Page 8 of Family First
“You know what I’m going to add,” he began after listing all the things I needed to do and sighed. “Erik…” He didn’t even speak the rest, used to us idiot players demanding to play through even the worst pain.
I mean look at Stan, hell, the pain he must have been in, yet game after game he’d chased that high of stopping goals, of winning, of bringing the team home to victory. He was a warrior. We all were.
But even warriors have their time.
Game two wasn’t any better, Ten scored twice in the first ten minutes, and for a while there was hope that maybe the first game against them had been a fluke, and that the mighty Railers, two-time Stanley Cup champions, would fight back.
And then it collapsed.
We lost five–two, never capitalizing on that initial push.
And the pain in my shins, the burning in my chest, missing Stan so bad it hurt…
It was all too much.
He was waiting for me at the airport when we got off the plane, and I knew he’d be grumpy that he couldn’t get out of the car, Eva was standing in front of the SUV grinning. I was behind Bryan walking down the stairs, dejection rolling off the kid in waves.
I nudged him. “Go talk to Stan first.”
He turned to me, to ask me if I was sure, but then said nothing, and almost sprinted across the tarmac to get to the car. I slowed my roll, but as I got closer, I could see Stan’s hand on Bryan’s shoulder, probably imparting wisdom that came from all his years of experience. Bryan was backstopping the entire team, and the pressure was his alone with Stan here at home. I stopped a short distance away, giving them time to talk, and Eva ran to me. I picked her up and swung her in my arms, setting her down and hugging her.
“Papa’s not doing so well,” she murmured in my ear.
She didn’t have to say anymore. I knew my husband—he’d be tired, and irritable, and frustrated he couldn’t play. I pushed aside the losses, and the shin issues, and the exhaustion, and pasted the biggest damn smile on my face as Eva and I sauntered the final distance. Bryan jumped up from where he’d been crouching next to Stan, and he fist-bumped me, gave Eva a quick hug, and then jogged to where I could see Gatlin parked. I waved at the tattoo artist, who returned the greeting, and then it was my turn to face Stan.
“Babe,” he said in his most gentle tone.
I leaned into the passenger seat and melted into his hold. The scent of him surrounded me, the warmth of him was everything I needed. He held me so tight and so close I wanted to stay there forever. Which, yeah, impractical, but still, I wasn’t letting him go for a while.
I kissed him, maybe a little desperately.
He cradled my face and eased me away. “What’s wrong?” Stan asked, his soft growly voice smooth and sweet.
“You mean besides losing and me feeling like I’m too old for this shit?” I deadpanned.
He stroked away one of the curls that fell over my eyes, “Something else,” he said, and gave me a quick kiss.
He could see right through me, to the indecision and sadness underneath. The question about who I was without hockey had the best answer—I was a husband, a son, a father. I was loved, and it was everything. I couldn’t say the words though, I couldn’t admit out loud I was tired, and maybe it was time for me to retire, not when Stan was fighting so hard to get back to what he loved. I had to be strong for him as he healed.
Maybe everything would feel better if he’d been in Toronto with me?
But that would mean him playing through pain, through disabling himself by pushing too hard, and maybe ruining his life.
So why was I staying quiet?
When we got home, I had commiserating hugs from everyone, including all the dogs and none of the cats, lots of food from Stan’s mama, which fixed everything in her world. Noah seemed low, but then he was a huge Railers fan. His hope was that one day he’d play for the team, and he hated that we’d lost. He went to bed early, juggling two water bottles, and even though he hugged me goodnight, there was nothing I could say that seemed to cheer him up.
Hockey was his life, as much as it was mine and Stan’s.
When Stan and I made it to bed, and he was medicated and comfortable in his nest of pillows to support the part that hurt, and other parts that were healing, I snuggled close to him and kissed his shoulder, lying there in silence and thinking through everything that had happened, with so much I wanted to tell him.
It wouldn’t hurt to tell him that I missed him, right? That I had so much of the world to see, and that I wanted him to be whole and healthy next to me.
“I want to see Rome one day,” I blurted. “Take the whole family. All of us. To Florence. I want to see Michelangelo’s David. And I want to go to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower, London… I’ve always wanted to go to London. I don’t want to do it alone. I don’t like being alone. I missed you so badly.”
But he didn’t hear any of it because he’d fallen asleep.
ChapterFive
