I should be at the Dupont right now, seeing Miranda before my road trip. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since our date. But once I get on the plane to Nashville, I’ll have to.
“Do you have a personal Facebook?” Hailey asks me. “I need to tag you in my relationship status, but I can’t tag your official page.”
“I don’t, no.”
I do. But it’s under Jake Ryan since Ryan’s my middle name, and I limit it to close friends and family. I’m definitely not letting Hailey into that circle.
“Really?” She narrows her eyes. “Frank told me he thought you did.”
“Frank’s a dumbass.”
The waitress comes to the table and Hailey orders a Long Island Iced Tea.
“We don’t serve alcohol,” the waitress says.
“What kind of place is this?”
“It’s a deli.”
“I know that.” Hailey rolls her eyes dramatically. “But if a girl has an early date with her hot hockey player man before his road trip, what’s she supposed to drink?”
“We have Coke products, sweet tea, lemonade and water.”
“Ugh. Water, I guess.”
When the waitress leaves the table, Hailey gives me a sly smile. “I have good news, baby.”
I really wish she wouldn’t call me that. “Oh, yeah?”
“I’m coming to your game tonight. We can hang out after.”
“What?”
She nods enthusiastically. “And I had the intern who books all the team travel get me a room at the same place the team is staying tonight, so you can stay in my room.”
There are a few seconds of silence as I scramble to figure out how I can get out of this.
“That’s…great,” I say weakly. “I might be tired after the game, though.”
“I know how to keep you up.” She giggles and bites her lip and I swear my dick groans in protest.
Fuck this. I’m not getting anywhere near her room tonight. I’ll feign an injury and go back to my room after the game for room service.
We order sandwiches and Hailey tells me about her plans to work at an art gallery when she finishes her graduate degree. I smile and nod when I’m supposed to, but I’m thinking about Nashville’s defense.
They’re a team of street fighters, and I love playing them. Hell, I very well might be injured in tonight’s game. I can only hope.
As soon as we’ve both finished our food, I leave some cash on the table and get up.
“Have to go. Catch you later,” I say.
“Jake,” Hailey whines. “I want a kiss.”
When she stands, I give her a quick peck on the cheek.
“I can’t wait for tonight,” she says in a low tone.
I try to smile.
“Text me where to meet up after so we can go out after the game.”
With a nod, I turn toward the door. This was supposed to be a quick, easy lunch date to get Hailey off my back for a while, and now I have to deal with her being in Nashville tonight.
I can’t keep up this charade much longer. I’ll have to talk to Gene. Surely there’s a way out. Gene can’t know I’ve found someone I actually do want to date since he told me not to be seen with other women, so I’ll have to try something else. I’ll tell him my focus on my game is suffering. It would be more convincing if I played like shit tonight, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I’m too much of a competitor.
On the walk to my car, I glance down at my phone screen and stop walking as soon as I see the date. November 3. Air whooshes from my lungs in a deep exhale.
How the fuck could I forget? This is one of the days I dread all year long. In part, I welcome that dread. The pain I feel over losing my brother is only a fraction of the pain he suffered. His death was slow and merciless.
But after just four years, I forgot. I woke up this morning completely focused on my game and the situation with Hailey.
I finish the walk to my car, burying my face in my hands as soon as I’m in the driver’s seat. It all comes back in a wave of emotion so powerful I think it’s going to crush me.
Four years ago today we celebrated Dustin’s nineteenth birthday at the hospital. He was in bad shape, the cystic fibrosis making every breath he took into a fight. But he’d smiled and celebrated with us, knowing it would be his last birthday.
Hoist the cup for me, Jake. I know you will one day.
His words had been ringing in my ears last year when we won the Stanley Cup. I’d wept as I held the cup in the air, thinking of my brother.
I despise myself for forgetting Dustin’s birthday. No matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to get into my game-day mindset today.
—
When I crack my stick in half and hurl it across the locker room, my teammates fall silent.
“What the fuck was that?” I yell, looking from face to face. “We just bent over and spread our assholes out for them!”
A couple guys have the decency to hang their heads.
Nashville destroyed us. 6–1. But really, we beat ourselves with shitty defense and an anemic offense.
Gene’s standing in front of a row of lockers, his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Birch is right, boys,” he says. “That was piss poor.” He turns to me. “And you fucked up plenty, so direct some of that anger at yourself.”
He’s right. But little does he know that I’ve been directing anger at myself since this morning, and that’s part of my problem. I’m still entirely focused on Dustin.