Page 8 of Over the Line

“Yep.” I smiled. “Beer, pizza, hot dogs—anything you want.”

“Nice.” He swept his gaze over the offered sandwiches, salads, and desserts. “Pretty sure this will be fine.”

“It usually is.” I grabbed a couple of sandwiches on a plate along with a decent helping of salad, tucked a water bottle under my arm, and continued down to the seats.

I was both unnerved and relieved when Garrett asked to join me a moment later. Of course I said yes even while I was internally screaming that I’d lose my stupid mind around him. At least I was able to keep that out of his sight. I hoped, anyway.

While the timer on the Jumbotron ticked down toward warmups, we didn’t say much. He seemed content to just eat while he took in his surroundings. Me? My brain was going in too damn many different directions.

The longer we sat here, the more that weird starstruck feeling ebbed. I was still restless with all this sudden attraction that had no outlet, but my equilibrium was closer to normal now. If nothing else, I trusted myself not to say or do something stupid. I’d take it.

As I reclaimed my balance and my ability to think, though, my mind also reached topics besides Garrett, and not all of them were pleasant.

After I’d walked away from the interview with Jack, I hadn’t had that usual smug feeling like I’d bested him at his own game. I’d kept him from obtaining the juicy gossip he wanted, but I didn’t feel good about the interaction.

I hated how much those questions got under my skin. Yeah, I knew people were fascinated with our lives. I got that. But I didn’t like how invested they could get. Especially those whose investment turned into entitlement; they were convinced that being our fans or the media meant they should have unfiltered access to our private lives.

Worse, I didn’t like how his questions had turned over a few rocks in my brain that I would’ve preferred to leave alone for a while.

Truth was, I had been thinking about life after hockey. Retirement was still a ways off, but it was coming up. It was coming up fast. I was thirty-seven in a sport where very few made it to forty and my contract was up after next season; I only had so much time left here. What was life going to look like after that? I didn’t know. I didn’t have a fucking clue. And that had been eating at me more than I wanted to say out loud.

What would I do when I wasn’t playing anymore? What was left when there was no longer competition or another Cup or another medal to strive for?

What the hell was I supposed to do with myself?

I shifted in my seat, gnawing my lip as I watched the Zambonis resurfacing the ice far below us.

Who am I without hockey?

That was the question that had been needling at me for a while now. Every time I brushed up against retirement, I ran into that existential wall, and I didn’t know how to get past it. And even if I could figure that out, I was terrified of what was behind it.

Of course, even if I was no longer playing, hockey could still be a part of my life. I could pick up a coaching job. Gil had said a few times I’d be a good scout or even a GM.

But hockey-related jobs weren’t the same as playing hockey. I was a hockey player, and I’d been a hockey player for as long as I could remember. It was the only identity I’d ever had. When I retired… that identity would be gone.

And I had no idea what came next.

CHAPTER 3

GARRETT

The owner’s box was nice. The cushy seats, the amazing food, the spectacular view—talk about watching a game in style.

Though we were pretty high up, it was still easy to pick out the various players as they came out for warmups. I could see their numbers, of course, but some of them moved in distinctive ways that made them stand out.

Temo Tehuitzil was like five foot eight, shorter than most of the guys on the team, and he always stayed low when he skated. He was dangerously agile and shockingly fast, and even during warmups he whizzed between players like they were moving in slow motion.

His linemate, Alex Crawford, was around six four, and he had a distinctive sway when he moved, especially when he turned. I could’ve picked him out from the nosebleed section.

And of course, Chris stood out to me. He wasn’t exceptionally tall or short—hovering right around six foot, slightly taller than me. His build was pretty average for a hockey player, too—a little narrower than his teammates, a little broader than his off-ice peers. The way he moved, he kind of blended into the crowd, which was what had always made him so dangerous on the ice. Other players seemed to forget he was there. They’d lose track of him while they blocked his bigger, faster, and more aggressive teammates… giving him all the time in the world to position himself for a scoring chance before they even realized he was a threat.

So he wasn’t flashy or eye-catching the way Temo and Crawford were, but naturally, I zeroed in on him. I smiled as I watched him go through his warmup routine. He was so at ease out there. So confident as he moved among his teammates as if he’d never once thought he’d be out of place.

“What if I get to that level and blow it?” he’d asked when he was fifteen and was already being scouted by several teams. “Everyone thinks I’m going to kill it out there, but what if I hit the ice with a big-league team, and it turns out I suck?”

His mom, coaches, and I had reassured him as best we could. In the handful of years between then and now, he’d clearly come into his own and found that confidence. I’d watched him on TV during that period, wishing I could tell him how proud I was of everything he’d accomplished.

Now I was here. In this arena. Watching him warm up with the team where he’d found his comfortable niche. I’d finally been able to tell him over the phone and FaceTime that I was proud of him, and tonight I could tell him to his face after his game.