Oddly enough, everything I’d learned about being a man had been taught by my mother. My father had run out on her when I was a baby and never returned. She’d taught me that real men stay for the people they’re responsible for, even when it’s hard.
I stood and picked up a soccer ball our trainers had brought in, tucking it against my side.
“Let’s go,” I said, nodding toward the door. “Everyone.”
Lots of hockey players liked to kick around a soccer ball before games. They usually did it in groups of eight or so, but we had twenty guys in our circle. We took turns kicking it before it could bounce, everyone getting a good laugh when Dom headed the ball directly into Beau’s balls.
We’d been at it for almost ten minutes when Mila came running down the hallway, her heels loud on the concrete floor. I tensed as I waited for her to say something.
“They found him,” she said breathlessly as she stopped, bracing her hand on the wall. “There was nothing…in the backpack but clothes and headphones. And I really…need to start doing cardio again.”
Beau’s shoulders slumped and he put a hand on Colby’s shoulder. The tension lifted immediately, and I put a hand in the air, trying to get everyone’s attention.
“Bring it in,” I said, and everyone huddled up.
“Let go of the stress,” I said, ditching my planned pregame speech. “Leave it out here in this hallway. When we step out onto that ice, we’re there for one thing and one thing only—to play the best fucking hockey we can. That’s how we honor the people we’ve lost. What does it mean to be a Colorado Coyote? That’s for us to show the world through our play and through our actions. We’re gonna go out there tonight and show everyone we’re united. We’re resilient. And most of all, we’re gonna show them we’re fucking back, boys.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “We’re fucking back on three. One, two, three.”
“We’re fucking back!” my teammates yelled in unison.
The mood was high when we got back into the locker room, everyone eager to get out on the ice. And when we finally did, it was nothing like any of us were used to. There weren’t twenty thousand screaming fans and there was no elaborate pregame light show.
Instead, there were a few thousand fans standing and cheering hard. They held signs and some of them shed tears. I’d never seen anything like it.
When I looked up at the press box, I saw the Denver Chronicle’s hockey reporter, Clark Samson. Eleanor Lawrence wasn’t there. Hell, she’d probably never been to hockey game in her life. She didn’t understand the heart and soul of this game, and she never would.
This was what I lived and breathed for. The moment the puck dropped, everything else disappeared from my mind. The screaming fans, the potential danger from earlier, and my opinionated neighbor. It was just me and the game I’d loved for twenty of my twenty-eight years on this earth. And it was perfect.
CHAPTER FOUR
Elle
“Hey, Elle. Want to grab some dinner?”
I looked up from my computer screen to find Clark Samson standing in the doorway to my office. My stomach wanted to say yes to dinner—it was almost six and I’d eaten a bag of gummy bears from the break room vending machine for lunch—but every other part of me knew it had to be a no. Clark had been asking me out for several months now, and it didn’t seem to bother him that I declined every time.
“I appreciate the offer, but I have to finish this column,” I said.
“Aw, come on. You can take a quick break for sushi. I heard you like that new place a block over.”
That was an understatement. I loved Sushi Now. I’d had lunch delivered from there three times last week. Their salmon rolls were life changing.
“I really can’t,” I said, hoping a succinct no would work.
Clark walked into my office and sat down in one of the upholstered gray chairs across from my desk. I mentally groaned; I’d been hoping to finish this column within the thirty minutes so I could pick up a pizza on the way home and watch the newest episode of Vanderpump Rules.
“Writing about the McGann verdict, huh?” he said. “I saw it on the budget.”
I gave him a tight smile. Writing about the guilty verdict from a grisly double murder trial had made for an emotionally tough day; I really didn’t want to talk about it.
“Yep,” I said.
“That guy’s a fucking monster.”
“Agreed.”
He picked up my Montblanc pen from its holder on my desk, grinning as he eyed it.
“More or less than I make in a year?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Clark had tried several times to get me to tell him the cost of the luxury pen set my grandparents had gifted me when I graduated from NYU. Same with my Louboutin heels and my Tiffany watch.
It was common knowledge that my maternal grandparents were wealthy. My Grandma Lottie came from a wealthy family and my Grandpa Edgar had made his own fortune in pharmaceutical manufacturing. Burr Pharmaceuticals was well known.
I was proud of my family not because of their money, but because of the people they were. My grandparents had attended every softball and volleyball game I’d ever played as a kid, and they’d done the same for my brother with his activities. We’d spent summers with them at their Cape Cod home, Grandma teaching us how to bake and play pinochle and Grandpa teaching us about boating. They’d funded an entire wing at a children’s hospital in Los Angeles.
My mom passed away from cancer when I was nineteen, and my dad didn’t take her loss well. My grandparents had always been a rock-solid presence in my life.
“Was that your stomach?” Clark asked.
I smiled, because my stomach gurgles were so loud they were undeniable. “I didn’t say I wasn’t hungry, I said I have to finish this column.”
He looked at his watch. “I could wait. How long do you need?”
“I just want to finish this and go home. It’s been a long day.”
He took the hint and stood up. “Next time. And thanks for not writing about the Coyotes this week. I like it when the players are willing to talk to me.”
He’d said it in a teasing tone, but it rubbed me the wrong way. The newsroom, which the sports department was part of, was separate from the opinion writers for the Chronicle. I didn’t care if hockey players liked or talked to the sports reporters here; that wasn’t my concern or my business. And my columns were none of Clark’s business.
“Have a good night,” I said.
“Yeah, you too, Elle.”
He gave me one more longing look from my office doorway before leaving. Clark was a nice guy, but I had no interest in dating someone who worked at the same paper I did. There were too many ways it could go bad.
Besides, who had time for dating? I worked until at least six during the week, and I spent my weekends resting, cleaning, doing laundry, seeing friends, and getting in a little outdoor time when the weather was nice. I hadn’t had a relationship in more than four years, and I was happier on my own. I liked not answering to anyone.
My last boyfriend, John, had been hard to break up with. He knew about my trust fund and had envisioned us getting married and him opening his own bar. Paid for with money from my trust, of course. And anytime I’d objected, he’d told me I was an unsupportive partner.