them matter, I guess. He’s done with me.

  It’s okay. I knew it would happen.

  JP looks like someone’s jabbing the butt end of a stick into his kidneys. “You’re an amazing woman,” he says hoarsely. “With the biggest heart. You deserve to find someone good enough for you.”

  I lift my chin, even though it’s wobbling. “Yes. I do.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll still keep Byron. I know your dad is taking him soon, but this doesn’t change anything about that. I’ll look after him until then.”

  I nod numbly. Right. Byron. “Thank you.” The words squeeze out of my constricted throat.

  “Bye, Sunshine.”

  As my apartment door closes behind JP, I feel the crack—a sharp burning in my chest as if a fissure just opened up. I literally gasp, and I slap my hand over my mouth. I can’t breathe, can’t speak. Pain shudders through my entire body.

  I make it over to the couch and sink down onto it. Oh my God. I need Byron. I need hugs, I need doggie kisses, I need…comfort. Now I don’t have JP and I don’t have Byron. What am I going to do?

  JP

  Our next game is a home game, Friday night. I take my game-day nap, this time alone. This time I don’t get a goodbye kiss when I’m leaving. (Byron’s slobbery dog-breath kisses don’t count.) This time Taylor won’t be waiting for me when I get home.

  That’s okay. It’s for the best.

  I go through my us
ual taping routine at the arena, listening to music. The team didn’t end on a high note before the Christmas break, but what’s done is done. I have to learn to forgive myself and put my mistakes behind me, not brood about them forever. That’s not how to move forward. Tonight I can start over. I can show everyone I’m better than that last game. I can control my emotions.

  And I do.

  The game is shit.

  Actually, we win, but not thanks to me.

  Most guys get reamed out by the coach after a bad game. Not me. I get reamed out by the coach and the team owner.

  This is what it’s like to be a Wynn.

  “What the fuck was that?” Dad demands, sitting in Uncle Mark’s office, the soundproof door closed. “You looked like a robot out there.”

  I lift my chin. “Yeah. Mission accomplished.”

  “What?” He squints at me, then glances at Uncle Mark.

  “Grandpa told me that passion is great, but it can also be a curse.”

  They both stare at me.

  “Seriously,” I continue. “He told me you have to control your passion. Otherwise it can destroy you.”

  “Your grandfather is nuts,” Uncle Mark says.

  “It made sense.” I frown. “He said the best players control their emotions, rather than let their emotions control them.”

  “Yeah.” Dad nods, rubbing his chin. “But they have emotions. You looked like a machine. Doing all the right things. But you had no passion.”

  I think about that. He’s probably right. But that’s good. Passion—desire, hunger, thirst, whatever you want to call it—is trouble. On the ice and off it. “Yeah. I’ve been working on controlling my emotions all season.”

  “I know you have been,” Dad says.

  “You do?”

  “Sure. We’ve been watching you. You’ve seemed a lot more…not exactly laid back, but not wound quite so tight.”

  “Must be the yoga,” I joke. “Or maybe the knitting. Everly taught me how to knit.”

  I wait for the trash talk.

  It doesn’t come.

  “But controlling your emotions doesn’t mean playing with no passion,” Uncle Mark says.