Page 40 of Until He Scores

I glanced at the small staple scars across the front of my kneecap and the two others from where Doc Jay placed the scope on either side of the joint while I sat across from Alexander. Hard work and determination had brought me to this point. Staring at the healed puffy redness, mostly from overuse, worried me. So did the low-grade fever that began yesterday morning when I woke up. Yes, the joint always acted like a temperamental two-year-old having a meltdown, but I expected it. In the past two weeks, we’d played eight games, and I was standing more than I ever had in a full game. Three twenty-minute periods. That didn’t account for timeouts, intermission or pre-and-post-game meetings and interviews. Then there was this incessant itch. Right under the skin. I’d tried to ignore it for the last week. I figured it was the hazard of having an artificial knee. Or the nerve endings knitting back together.

Which, wasn’t that a good thing?

Either way, once we got through this final push, I’d have to tell Alexander and the doctor for the team. Not something I looked forward to. But even as an assistant coach I had a duty tothe team and the organization. When I signed my contract with theMountaineersI agreed if there was any change in my knee or the scar, I’d report it immediately or else face severe penalties that included the possibility of losing my position on the team. The biggest ticking time bomb in the agreement. This job was supposed to catapult me into bigger and better things within the NHL. I wouldn’t screw up my chances.

For now, I ignored the inevitable. I felt good on my leg; I wasn’t going to jeopardize my ability to coach from the bench because of a little swelling or some fatigue induced fever. Tomorrow before the start of the last road trip game of our season, I’d tell Dr. Matthew. He’d probably want me to ice my knee more and keep it up. Remind me of all the things I could do when we weren’t playing for a playoff spot and remind me acetaminophen and ibuprofen worked best if I alternated them every four hours.

The usual.

At a quarter to seven, the team headed down the tunnel for the final warmups before the beginning of the game. A part of me hoped to see Pope in the stands. The other part of me wondered if perhaps it was better we got to experience a single moment in time, instead of always wondering, what if? Personally, I’d rather part on a good memory than a moment in anger.

“How’s the knee?” Alexander asked, stopping me before I took my spot behind the bench.

“Strong,” I said, without even batting an eye. “Better than I’ve felt in a long time.” The longer he stared at me the worse I felt for lying to him.

“Good to hear. I saw you itching the scar earlier, I thought I should check in with you. The last few regular weeks of the schedule can be stressful.”

“Scars always itch for some reason,” I said with a little laugh. “Nerves knitting together. New skin tugging on old. Plus, the joint isn’t mine.”

Alexander laughed. “True enough. Still, we need you out here with us. If anything changes, I need you to tell Doc Matthews. No need for you to be in pain if we can help it.”

“You’re right. I promise if I need anything, I will go to him.” I glanced out at the ice and a pang of longing hit me in the chest.”

“I know this isn’t where you want to be, son,” he said. “I wish you came to us as a player too. But you’re an invaluable coach, now. You’ve seen things I hadn’t, and your knowledge of the game is far vaster than the average player. What you’ve got is natural. I want you by my side for the long haul. Understand?”

“I do,” I answered, guilt eating away at me.

He patted me on the back. “Great. Let’s have a good game tonight and start this trip off right.”

AKA no pressure.

Chapter 16

Pope

Ishould have known this would happen. Should have been smarter, too.

The second I closed my eyes after the best orgasm in my life, Thierry disappeared. I wouldn’t try to get into his mindset or why he thought he had to run away, only that he did. After pouring my heart out to him and asking questions while trying to come to terms with the growing ache in my belly every time I saw Thierry, I thought we’d made progress. I now understood that was wishful thinking on my part.

Though karma must have been getting a good laugh at me, because I’d done the same to him when we’d been younger.Turnabout's fair play.

Then the firstnewphotographs of Derrick and Thierry started filling up the internet, and I wondered if I’d been a one-night rebound before he went back to his boyfriend. How gullible of me. Jealousy reared up inside of me and there’d been a few times I’d had to stop myself from marching into that arena to give them a piece of my mind. Especially since he’d been wearing Thierry’s sweater. Little, half-baked prick didn’t deserve to grace the arena with his presence.

Over the last couple of weeks, I tried talking to Thierry, following him around like a lost puppy, looking to receive some kind of praise from a man who’d changed so dramatically over the last fifteen years. Sure, I could take the blame for some of those issues. Fuck knows, I caused most of them, but disappearing like this? Hiding from me and leaving me on read when I texted him?

No way.

I didn’t recognize this version of Thierry.

Sitting at my station in the shop, I glanced at the darkened screen of my phone and sighed. Maybe this was the sign I needed to walk away. I got a taste of the forbidden ambrosia, and I should’ve been happy with that.

Walking away turned my stomach, though.

I might not have the right words to explain everything going on with me or what I was feeling for Thierry, but I wanted to try again. Give whatever this connection between Thierry and me was a go. Stereotypes be damned. Other people’s opinions wouldn’t dictate what happened in our bedroom. Our private life was just that. Private. Still, saying those things in my mind and repeating them out loud to Thierry had been two totally different things. Both scared the shit out of me while also exciting me.

However, I couldn’t say anything at all if he didn’t answer my calls. Nor would it be appropriate if he got back together with douchebag Derrick. Yeah, I read up on him. He was a sycophant. A nth stage hanger-oner. He wasn’t even a D-list celebrity. He’d been on one season ofDrag Raceand eliminated in round three of sixteen. The rest of the time, he tried to stay relevant on social media as an influencer. He’d also accused Thierry of abuse. Mother fucker needed his ass kicked. There was no way in hell the Thierry I knew and been friends with all my life would harm a flea on the ass of a dog, let alone some half-baked drama queen. No, if my hunch was correct, this Derrick person hurtThierry, which meant more bullshit to wade through to get to the guy I knew and inexplicably wanted.

What the fuck did that mean, though?

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