Pucking Around: Chapter 21

Ifinish my last physical of the morning with Josh O’Sullivan, the forward who was just made Captain of the Rays. He’s a sweet guy with a body that he’s keeping in fighting shape with little more than a hope and a prayer. My guess is that his knees might just be seeing their last season. Of all my guys this morning, he’ll need the most preventative care.

As soon as he’s gone, I wander over to the PT wing to compare my notes with Avery. He’s in the middle of some stretching reps with a young guy with black curly hair who has his knee artfully wrapped in athletic tape.

“You really need a babysitter to double-check your work, Price?” Avery says with a huff. “Are you that incompetent that you can’t do a few basic range of motion tests?”

The athlete he’s working on goes still, trying hard to pretend he’s not listening.

I don’t know Avery well enough yet to tell if he’s just having a bad day, or if he actually is the world’s biggest fucking asshole. “I wasn’t asking you to babysit me,” I reply, keeping my tone professional. “I was just hoping to confer with a colleague. You know the guys better at this point and—”

“Well, I have to finish up with Jonesy here first,” he says, giving the kid a pat on the shoulder. “Can’t drop everything to do my job and yours.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just grab some lunch and come back.”

He waves me away and Jones gives me an apologetic look.

I leave the PT wing and let out a shaky breath. No way am I going to let one jerk drag me down. He’s going to have to try a lot harder than that to hurt my feelings. Pushing all thoughts of him from my mind, I let my nose follow the tantalizing smell of hot dogs, leading me down the long hallway.

This practice complex is technically for the Rays, but the rinks can be rented out for other purposes—junior hockey, figure skating lessons, even just a free skate session open to the public. When a rink is open to the public, they open a small concession stand too.

I stand in line and order a hotdog, a bag of BBQ chips, and a Diet Coke. Taking my lunch with me, I wander between the rinks until I find some of the guys doing drills. I sit on the bench, quietly eating my lunch, watching as they skate lightning fast through some cones, moving the puck down the ice towards the goal. The swish of their skates and the click of the puck against their sticks is almost hypnotic.

These men are sharks on the ice. They each take a shot on the goal boxed in with a fake goalie. It’s like one of those ski ball games with holes cut out for the five pockets. Each puck sails through a hole, hitting the back of the net flawlessly.

“Your footwork is sloppy, Walsh! And choke up on your stick, you’re not playing mini golf.”

I glance sharply to the left to see Caleb standing at the boards. He’s got his arms crossed, his full tattoo sleeve on display. I was studying it in the truck on the drive in. It’s a mess of individual tats that have been woven together with a consistent pattern of ocean waves and geometric honeycombing to make a sleeve effect.

The guy he was shouting at skates up to the boards, sliding to a stop. “What am I doin’ wrong, boss?”

I pop a chip into my mouth and crunch it, watching as Caleb tears into him about his form and puck handling. “Do another rep,” he says. “And try not to suck this time.”

The guy nods, as if Caleb is a coach and not an equipment manager, skating off into the middle of the rink to flick a fresh puck off the pile. I watch as he does a circle to pick up some speed. Then he’s flying between the cones, his blades slicing left and right, as he works the puck. He blasts out the end of the cones and takes a shot on goal, aiming for the five-hole. The puck whacks the board instead, ricocheting away.

“You’re trying too hard to control the puck,” Caleb shouts. “It’s all in your stick, Walsh. Get outta your own head.”

One of the other guys is taking a breather against the boards, water bottle in hand. “Can you believe this joker gets to start next week?” he says, squirting some of the water on his head until it’s running down his neck into his pads.

Caleb just shakes his head. “He thinks his flashy footwork is gonna compensate for sloppy stick handling. My bet is they bench him after game two.”

He says this loud enough for Walsh to hear as he skates up to the boards. The poor guy looks crestfallen. He does know he’s an NHL player, right? Maybe with all this criticism he’s forgotten.

I scowl at Caleb. “Jeez, Sanford,” I call, drawing their attention. “Who died and made you head coach? If it’s so easy, you put on some skates and show him how it’s done.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve said something wrong. Caleb’s glare turns murderous. At the same time, the two guys share a nervous look.

I glance between them, confused. “What—”

“See you boys around,” Caleb mutters at the other two, turning on his heel and stomping away.

I watch him go, feeling suddenly guilty.

“Yeesh,” Walsh mutters. “That was harsh, Doc.”

“Yeah, going’ in for the kill,” says the guy with dark hair.

“Clearly, I just stepped in something,” I say, slipping off the bench and walking over to the boards.

“Eh, Sanny’ll be alright,” says dark-haired guy. He skates off, ready to do another drill.

I look to Walsh. “Will he?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. But maybe you should google him. And cut him some slack,” he adds as he sets his water bottle aside. “It can’t be easy for him.” With that he skates off, leaving me with my head spinning.

The second I get back to my office, I shut the door and whip out my phone. I google ‘Caleb Sanford hockey’ and after the most cursory of glances down the search result page, I’m ready to crawl inside a hole.

He was a player. A forward, just like Walsh. The articles are a mix of his college stats and interviews, glowing reviews of his speed and scoring ability. I read the press release announcing him as the number three draft pick for the NHL. He signed with the Pittsburgh Penguins before he was even out of college.

But then there’s the articles…and videos. They’re almost too awful to watch. He was taken out game one of his first season in the NHL. A brutal hit from behind smashed him into the boards. The defenseman was twice his size. He went down and he didn’t get back up again, writhing in pain, his mouth open on a scream you can’t hear as the camera feed cuts away.

One article has me frozen, eyes glued to the phone. It includes a photo from earlier in that first game. Caleb is skating towards the camera with his arm slung around the shoulders of a smiling No. 42.

Jake.

They were both signed to the Penguins. For one shining moment, their shared NHL dreams came true. But then Jake watched his best friend go down. He had to watch him be carried off the ice, his dreams shattered with his leg.

I set the phone aside, tears in my eyes. That’s why Caleb was limping the other day. He never recovered from his career-ending hockey injury. He can’t play anymore, certainly not at the level required for the NHL. So now, Jake lives out their dream alone, while Caleb gets to watch guys like Walsh who have less talent than him, skate down the ice with sloppy stick handling.

Yeah, I’m a total jerk.

I have to say something. I have to apologize. I leave my office and go in search of him. I don’t know the back side of the rinks very well. This is an all-in-one facility—laundry, loading docks, food service, maintenance. I ask a few guys as I pass the locker rooms and they point me towards a stairwell that opens below into a wide hallway.

Sy pops out of a doorway, and I smile, knowing I must be in the right place. He comes running over, tail wagging. He’s such a sweetheart. He’s got the coloring of a border collie, but a body more like a pointer—longer in the legs, with the spotting of black under his white fur. My favorite feature is his blue eyes.

Like ice, I realize with a smile. His eyes are the same white-blue glossy color of fresh ice on a hockey rink.

“Where’s daddy, huh? Is he down here?” I murmur, giving him a pet.

I walk down the hall, taking a deep breath before I peek into the open doorway. Inside the bright room is a wall of industrial size washers and dryers. A table is set in the middle for folding and ironing. A massive stack of white towels sits on the end of the table, all but concealing Caleb from view. He’s standing, quietly folding more.

Sy goes prancing in, sniffing the floor as he snakes behind Caleb.

Pulling on my big girl pants, I step in. “Hey,” I call.

Caleb glances up, his expression carefully veiled. His gaze falls right back to his work. “Hey.”

Great start.

I cross the room, coming around the stack of towels. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He stills, not looking at me. “Who told you?”

“Google.”

He just goes on folding.

I take a step closer. “I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse. I didn’t understand the context of what was happening, and I shoved my foot in my mouth. I’m new to this team and to this world. I’ll make mistakes, but I’ll learn. And I am sorry, Caleb—”

“It’s fine,” he says, grabbing a stack of towels and turning away. He loads them in a massive laundry cart big enough to hold three grown men.

I should leave him alone. He clearly doesn’t want to see me or speak to me. I should go. But I don’t. Instead, my feet are moving. Before I know it, my hand is on his tatted forearm. “Hey…can you at least look at me?”

He stills, his gaze dropping to my hand on his arm. “Take your hand off me, Rachel,” he says quietly, his voice cold as ice.

I drop it to my side, my stomach doing a little flip acknowledging the strength of his command. I don’t like him using my real name. I want to be Hurricane again. “Caleb—”

“Just stop,” he growls, turning to look at me. His eyes are so dark, almost obsidian. It’s a beautiful combination with his reddish-brown hair. Mix in his cheekbones, his pouty lips, and the fuck-all-the-way-off energy oozing from his pores, and I’m ready to fight a whimper as he leans in. “You see what you’re doing here? You’re making it worse. Just go.”

He turns away from me, stalking off back over to the table to snatch up more towels.

I spin around, heart racing, following right on his heels. “How am I making things worse by apologizing?”

He turns again, his shoulder almost knocking into me. His hand goes under my chin, tipping my face up sharply. Our chests are almost touching as he glares down at me. “See that look in your eyes right now? That pitying look. ‘Poor Caleb can’t play anymore. I’ll go pat him on the hand and make him feel better.’ I hate that fucking look.”

“I didn’t—”

“You think you know what happened?” he growls, leaning closer. “You think you have any idea what I’ve lost? Or how I’ve picked up the pieces? You don’t know anything, Doc. You don’t know me.”

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. We’ve known each other all of a week. I don’t know him. But I can’t focus on that. My mind is humming. Oh god, he’s so close. I can feel the heat of his skin. I can smell his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean, with soft notes of citrus. I can also all but taste his burning resentment on my tongue.

I raise a hand, wrapping it gently around his wrist. “I don’t pity you,” I murmur, holding his dark gaze. “Empathy and pity are not the same.”

“They are to me,” he mutters, trying to pull away.

“No,” I say, holding him still. “Pity implies that I feel sorry for you. Poor, sad sack Caleb got a raw deal, right? Well, we both know that’s bullshit.”

He glances sharply up at me, his dark brows narrowing.

“You knew what you were doing,” I explain. “You were at the very top of your game in a dangerous sport. You were a forward, a damn good one from your records, which made you a target. But you knew the risks.” My fingertips brush the inside of his wrist. “Why would I pity you for doing your job and taking the hit you always knew might come?”

He softens slightly. He lowers his gaze to my lips, and I fight the urge to lick them. My mouth feels suddenly dry.

“You’re not the first athlete I’ve known with a career-ending injury, Caleb. And you certainly won’t be the last,” I go on. “And I saw that hit. I saw the video, and I empathize with your pain—”

“Oh, you do?” he huffs, trying to pull away again, but I tighten my hold on his tatted wrist.

“Yes, I do. I may not have seen your chart, but I can only imagine how you fought in your rehab to regain the level of function you have now.” I’m determined to get through to him, to set this right. “But I think that’s who you are. You’re a fighter. You’re fighting me now,” I add, gesturing to the way he’s pulling back. “So no, Caleb. I don’t pity you. I would never pity you. I admire strength and determination. I admire resiliency. Which means I admire you.” With that, I drop my hand away.

His gaze lifts again and those dark eyes pierce me, holding me captive. Something is shifting between us. I’m sure he must feel it too. The darkness in his eyes changes from vehemence to something warmer. I can hardly believe when he adjusts his hand under my chin. Suddenly, his thumb is brushing gently over my lips.

Oh god, he’s going to kiss me.

The thought ricochets inside my head as my lips part. He dares to give my bottom lip the slightest tug, wetting the tip of his thumb against my teeth. My breath catches and I’m leaning in. He’s so close. I want him to do it. I want to know what his lips feel like against mine. I want to chase each kiss. I want—

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Then he’s dropping his hand away from me and stepping back.

I’m left standing there, swaying slightly with my lips parted, heart racing, wholly unkissed.

He’s already turned away, reaching for another towel to fold. “Oh, and hey—” He reaches in his pocket and tosses something at me.

I catch it on reflex, clutching my key fob to my chest.

“I’m getting a ride with Jake. Think you can drive home in one piece?”

I nod, slipping the key into my pocket.

I don’t know what the hell just happened here. His signals are all over the place. They have been since we met. He’s burning hot, then he’s ice cold. He’s grumpy, he’s funny, he’s sexy, he’s sad. It’s like he’s a walking mood ring.

I turn around and stomp out. Sy follows me at a jog until I reach the stairs.

These boys are going to be the death of me. I’ve already got one hockey player in my bed—well, okay, he was in my bed. Now he’s…god, I don’t even know what to call my not-a-relationship with Jake. He’s still texting me. He’s been burning up my phone all day. Random stuff like a picture of his lunch and something he’s calling ‘pelican watch.’ Apparently, a pelican keeps landing on the railing of his deck. That’s it. That’s pelican watch. It lands, and he takes a picture, and sends it to me.

So, I have Jake talking me to orgasm through the phone and sending pictures of pelicans. I have Caleb helping me climb balconies and edging me without even trying. Did I mention they’re best friends?

This is a disaster. I need some space. I need some uncomplicated dick.

No! Bad Rachel.

I pause in the stairwell, hand clutching the railing. No more dicks. No more drama kings. I need to do my job. And my job is physicals. Which means I need to go find my missing goalie.