Page 89 of Bagging the Blueliner
I’d gotten passed over for countless scholarships to college because I was “too small.” They wouldn’t even offer me a spot as a walk-on. The one that took a chance on me became my lifeline—my only shot.
Rejection was hard. You began to doubt yourself and question your worth.
“Did you know I used to see a sports psychologist?” I spoke the words softly.
Hannah looked up at me, surprised. “You did?”
I wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks as I nodded. “I did. Almost no college wanted to take me on. They say scouts take a look at the parents to gauge height potential, but that’s a load of bullshit. Anyone who took one look at my dad or sister would have known I was going to be huge. Eventually. I overheard the scouts tell my coach in juniors that I would get my head taken off if they gave me a spot on their roster. I would be a kid playing with grown men, and they were only looking out for my safety.”
Her hand came up to cup my face. “Oh, Cal.”
“I got so angry. Started playing with a giant chip on my shoulder, determined to show that size didn’t matter.” Hannah bit her lip at the double entendre. “I started getting into fights. My coach wasn’t having any of it. He told me I either talked to the psychologist to get my head straight or I could go home and forget my dream of ever playing professional hockey. So, I went.”
“I had no idea,” she whispered.
“I get it, Hannah. I chose a career where my value is determined by the opinions of others. It’s why I changed my game. I was undersized, so I learned how to prove my worth in an offensive capacity. It made me stand out. I was proud of myself for finding a way to show those assholes who’d judged me that I was a valuable asset, regardless of how big I was.” A chuckle escaped past my lips. “That was until the day I got my big break, and some spitfire marched right up in my face and told me that I played a shitty defensive game.”
She dropped her eyes in shame. “I’m so sorry. If I’d have known. . .”
I tilted her chin up with my hand. “I don’t need you to apologize. The reason I’m telling you this is so that you know I understand. I would never want you to put yourself into a situation that had the potential to be damaging to your mental health. For what it’s worth, I think you’re incredibly talented. But if you’re happy only singing for sell-out crowds at the Comets games, I’m here to support you.”
Hannah bit her lip, her blue eyes filling with fresh tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Pulling her close, I kissed the top of her head. What we’d shared tonight only deepened the connection I felt with Hannah. I felt safe being vulnerable with her, and hopefully, it showed her that she could trust me enough to let her guard down and do the same.
No wonder Jaxon would rather spend hours on the phone with Natalie while we were away on the road. There was something profoundly intimate about sharing the details of your life with the woman you loved.
How had I survived without this incredible woman by my side?
I wantedeverythingwith her.
I wanted the passion she brought to our bed.
I wanted the comfort of her tucked into my side as we watched hockey.
I wanted the compassion she showed me when I came off a bad loss.
I wanted her support as I decided on the next steps for my career, as the game grew younger and I grew older.
I wanted the surprise of never knowing what would come out of her mouth at any given moment.
I wanted the aggravation of having to take back her food when it wasn’t exactly perfect.
I wanted the laughter and lightness that came with our casual banter.
I wanted the quiet moments where we shared our deepest thoughts and secrets.
I wanted Hannah, just as she was.
I knew one thing for sure—I was never letting her go. Living the rest of my life without her wasn’t an option.
I loved that Hannah worked for the team. Not only did she travel with us when we played away games, but when we were in Hartford, her schedule lined up perfectly with mine. Most of her job was done on the phone, so she often popped into her office at the rink for a few hours a day, opting to do most of her work from home.
Hockey players worked weird hours—if I were with someone who worked a nine-to-five job, I’d see very little of them. But with Hannah, I knew she’d be there when I came home at two in the afternoon, done with practice on a non-game day.
It was all very domestic, coming home to the little lady.
And when I said home, I meant my home.
