Page 9 of Wyatt

“I’m focused.”

“Yeah? We need you all in, Guns. On the ice and off. You were always the guy who wooed the press. You’re a personality. A star. The face of the Blue Ox. So what’s with today’s surly press conference?”

“Sorry.” Wyatt glanced at Jace, taking his gaze off where he was scoping out the lobby for anyone who looked like York, or at least his sister’s description of him. Dark hair, lean, capable.

“Wyatt, I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but you’ve always played with a crazy amount of passion. You’re driven like no one I’ve ever seen before. Up early for extra practice. Staying late. And I know you aren’t a partier. But I can’t get past the idea that all this isn’t enough for you. As if you’re still looking for something, moving around the crease, trying to grab something that just keeps flying by you.”

He had Wyatt’s attention now. “It’s enough, Coach. I love playing for the Blue Ox.” A fist began to squeeze his chest. “Hockey is all I have. It’s my whole world.”

Jace was staring him down with those blue-as-ice enforcer eyes. “Maybe that’s the problem, huh?” He clamped Wyatt on the shoulder. “What if it crumbled? What would you have left?”

Wyatt stood there, a little stricken.

“Take a breath, Wyatt. I’m not saying I’m starting Kalen anytime soon. I’m just wondering…well, do you evenlikethe sport?”

“I’ve been breathing hockey since I was seven years old. It’s who I am.”

The elevator arrived and dinged.

“That’s not an answer.” Jace got into the elevator with him. “You’re pretty hard on yourself, Guns. But the more you focus on your failures, the more cluttered your brain will be. Give yourself a little grace. And stop trying so hard. You’re your own worst enemy, sometimes.”

Wyatt looked at him, not even sure where to start. Except, “Coach, I’m good, really. I’m just…tired.”

“Mmmhmm,” Jace said. His tone changed. “Listen, there are some media folks joining us for dinner. Show up and show off that Wyatt Marshall charm.”

“I’ll try and stop by,” he said, not wanting to make promises. Who knew what might happen after he met York. In fact, he was dearly hoping he’d be in a cab on his way to meet Coco.

The very idea had his throat thickening, his heart racing.

The thought of meeting her was worse than pregame warm-up. But then again, Coco had always made him feel alive, his real self. Or at least the man he wanted to be.

He’d lost that guy along the way, somehow.

“Okay. Hope to see you. But if not, get some rest. We need to be on the train to Vladivostok tomorrow morning, early.”

Jace got off the lift and Wyatt followed him down the hall. He let himself into the adjoining room, dropped his duffel bag on the bed, draped his suit jacket on a chair, and pulled off his tie.

The room had former Soviet Union written all over it, spare and cold. It even came with an old-fashioned room key that he had to use to lock and unlock his door. He’d slept on softer bleacher seats than the double bed, and the blond furniture was either retro or hadn’t been replaced since the early seventies.

Still, it was clean, and the balcony overlooked the Amur River. The final hues of red turned the river to fire, the sky above a steel gray.

Wyatt checked his watch. Five minutes to the meet. He changed into a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, grabbed his wallet, passport, and key, and headed back out to the elevator.

Waited.

It seemed to be stuck on an upper floor so he took the stairs down and emerged into a hallway off the bar.

He was still entrenched in the seventies. Gold chandeliers, red leather high top chairs, gold carpet, and even a disco light over a small, empty stage at the back. A karaoke machine was shoved into the corner. So that accounted for the screeching last night. Now, the overhead speakers pumped out a Russian pop song.

He recognized a few Blue Ox players sitting at some of the round tables. They sat with players from other teams, a few making friends with fans.

No one resembled York’s description.

Wyatt stood at the edge of the bar, scanning the room again.

“Why do they call you Guns?” The question came from a woman with long sable-brown hair. She wore a sleeveless velvet top and a pair of black jeans. And around her neck, a laminated sports pass card. He glanced at it, back to her.

“You probably know the answer.”

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