If You Love Me: Chapter 21

“Afternoon, coaches.” Roman dips his chin as he passes us.

“You feeling game ready, Hammerstein?” Boxer asks.

“Absolutely. Looking to shut New York out and remind them who kicked their ass last year in the finals.” He winks and disappears into the locker room.

It’s been nearly a week since the Christmas miracle. If my vagina could grow legs and follow him, she would. I exhale a tense breath.

Vander Zee claps me on the shoulder. “Have confidence in your decisions, Forrester. It’s been a solid season. Roman’s in net tonight, and Grace is playing cleaner and smarter.”

“We’re sure playing him on the same line as Madden is a good idea?” Coach Thomas asks for the third time.

“It’s our best bet if we want to win against New York.” Boxer comes to my defense. Again.

Last week I brought up playing Madden and Grace on the same line again. After I backed up my suggestion with data and a strategy, Vander Zee ran with it. Our team can handle New York, but I’m reasonably nervous. Bowman is proving to be one of the best players in the league and they’ve been dominating this season.

Vander Zee is showing me he values my input by allowing the line change. Now I just need the team to prove I’m right.

“Madden can handle it,” Vander Zee assures us. “We discussed it earlier today. He understands what’s at stake.”

A win against New York will be good for team morale. And Madden and Grace have to play like they’re on the same team. Madden has been better, but Grace has been off since the holidays. I can only guess as to why. I’m hoping this strategy works tonight. Either they’ll get their shit together and be professionals or someone will end up on the bench. The former is preferred.

We join the team in the locker room for the pre-game strategy talk.

Roman is seated on a bench across the room, polishing a green apple on his jersey. A flush works its way up my neck. I look away.

How the hell do people have workplace romances without everyone finding out? I might as well be wearing a shirt that reads: The goalie owns me.

Two nights ago, Callie slept over at a friend’s house and Fee had dance practice and went to a movie with her friends, which meant I had the condo all to myself for several hours. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to invite Roman over.

Every moment of my life I’m the one people look to for guidance and support. My job is to lead the team, to work with other leaders, to prove that I’m capable and that my emotions don’t govern me when I’m on the ice.

But with Roman everything is different. I don’t have to be in control. I can give it to him and trust that he’ll take care of my every need. With Roman I finally feel like I truly belong to someone, mind, body and soul. I can forget who I’m supposed to be to everyone else because I’m just his. His to tease, to pleasure, to take pleasure from. Three years ago he opened the door to the possibilities and now… I’m falling for every single part of him. Not just the man who can bring me limitless pleasure. I’m in love with his hard and soft sides. And especially the man who makes me feel seen and worshipped and cared for.

My time with him at Christmas was a reminder of all the things I’ve been missing—and gave me a glimpse of what we could be when the season is over.

However, reality remains the same. Christmas was a weak moment for both of us.

When he’s retired from the league, I’ll have to contend with the backlash of being in a relationship with one of my former players. But that will be manageable. And waiting has to become manageable, because I’ve worked too hard to throw it all away.

The team files out of the locker room. “We’ve got this. Don’t worry,” Roman murmurs as he passes.

I’m not sure if he’s talking about the game or us.

“What was that about?” Coach Thomas asks as we follow them out of the locker room.

“Just the line change.” My voice comes out more confident than I am.

Thomas’s lips thin. “Shouldn’t he be talking to his coach about that instead of you?”

“We’re all on the same team here,” I remind him.

He grunts but doesn’t respond otherwise.

I join Vander Zee behind the bench and Boxer and Thomas head up to the box to sit with Fielding and their families. I spot Richards and his boys up there, too, which happens often. I refocus on the ice and keep a close eye on Grace and Madden during the warm-up. This needs to work. I’m putting myself on the line here.

The game gets off to a rough start, with New York scoring a goal in the first three minutes of play, courtesy of Bowman. Grace rotates off the ice, his jaw set, lips in a line. New York came prepared. “He’s got new moves,” Grace grumbles as he takes a seat on the bench.

“He does,” I agree. “Watch for those changes. We’ll find the pattern.”

Madden evens the score halfway through the first period. Roman is doing his best, but Bowman is skating circles around everyone, including his former teammate. I’d be more impressed if it wasn’t my team he was shredding.

Grace rotates back in, and his frustration mounts with every shot on the Terror’s net. So does Madden’s. I am already rethinking strategy for the second period.

Madden chases the puck down as New York heads for Toronto’s net. Before Grace can intervene, Madden slams into Bowman. He ends up against the boards, and players converge on them as they fight for possession of the puck. Grace is in there, trying to regain control, but it’s almost impossible to see what’s going on from where we’re positioned, with sticks and arms and legs flying and flailing. Then three players go down, including Grace and Madden.

The refs jump in and clear the pileup, but the crowd is in a frenzy, especially with Madden and Grace shouting at each other while Madden struggles to his feet. He grips the boards, favoring his right leg.

“Fuck no,” Vander Zee mutters.

I can see Thomas and Richards shaking their heads while Boxer runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. This is the last thing I want. Regardless of data, this makes my call a bad one.

Madden makes it to the bench, shrugging off help from Palaniappa. Vander Zee calls in the team doctor.

“I’m fine.” Madden winces as the doc palpates his ankle, then he shoots a glare at Grace. “This is your fucking fault.”

“When isn’t it?” Grace grouses.

“Enough,” Vander Zee snaps. “Madden, you need to be looked at.”

“This is bullshit.” Madden is forced to accept Doc’s help as he guides him to the locker room.

It’s a blow we don’t need. We’re tied and our star center is out with an injury.

Bowman scores another goal in the second period, and with Madden off the ice, we can’t recover the lead. We lose the game 2-1.

“It’s not your fault,” Vander Zee says as we head for the locker room for a post-game discussion. It doesn’t matter that Vander Zee calls the shots, I made the suggestion, so I’ll take the heat for this from the coaching side. Which is frustrating because Thomas isn’t creating solutions, and all these boys have done with Vander Zee is give him lip service.

“You happy now, Grace? I’m off the ice thanks to you!” Madden shouts as we enter.

“You’re the one trying to play defense!” Grace snaps back.

“Enough!” Roman roars. “The two of you are fucking the season for us. Deal with your shit! I don’t care what the hell happened with your damn sandwich when you were at the Hockey Academy. Get the fuck over it!”

Grace and Madden’s heads whip in Roman’s direction, both wear mortified expressions.

Madden points at Stiles and Bright. “Which one of you said something?”

Bright raises his hand. “But I⁠—”

“What the fuck happened to bro code?” Madden rages.

“I didn’t—” Bright tries to defend himself.

“Get the fuck over it, Madden! So I fucked your sandwich. Big fucking deal. It was two slices of bread and a couple of slices of ham. All you had to do was throw it out. You’re the one who fucked my damn shirt!”

“I cannot be hearing this right.” Who fucks a t-shirt or a food item? These two, apparently.

The team seems to be frozen in shock.

Except Bright and Stiles. They don’t look the least bit surprised.

“Everyone but Madden, Grace, Stiles, Bright, and Hammerstein get out,” Vander Zee bellows.

Vander Zee crosses his arms. He waits until the locker room is empty before he speaks again. His voice is quiet, but it wavers with barely contained rage. “Explain yourselves.”

Grace and Madden glare at each other.

“I fucked Madden’s sandwich at the Hockey Academy.”

“Finally! You fucking admit it!” Madden fires him the bird.

“But only after you jizzed on my last clean shirt.”

Coach Thomas coughs into his elbow. Coach Boxer does the same. Stiles rubs the back of his head, and Bright rubs his mouth to hide a smile. Roman bites into his apple with a loud crack.

I give him a look.

He licks his thumb.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Vander Zee asks.

Roman and I both look quickly back to him. But of course, he’s talking to Madden and Grace.

“We were living in Pearl Lake,” Bright explains. “It was a small town, and half the population was the coaches’ kids. We were a bunch of walking hormones with nowhere to blow off steam. Bread is a lot softer than our hands.”

“Are you seriously fucking defending him?” Madden’s voice is laced with disbelief.

Bright shrugs. “He has a point. You can throw out a sandwich. Who wants to wear a jizzy shirt?”

“Who wastes food like that?” Madden looks straight at Connor who doesn’t respond.

“Why did you take Grace’s shirt, Madden?” I ask.

Madden pokes at his cheek, which have both turned a wild shade of red. “It was an accident. I thought I had some privacy, and then I didn’t, and I reached for the first shirt I could find which happened to belong to Grace.”

Grace makes a sound that indicates he doesn’t buy it.

Vander Zee pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“I’d be pretty pissed if someone fucked my sandwich,” Stiles offers, backing up his best friend.

“Shut the fuck up, Stiles.” Vander Zee looks ready to bench every player in this room.

“Thanks, man.” Madden tips his chin at Stiles.

I roll my eyes. Everything starts to line up. “Grace and Madden, apologize to each other. Now.”

They glare at each other.

“Look, I think we all know that this isn’t about fucking each other’s food or clothing items.” I shake my head. Seriously. What the hell?

They both frown in my direction.

“This is about wanting what someone else has. Madden, in your case it was Grace’s financial stability and what that can afford you. Grace, you wanted Madden’s ability to fit in wherever he goes.” I’m sure there are layers to this, but knowing what I do about both of them, this definitely tracks. I just wish it hadn’t taken this long to figure out. “The two of you have carried your anger at the seventeen-year-old versions of each other through a decade and onto this team, where it doesn’t belong. Let it go. Stop hating each other for things you can’t control or change, and apologize for being teenage idiots,” I order.

Bright claps. “That was well said.”

“It really was. I should have asked you to do that weeks ago,” Vander Zee agrees.

“I tried earlier in the season, it wasn’t the right time,” I offer. And now I wish I’d tried again before tonight.

Vander Zee turns back to the boys. “You heard Coach Forrester.”

Madden sighs.

Grace shakes his head.

Roman takes another bite of his apple.

“I’m sorry I fucked your stupid sandwich,” Grace mumbles.

Vander Zee gives him a look that would bury most men. “Try again.”

“I’m sorry I fucked your ham sandwich,” Grace grits out.

Madden looks everywhere but at Grace. “I’m sorry I jizzed on your last clean shirt.”

“Look at you two! This is some serious progress,” Bright says jovially. “It only took you a decade to sort your shit out. We should grab some beers to celebrate this milestone in your relationship.”

“Don’t push it, Bright,” Madden mutters.

“We lost this game because of some of the dumbest shit I’ve heard in all my years,” Vander Zee states with ire. “This entire season has been a nightmare over a fucking sandwich and a t-shirt. Once Madden is healed up, the two of you will be doing ice sprints after every practice together for the rest of the season. You have both put this team under undue stress. You will be professionals and learn to work together or I will be taking a good hard look at this roster.”

The room drops ten degrees by the time he’s done. I don’t dare make eye contact with anyone outside the rest of the coaching staff.

“I think it goes without saying that this stays here, between the people in this room,” Vander Zee tacks on.

“And the sandwich and Grace’s shirt,” Bright adds, all fucking smiles and zero self-preservation.

“I threw it out,” Grace replies.

“Probably for the best,” I mumble.

Roman snickers.

This game has been a disaster.