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I eye her across the room. She meets my glare. She shakes her head with a grin when I flip her off. She’s our team trainer and she’s damn good at her job and 99.9 percent of the time she is right about everything regarding our status and how much time we need off and the way we should get back into game shape after an injury. The way we should ease back in.
I’d love to say this is that point one percent. It’s not. She’s right this time too, dammit.
I’m lucky to even be on the trip, I guess. Injured players rarely travel. But Brady, our former head coach and current GM, sometimes leaves it up to the player. Keeping the team together is beneficial, especially when the injured player is one of the senior members of the team. But I have no ties to Calgary like most everyone else seems to. They could have left me home to watch on TV. And I almost made that choice. To stay home and wallow in my misery.
The 90-mph shot I took straight in the kneecap hurt like a motherfucker and still does. Stopping pucks like that is part of the job. Taking that frozen disk right to the kneecap, well, that was just pure dumb luck.
I don’t get injured. I injure people. I intimidate. I knock guys out of the play. I use my fists when I need to. Penalty box or locker room. As long as they are out of the way, doesn’t matter. That’s what I’m here to do. It’s what I’ve always done and I’m damn good at it. I have a reputation. Most guys throughout the league hate me. Other teams hate me. They also steer clear of me, until they can’t.
Every team in the league has an enforcer. They don’t have one as good as I am. And they cuss me every time they have to play against me, but they would pick me up in a heartbeat if I was ever put up on the trading block. And that’s not gonna happen.
Newcomers always seem to think they can take me on. Always think they will be the ones to win the fight when they drop their gloves with me. They never do. My shots are never cheap. They are hard. They are aggressive. You are going to know I hit you, but never cheap, and really, I don’t set out to hurt people. But it happens.
I wasn’t the one to drop my gloves the other night. And that pisses me off, too. I blocked a shot. One in a million. I didn’t hit anyone. Wasn’t even close to anyone. I blocked a shot. Blocked it with my kneecap. The puck didn’t get anywhere near the net. That’s also the job. The pain knocked the wind out of me, and I fell to the ice. I was seeing stars. It hurt so damn bad. Off the ice. I needed to be off the ice.
I stood. The bench was just a few feet away. I wasn’t even looking at the play continuing around me. I wanted, I needed, off the damn ice.
Boom!
Next thing I know, my chin has barely missed hitting the boards and I’m flat on my face. The cold hard ice next against my cheek.
What the fuck just happened?
The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as I bit my tongue when I went down. A pair of gloves, and then another, hit the ice in my field of vision. The crowd was roaring. Whistles were blowing, and all I wanted was to get off the goddamned ice.
Arms scooped me up, and I hobbled to the bench, glancing over to see Nic standing over the Dallas player who hit me. I allowed myself a small smile. Thanks man. I hobbled to the locker room, knowing my night was done. I also knew deep down that I was done for more than one night.
I’ve left games early before. Been tossed out. I’ve only missed eight games in my entire NHL career due to suspension, which is pretty extraordinary for the league’s top enforcer. Eyes are always on me. I’ve never missed a game because of injury as a pro…. never. Never, ever. This feels worse than when I get suspended. I should be able to suck it up and keep going…but…not this time.
I glance over at Brittany again. Her smile is more sympathetic this time. I return hers with a weak one of my own. I slap everyone on the back as they head to the ice for warmups. It won’t take long for the television announcers to list the scratches for the game. And the text that will follow that announcement will be just as quick. I silence my phone and shove it in my jacket pocket. My knee twinges on cue as if to remind me there is a reason I am following Davey to the visiting owner’s box.
—
“Fuck me,” I breathe.
A flash of pink stops us in our tracks. Holy shit. I don’t know who the man in the pastel pink suit is. But he is enough of someone to require an entourage. Hell, anyone that beautiful should have an entourage no matter who they are.
The shiny suit hugs every muscle, every curve of the man equal to my height of 6-4. He has dreadlocks that appear to be dipped in gold. And skin the color of burnt caramel heightened by the crisp white shirt and pink suit. When he turns and flashes a smile our way, my knees just about buckle, and it has nothing to do with my injury.
Beautiful. There is no other word for him. Shockingly so. I’ve seen good looking guys before. I know a good-looking man when I see one. Hell, I am one. But this. This man is just beautiful. Breathtaking. I’ve never seen anyone like him before.
“Who, what?” I stammer.
I hear Devyn chuckle. “That is the force that is Nandy Reyes.”
That name means nothing to me. Is it supposed to? Nandy Reyes has long since disappeared from view and yet I can’t stop staring down the corridor.
“Fernando Reyes, Jr. He’s doing the anthems tonight,” she adds.
“Trevor Jason Marshall,” Devyn reaches for my arm. Using my full name yanks me out of my stupor. She used to do that a lot to get our attention when she was our PR director. She isn’t our PR director anymore, she is one-third of the throuple that is our GM and former goalie-turned goalie-special teams coach and her. Apparently, the use of our full names still gets us to snap to attention.
“Am I supposed to know that name?” I ask her. She tugs Davey and me down the tunnel toward the ice instead of to the elevators that go up to the boxes. Before she can answer, Fernando Reyes Jr. steps out onto the red carpet covering the ice. I glance at his hands expecting to see a microphone in his hand, but the mic is on a stand in front of him, because…he has a violin in his hand.
A violin!
I’ve heard our national anthem and Canada’s played way more times than I can count. And, although I’ve heard some beautiful renditions, I will also admit to having ceased paying attention several hundred versions ago. No disrespect to the songs or the people playing. But those minutes are perfect for visualizing, getting my head in the game. It’s go time.
But I’m not on the ice tonight. I have nothing to get ready for. I’m wishing I was on the ice for a different reason at the moment. Just to be closer to him.
