Page 25 of Cut Off
O’Keefe flies past me, the number 17 on his back, my old number, and it’s a personal insult. Fucking Denver. Fucking O’Keefe. Fucking everything.
I know it’s not his fault. The Blizzards made the business decision, but logic doesn’t stop the white-hot rage bubbling up inside me. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to prove they made a catastrophic mistake.
And more than anything, I want to make Eli proud.
The thought of him triggers a primal instinct in me, and I dig deeper, push harder, and track the puck with laser focus. When Mendez from the Blizzards attempts a cross-ice pass, I’m there, stick extended, to intercept it cleanly.
I knock it to Carter, who speeds up the left wing. For a split second, I feel like a real defenseman, like maybe I can actually do this. Brooks catches my eye as we reset positions, flashing me a thumbs-up, and a dangerous hope flutters in my chest.
The next shift goes even better. I clear a rebound from in front of our goal, execute a perfect hip check that sends another former teammate sprawling, and I even manage a decent shot on goal during a rare offensive push.
Our captain, McDavid, slaps my helmet as we return to the bench. “That’s what I’m talking about, Holt! Keep that shit up!”
Jenkins leans over from further down the bench. “Guess someone decided to play hockey tonight.”
I can’t help but wonder what Eli’s thinking about that sequence. Is he impressed? Or is he still convinced I’m a complete waste?
My parents can’t wait to meet him. Not being able to meet their grandson for the first time seemed to hurt them as much as it hurt me when I couldn’t bring him home.
“Holt! Line change!” Coach Barrymore’s voice yanks me back to reality. I vault over the boards, mentally kicking myself for getting distracted.
Focus.
But my mind’s a runaway train. Zoe moved in last night, and when she changed into that tank top and boy boxers before bed… Jesus. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to see that every day when my body reacted by overheating, blood rushing away from my brain to my dick.
The house isn’t ready for the social worker’s visit on Friday. The painter finished, and today, Eli’s furniture’s being assembled, leaving us tomorrow to decorate. I still need to grab groceries, and I should probably try to convince Coach not to cut me from the roster.
Not to mention, I’m waiting on DNA results that should arrive today.
I know in my bones that Eli’s mine, but the court wants proof, and each hour the results are delayed feels like another year off my life. What if there’s been a mistake? What if Rosie lied? What if Eli isn’t actually my son?
The thought makes my chest seize. Because somehow, in the span of forty-eight hours, I’ve fallen in love with this angry, brilliant, hurting child. The idea of losing him, of him not being mine...
“Holt! Wake the fuck up!”
I blink, now aware that O’Keefe is streaking past me with the puck, unchallenged. I’m standing flat-footed, completely out of position, lost in my own head while the play rushes by.
I pivot, pushing hard to catch up, but it’s too late. O’Keefe threads a perfect pass to Daniels, who one-times it past our goalie. The red light flashes, and the Blizzards’ crowd roars. And we’re down 1-0.
“What the actual fuck was that?” Brooks shouts as I skate back to position. I can’t look at him.
On the bench, Coach has his face buried in his hands, and when he finally looks up, his expression is a thundercloud about to unleash hell.
Somehow I survive until my next shift, but now I’m overthinking everything. My muscles are tight, and my movements are a half-second behind where they should be.
Then I think about Eli.
You suck as a defenseman.
His words echo in my head as I mess up a clearing attempt, sending the puck straight to a Blizzard forward instead of safely up the boards. I scramble to recover, but I’m off-balance, out of position again.
Tanner, my linemate for three seasons in Denver, sees me coming and braces for impact. He knows my tendencies, knows exactly how to use my momentum against me. Instead of absorbing the hit, he sidesteps at the last second, sending me crashing into the boards with bone-jarring force.
The impact knocks the wind from my lungs; pain explodes through my chest, my jaw, and something in my left shoulder feels definitely wrong. Not broken, but not right either.
I push myself up, refusing to stay down. My pride won’t let me, but more than that, I refuse to confirm Eli’s words. I won’t be the pansy he thinks I am.
I rejoin the play, but my body’s screaming in protest. When Mendez comes at me this time, I don’t have the strength or speed to avoid him. He sends me spinning onto my ass, where I slide into our own goal.
