Chapter 14
Bishop
While I always start to get a buzz of excitement while putting my gear on in the locker room, it’s only when I’m warming up on the ice before the game that my adrenaline really starts flow. That’s due in part to the die-hard fans who come down to the glass to watch us, hoping one of the players will flip a puck up and over for them. To the kids with wonder-stricken faces who tell their parents they want to play professional hockey one day. Shit, even the hot-as-hell puck bunnies who also come down to the glass to watch us warm up get my juices flowing. I mean, what man doesn’t perform better when gorgeous women are watching?
But I’m not looking at the puck bunnies today.
It takes me three mini laps around our half of the ice while looking up into the guest block of seats for me to locate Brooke. It’s unusual for wives or significant others to travel to away games, but some of them do. It’s usually the guys who don’t have kid obligations to worry about so their wives or girlfriend are more flexible to travel. While they don’t fly with the team and are responsible for their own travel there, a block of tickets is always reserved for the Vengeance family members so they can all sit together.
When I’ve casually dated before, I’ve often had those women come to watch me play hockey. I mean, let’s face it, that’s what most of the women are in it for when they hook up with us: the fame and glory of being with a professional athlete. But during those games, when I step out onto the ice for the warm-ups, I never bother to look for them. Don’t even care where they are seated. Because the minute I enter the arena, I’m all about the game. I tune everything and everyone out but my teammates and my coach.
Except tonight is very different. I wasn’t able to turn my mind off when I got to the arena tonight. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Brooke since I left her a few hours ago to hit the locker room and get prepared. She rode on the team bus with us and sat next to her father—to give me space to get my head in game mode, she said—then disappeared after giving me a quick kiss right in front of him.
Right in front of a lot of people, actually. I think the kiss was for show, to prove to her dad and everyone that we were very much a couple like we’ve claimed. I was most impressed that her dad didn’t even growl or glare at me, but he also didn’t smile either.
Brooke sits about fifteen rows back behind our bench. She’s wearing a brand-spanking-new jersey with SCOTT across the back along with my number 32, and that A on the front done in silver with green and blue embroidery on the edges. I surprised her with it last night, telling her, “Well, you know. My girlfriend would sort of be expected to wear my jersey.”
She has her beautiful butt perched on the edge of her seat with her elbows on her knees leaning as far forward in her seat and she can manage without falling out of it. She grins at me and I lift my chin before giving her a wink. Her grin gets bigger.
Before I can give her a dopey look in return, I make myself turn away so I can concentrate on getting warmed up. We settle into a two-player breakaway drill, shooting lobs at our goalie so he can also warm up. I managed to make three passes at the net without thinking about Brooke once. Admittedly, I do look up to her after that third pass, and she’s watching me intently.
I can’t figure out the why of it, but it seems to ramp up my exhilaration and adrenaline. I’m eager to get out there and kick some fucking ass tonight, and even more so because Brooke will be watching.
Even though I felt the Vengeance players had gelled nicely with each other during training camp, I had not really had much in the way of expectations for how we would play in an actual game against a top-notch opponent.
But by the third period when we were up five to one, I knew this team was made of something special. Maybe there was a magic formula that was employed for picking the players in the expansion draft, or maybe it was that all of my teammates are just fired up by the possibility of something great. I have to admit, it doesn’t suck having a world-class arena and training facility and flying in the most luxurious style to our games. I think there’s an element that Mr. Carlson is taking good care of us, so we should give 110 percent effort.
Maybe it’s all of it, but tonight we are on fire.
There is less than a minute to play in the game and San Francisco has the puck in our end.
Legend has been crushing it in the net tonight, stopping thirty-eight out of thirty-nine shots on goal, and it’s impossible—barring a miracle—that the Brawlers could score four goals to at least tie this game. But no matter that we have a comfortable lead, every single one of us out here on the ice never stops playing our hearts out, even if we’re playing conservatively and on the defensive to run out the clock.
Down to thirty seconds and Eric manages to poke check the puck away from a Brawler. It wobbles right onto Tacker’s stick and I’m taking off down the ice. I look over my shoulder and see that Tacker is already making the pass to me.
It had taken no more than a second for me to look for that pass, but in that moment one of the Brawlers gets ahead and has turned on his skates to face me, making himself a huge obstacle to get around if I’m to get a shot off.
Despite the fact my legs are gassed, knowing that Brooke is up in those stands probably on her feet and screaming for me right now gives me a burst of energy I didn’t expect. I dig my blades into the ice and surge forward tapping the puck left and right in front of me. I come up on the defenseman so fast his eyes actually widen before he focuses on my torso to lessen the impact of which way I’m going to try to juke him. My favorite move is to fake left then skirt around on the right. I have no clue if the player in front of me knows me well enough to know that, but in case he does, I juke right.
The minute I see his bulk going the same way to cut me off, I spin 360 degrees to the right, giving him my back for only a mere moment before I have open ice in front of me and a goaltender determined to beat me.
I push out two powerful strides on my skates to get within fifteen feet of the goalie and I fake a shot to his left. He falls for it and I give a quick wrist flick over to his right side, watching as the puck flips end over and end, squeaking through the small opening between his leg pad and glove arm.
Straight through the seven hole into the back of the net.
A tiny roar goes up from the crowd. Admittedly, probably only 20 percent of the arena is filled with Vengeance fans, but the fact that we’re a newly franchised team that just went up six to one over the Brawlers in their arena has made their voices significantly louder.
I’m swamped by my teammates, who throw their arms around me and tap me on top of my helmet. This was the second goal I scored tonight.
As I skate back to the bench, I lift my eyes, letting my gaze travel up fifteen rows to see Brooke clapping and screaming for me.
I sit down on the bench and smile to myself. Tonight has been fucking awesome.
I exit the showers with a towel wrapped around my waist and make my way over to my locker.
“Bishop.” I hear the gravelly voice of Coach Perron.
Looking over my shoulder at him, I raise my eyebrows in question.
“Give me a minute of your time,” he says, and I feel like that has got to be the weirdest way a coach has ever asked me for a postgame talk. I have no clue whether or not I’m getting a coach or an overprotective father when I walk toward him. I have a feeling, though, that he purposefully waited until I came out of the shower and was wearing nothing but a towel to put me at my most vulnerable.
When I reach the coach, who is standing in a quiet corner of the locker room, I’m surprised when he holds his hand out to me. “You played a hell of a game tonight. You keep that up and you’re going to be one of the league leaders.”
He shakes my hand with a few hard pumps and releases me.
“Thank you, Coach,” I tell him.
Figuring that’s all there is to the conversation, I start to turn back toward the lockers. His voice stops me. “I have to admit it’s nice watching you and Brooke together on the plane and during the team meals.”
I try to keep my shoulders loose and relaxed as I turn back to him fully, taking a step closer so our conversation is not overheard. It’s one thing for my teammates to hear him praising me, but quite another for them to be privy to a personal conversation like this.
“Any thoughts on the engagement?” he asks me in a genial voice.
My entire body locks tight and my stomach cramps into knots. I’m in dangerous fucking territory right now because I don’t know all of the conversations that Brooke has had with her father on the subject.
So I try to be vague. “Well, we haven’t had much of a chance to really talk about it given the fact we had training camp and then hit the road for our first game.”
“What’s to talk about?” Coach Perron says, and there is no mistaking the slightly aggressive tone in his voice. “I don’t even understand why you two are continually discussing this. My understanding is you’ve discussed it. If you want to get married, you buy a fucking ring and you propose to my daughter.”
I’ve got nothing.
Have no clue what the fuck to say to that, because as old-fashioned as it sounds, he’s exactly right. If I were to ever get married, I couldn’t even imagine having discussions about it. The whole point of a proposal is the surprise.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Coach growls as he gets in my face. “Are you not in love with my daughter?”
God, it fucking kills me to have to lie to him, but I let it fly anyway. “Of course I am. Your daughter is everything to me.”
Huh.
That lie didn’t hurt as much is I thought it would, because while I am not in love with Brooke and she is not my entire world, I find that I really like her a lot.
Coach’s face relaxes and that causes me to relax…somewhat.
His voice isn’t as aggressive when he asks me, “Am I missing something here, because Brooke told me that you two were engaged when I walked into her office that day. Then she backpedaled a bit. And all of a sudden it’s that you’re both now ‘discussing marriage.’ But anytime I bring it up to either you or her, both of you put me off. And I have to wonder, are you taking advantage of my daughter?”
My eyebrows shoot sky high and my shock over his question must seem genuine, because his face softens slightly. I assure him, “Coach…I would never take advantage of Brooke. Ever. I am not going to hurt your daughter.”
I feel safe making those statements. Because my absolute intention is that when we walk away from this, both of us will do so without regrets.
Coach Perron doesn’t respond to me, but lets his eyes stay on mine for a few moments as if testing whether or not I will crumble before him and admit to all of our phoniness in this relationship. I merely hold his gaze and wait.
Finally, he nods and mutters, “Again…Great game. Want you to do the same tomorrow.”
He’s walking off, but I manage to call out after him, “Will do, Coach.”