Page 39 of Breakaway

Disappointment filtered down through his body. Here he’dbeen thinking she’d be all impressed. Instead, she was horrified. Great.

She was a teacher, he reminded himself. He’d gotten past that fact enough to ask her out for dinner the other night after getting to know her and how she treated the kids in her class, but still…she was intelligent, educated. She probably thought hockey was a bunch of goons beating each other up, chasing a stupid little puck around the ice. It was true—he played a game for a living. How could he ever hope to impress her with that?

“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.”

“You were bleeding.”

“Yup. That happens when I get cut.” He grinned again, holding his arms out at his sides. “I’m tough. But if you want to kiss it and make it better, that would probably help.”

She didn’t move. “I was going to call you. To see if you were okay. And thank you for the tickets.”

“Well, then it’s good I came over to show you I’m fine.” He still stood there in his coat. “And you’re welcome.”

She rubbed her forehead and let out a short breath. “Okay, good, I’m glad you’re okay. Let me take your coat.”

He smiled as he shrugged out of it, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder from the hard check he’d taken from Sanders in the third. Probably not good if she knew about that additional minor injury. She disappeared to hang his coat up, then came back, rubbing her palms over her jeans. “Would you like a drink? Beer?”

“Um. Sure, a beer would be nice.” He followed her to the kitchen. “Some of the guys were going out after, but I…didn’t feel like it.”

“Because you lost?”

“Well. Yeah.” He was bummed about that for sure. “We haven’t done as well as we should have this season and playoffs are almost here. If we don’t win our next few games, we might not make the playoffs.”

Drowning his sorrows at a rocking club like Rouge again would probably have been a better way to take his mind off theshitty game he’d just played than sitting here in Remi’s house. But this was the place he wanted to be.

“Oh.” She handed him a beer and kept one for herself. “I guess that’s bad.”

“Hell, yeah.” He sighed as they walked back to the living room and took a seat, side by side. She curled one leg under her. Damn, she looked good in jeans. He wished he could have seen her at the game. “That’s bad. That’s what it’s all about. Making the play offs. The Stanley Cup.”

She nodded, eyes soft and warm. “Want to talk about it?”

He did. So he talked. And she listened. She was a great listener and seemed to get his drive, that dark need inside him to fight to the end for the win. Not literally fight. Well, sometimes he did, but it was more a powerful need to battle through and come out on top. Some of her questions amused him, but it felt good to talk about how crappy he felt, how he was letting the team down, how the team was letting down the coach and the owners and the fans—especially the fans.

“So if you win your next three games, you’re in?”

“Only if New York loses.” He grimaced. “We needed those two points against them. That’s how close it is. Dammit. We should have been way ahead at this stage of the season. Ah, well.”

“You put a lot of pressure on yourself, don’t you.”

He considered that. “Yeah. I guess.”

“But you aren’t responsible for the whole team.”

“I’m a part of the team. We’re all responsible for how the team does.”

“And you hate it when you don’t play well.”

“Of course I hate it!” He shook his head, the image of his high school English teacher Ms Wong flashing into his head, the damning message she’d beaten into him through that junior year. “I have to be good.”

She nodded and he wanted to tell her more, but the stuff backing up in his brain was some kind of stinging shit and talking about it wasn’t easy. Which was why he didn’t. Ever.

“When’s your next game?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll still be there Wednesday for the reading program,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

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