West

It’s game one in the first round of the playoffs. Philly has a wild card, and they’re playing Boston at home. Eddy has been blowing up my phone all day, talking so much shit about tonight’s game. He’s sure his team is going to win. I’m positive mine will.

I watched my guys skate this morning, and I talked to them in the locker room after practice. Their heads are in the right space. This is a more intense competition, and they’re ready for it. They’ve found their rhythm on the ice. They’re working together as a team. As long as there aren’t any distractions, they’ll have this series beat.

With the puck scheduled to drop in thirty minutes, the broadcasting crew is just wrapping up our quick pregame meeting. Four of us will be commentating—two giving the on-air play-by-play of the game and the other two speaking from the desk in the press box, going live on ESPN during commercial breaks and the postgame wrap-up. I’m part of the latter group, which means I’ll be giving direct feedback on the plays that go on during the game, reporting on how well the players are doing and what needs to be accomplished in order to secure a win.

I thought there’d be at least a week of training to get me prepared for this job. There were only a few meetings and a pep talk from Rick, the head of the network, telling me how he was counting on my enthusiasm to keep the watchers engaged. I know how to entertain on the ice, but my voice isn’t a part of my body that I’ve ever used professionally. Of course, I was interviewed during and after games, but those were different. I could say whatever I wanted, and the crowd would always cheer. I don’t have that anymore. My words have to count now; my presence has to be as powerful as when I wore my jersey.

Because I missed so many regular season games, unable to watch them when I lived in Florida, I’ve had weeks of footage to catch up on. I’ve studied all of it since returning to the city—every play, every change in the standings, highlights of all the other teams so that I can use them as comparisons. It’s how I’ve spent all my time, and Piper fully supports it.

But no amount of preparation can get me ready for how I’ll feel when the camera is pointed at my face and the studio tech holds up his hand, beginning the five-second countdown for when we’re live on air. Whatever comes out of my mouth during those moments will be from years of living this sport, understanding it from a level that one can only get from playing it. And from a hell of a lot of luck that I’m hoping will be on my side today.

I get up from the small conference table and feel Rick’s hand on my back. He flew in from New York to attend tonight’s game. I’m sure he wants to see if I’m worth the salary he’s paying me, and he also wants to watch the game. He’s a Boston native, and he bleeds black and gold.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you on this side of the ice,” he says. “But we’re real happy we got you. The players feel at ease, knowing you’re the one who has their back on the camera.”

I think about the time I spent on the beach, how hard I struggled after losing hockey, how long it took me to make this decision. I should be in the locker room with my guys, lacing up my skates, shifting my pads until they were comfortable. But this is as close to the ice as I’ll ever get, and I’ve finally accepted that.

“It’s good to be here,” I tell him.

And it is.

Fuck, I’ve missed this place.

“Let’s get out there and kick Philly’s ass.”

“You got it,” I say, shaking his hand, walking with him out of the room.

When I go through the door, I immediately smell Piper. Her perfume, the subtleness of her shampoo—scents I’ve memorized, like her body. Then, I feel her eyes on me, and I turn, searching for that gorgeous face.

I’m met with her smile.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing up here?” I move until I’m standing directly in front of her.

She shrugs, her grin so big and adorable. “I knew I wouldn’t see you until after the game, so I wanted to come up and wish you good luck. In person is so much better than a text.”

I grab her hand and hold it between mine. “How did you get up here?”

Security’s so tight on this floor; she’d need a media pass at the very least.

“Jesse brought me.”

My agent lives in Manhattan and didn’t mention that he was coming to the game, but I’m not shocked that he’s here. The guy’s been known to drive me fucking crazy, but he’s one of the most supportive people in my life.

“I know the tickets you got me are right next to the glass, but I think I’d rather sit with Jesse in the suite he has. I haven’t spent much time with him, and I’d like to get to know him. As long as you’re okay with that?”

I cup her face with my other hand. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

“Eddy’s here, too, and he’s going to be sitting with us. He didn’t want me to tell you that. He wanted it to be a surprise, but I think it’s only right to mention it to you. The last thing you need tonight is a surprise, especially when I knew how much you’d appreciate having him here.”

Eddy, that crazy motherfucker. I’ll have to buy his ass a drink for coming all the way here. I hope he plans on staying a few days, so we’ll have more time together.

I release her fingers and now hold both of her cheeks. “You…” I lean into her face, but as I get close to her mouth, she stops me.

“You can’t go on-air with lipstick all over you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. This is a huge moment for you, West, and it won’t look cute if you have sparkly nude lips.”

She has a point. But I still want to kiss her.

I always want to kiss those fucking lips.

“Come here.” She points at her forehead. “Put yours right there.”

I kiss the top of her hair first, but then I rest my forehead where her finger was. She’s never asked me to do this before, and it takes me a second before I realize why she wants it.

Then, it makes perfect sense.

In this position, I can smell her. I can feel the heat of her skin against mine. I can glance down and see her closeness.

I don’t need a kiss.

I have her, and that’s enough.

“I love you,” I whisper.

Her hand finds mine, and she clings to my fingers. “I’m so proud of you, West. I know how hard you fought to be here and how much you had to overcome. You could have given up. You could have stopped trying. You could have spent the rest of your life on the couch. But you worked through your demons, and now, look at you.” She moves her forehead back and forth a little, like she’s trying to emphasize what she’s saying. “You’re my inspiration, and I love you. So much.”

I briefly close my eyes and breathe her in.

When my ex-wife asked me to swing, I never thought it would turn into this. That I’d be in love with a woman whom I fucked long before I even got to know her, whom I saw on the beach every morning, admiring her tits, before going home to Tilly. But I can’t imagine going through this with anyone other than Piper.

I don’t just want her here. I want her hand in mine. And I never want her to let go.

“Five minutes until we start broadcasting!” someone shouts into the hallway.

“You have to go,” she says as she begins to pull away.

I hold her face still. “Just another second.”

We stand in that hallway, not saying a word, our faces touching, her presence giving me the strength I need.

Then, when I know it’s time, I take a final breath, filling myself with her scent, and I step back. “If I can escape for a few minutes, I’ll try to come to the suite and see you guys.”

She nods and smiles. “Don’t worry if you can’t make it. We’ll be waiting for you after the game.”

She squeezes my fingers, and then I watch her walk down the hallway and disappear around the corner.

I make my way into the press box and immediately get miked up. Once I take a seat at the desk, a girl comes over with a tiny brush and starts powdering my face.

“You ready to do this?” my co-announcer asks.

“Yeah, man. Let’s get started.”

I turn my chair, so I’m pointed toward the cameras. There are three—one directly across from us and one on each side of the desk. There isn’t a teleprompter, but a monitor is built into the desktop that will give us statistics on the players, the spread on tonight’s game, and any changes in the lineup.

“Thirty seconds!” someone yells in the background.

I didn’t plan my introduction, but during the meeting, Rick said he wanted me to kick things off. So, I’ll tell the watchers who I am in case they don’t recognize me, and then I’ll start talking about the players. My co-announcer will chime in when it’s time to discuss our opponent.

“Ten seconds.”

This is it.

My debut.

I’m not reaching for my laces. I’m not adjusting my shoulder pads. I’m not touching the ice with the toe of my skate. But I’m in the rink. I’m surrounded by people who know this sport. And I fucking love hockey. They’re about to get everything I have.

“Five seconds,” the studio tech says, holding his hand in the air, his fingers also giving us the countdown.

I’ve had my time downstairs.

And, now, I’m about to have it again.

I wait for the signal.

Then, I cross my hands over the glass, and I stare straight into the camera. “Hello, Boston. I’m West Holden, and I couldn’t be happier to be here with you tonight to kick off game one of the playoffs.”

I smile. It feels so goddamn good.