Page 100 of Whirlwind
“That doesn’t explain how you ended up calling her my wife’s name.” He sounds calmer, but the threat is still evident.
“The night of the gala, when I heard you were going to have another kid, it all shifted for me again. I don’t know if Kit will ever want kids. She’s said she’s never even entertained the idea. With the path her life has taken, it’s understandable,” I say. “I came to Seattle wanting what you have. Now, I want something else, but I didn’t fully realize that until I heard about the pregnancy. My head was full of this realization—sorting through it all, trying to be certain. I couldn’t make declarations to Kit without being sure, you know?”
“So, what? You were so in your head that you didn’t know who you were talking to?”
“No, of course I knew who I was with. But yes, I was so in my head that my mouth moved faster than my dumbass brain. I was thinking about how clear it was that I hadn’t ever been in lovewith Isla. I care about her, of course, I do. It’s not the same, though. And I was thinking that I don’t want what you have. Not Isla, not a floating house full of kids, not a hockey empire family. Just Kit—and whatever that looks like.”
“I’m not sure I buy that,” he says.
“Really, dude? I was confused about a fork in the road I didn’t expect to be at. You, of all people, know what that’s like,” I say. Because he had his own crossroads when he got to the NHL, and he fucked his path up, too. It cost him years with the love of his life, and his daughter.
“You’re getting an extra fist to the jaw for that,” he says, eyes narrowed. “But you have a fucking point, asshole. When I ended up in Boston, my dream didn’t change. I still wanted Isla, and a family with her. My circumstances got in the way, and I couldn’t see it as clearly. I’ll regret my bullshit for the rest of my life.”
“We’re human, dude. We fuck up sometimes. I wish I hadn’t—I never want to hurt her, and I did,” I say, looking up to the ceiling and sighing again.
“Is she still upset? Or did you work it out in Maine?”
“We haven’t discussed it yet, at all. Not with everything else that happened. Maine was heavy,” I tell him. “You can’t even guess how heavy. It might be a while before she gives me another chance.”
“What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“The same thing I’ve been doing. I’ll be supportive of her, I’ll work my ass off for the team, and I’ll wait until she’s ready.”
He stares at me, contemplating something I can’t guess, exactly. A few moments pass before he speaks again, quieter this time.
“The boys expect a fight. I think they’re amped about it. Let’s make it good—get the blood flowing for everybody before we hit the ice.”
“Get your shots in,” I say, suppressing a smirk as I stand up. “Make them good, Wylder. You’ve been waiting for this for a long fucking time.”
“You bet your pretty face I have,” he says before he takes his first swing. Moving into it, I take the hit on my jaw. Shoving him off, I brace for his next. It lands on my side.
The guys crowd in, all talking some level of shit. Letty whoops the loudest, but it’s Hugo’s comments that have me laughing. He thinks Wylder bloodying me up will finally give him a chance at “his Kit Kat.”
“In your fucking dreams, Blom,” I say. “You next, man? I’d love to see your little goalie arms try to bruise a real hockey player.”
“Ooh, them’s some fighting words if I ever heard them,” Letty says.
“Goalie arms? My arms aren’t small,” he protests, holding them out in front of him and inspecting them.
“Does your mommy tell you you’re a big boy?” Letty asks him.
“Yeah,” Hugo answers before he catches himself. “Fuck off!”
The ribbing and shoving lasts until nearly every member of the team has insulted everyone else. It serves its purpose—Cillian got to relieve his aggression toward me, and the boys got out a bit of pre-playoff pent-up energy.
As a team player, I don’t mind being the brunt of it all. When we take the ice, it’s with renewed morale, which shows in our play. We’re faster, in sync, our passes landing more than not, and our shots on goal beat out our opponents almost by double digits.
Cillian and I won’t ever be anything more than friendly, but it’s nice to know he can put aside his annoyance with me for the sake of the team.
Per usual, the other team gets chippy in the third period. Everybody acts froggy when they’re down by three goals. I get it, but I’m tired of getting checked into the fucking boards every time my stick connects with the puck.
Mullins, their defenseman, who I’ve known since camp as a teenager, blows into me from behind within seconds of Wallin passing me the puck. It’s a shitty hit and he knows it. When I spin to face him, he’s ready for the fight.
Blame pent-up frustration from this past handful of days, or the shit between Wylder and me, earlier, or maybe just my love of how physical this game is. Whatever the reason, I fly at Mullins—fists first. Despite being prepared for it, I surprise him with my enthusiasm. My first hit takes him to his back. I go with him, because my coaches always told me to follow through.
Of course, we both end up in the box, and I get a few minutes for my blood rush to subside. The fucker got one good hit, which happened to be on top of where Cillian punched me earlier. It smarts, now, it’s going to be a bitch of a bruise, later.
It doesn’t matter, though. We win the game and the fans are all hyped as we head into the playoffs.
