Page 60 of He Has Pluck

I don’t say anything and she puts the phone back to her ear. “There’s a story here that the TV cameras aren’t going to focus on, but I am.” She listens again, still staring at me but now her with cool icy eyes. Lowering her voice to a near whisper, she says, “I’ll focus on the new guy.” Pause. “Of course, he feels guilty.”

I feel her words like a cold slap to the face, like a wake-up call shouting at me, asking me where my priorities are.

That’s the last thing I need to hear. I turn away and head back through the door into the hallway that leads back to the locker room before I slow to a stop.

Fuck. Little known fact, but true, the stab of betrayal feels differently than a stab of guilt. Betrayal runs deeper and wider and destroys all kinds of things along the way.

I push into the locker room, where I find Finn and Rafe changing out of their blood-spattered jerseys. The equipment manager tosses me a clean jersey and brings me a new pair of skates. I give him my bloody ones. Finn keeps a hand on my shoulder while I lace up with shaky hands. When I’m finished, he gives me a solid clap on the back, and we return to the bench. After they cleaned up the blood from the ice, the game went on without us. At the first whistle, Finn shoves off to take over the net.

Rafe sits next to me on the bench. “O’Rourke will be okay,” he says. “Don’t let a little blood worry you.” He pauses as the third line takes the ice. “It happened to me once. My skate caught on an opponent’s pants and cut his thigh.” He gives me a long stare of understanding. I nod. “Swallow down the guilt and emotion for now, and digest it later. You’ll both be okay.”

I grunt as nausea rolls through my gut again, and I hope I can keep my shit together. I inhale deeply.

“We need this win more than ever,” he says. “And we need your help to do it more than ever. If it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t be so confident we could do it, but you’re different. You know how to compartmentalize like a fucking pro.”

“How do you figure?” Surprise jolts me to focus on him. He has no idea the reason I caused the accident was because I was fucking distracted.

“You’ve managed to carry on with Sullivan, on and off the ice like a pro, cool and determined. So let’s do this.” He punches my chest and my stuttering heart hammers. How the fuck did he know?

Coach yells at me to get out there for the line change, and I go into deep down survival mode as if my life is on the line. The survival of my professional life could definitely end here with this game if I don’t suck it up.

How I handle this moment may very well make or break my hockey career.

Chapter Twenty

JULIETTE

If you’d told me a month ago that I’d be holding my breath with my heart pounding and wishing and hoping to the verge of prayer that my team would win a hockey game, I’d have called an ambulance for you and sent you straight to Bedlam. Yes, the Brawlers are my team. Somewhere along the line, like right after I witnessed the bloodshed and tears as if it was the first time I’d ever seen that kind of thing, they became part of my identity, and I became part of theirs.

The difference between this assignment and those I’d had in the past, where I had no problem keeping my professional distance, comes down to one man and my inability to keep him from burrowing deep inside me, physically and emotionally.

Did I think I could watch Jason’s guilt without being affected? He sits on the bench quietly gathering himself, and I’m filming him, witnessing his courage, acknowledging it and admiring it. I’m having a hell of a time controlling my desire to console him.

Fuck the documentary. I want him to be okay. More than okay. My heart pounds with the need for him to win this game, get past his guilt, and make his fucking hockey dreams come true.

Something changed how I see things as if I’ve refocused the lens of my camera. Maybe it’s seeing the gritty details of the reality faced by supposedly privileged people suffering pain no matter their walk of life. There’s a commonness to humanity and suffering that knows no boundaries. Not even wealthy, famous men who play hockey for a living escape life without a cost.

And now, I’m literally on the edge of my seat at this hockey game, my heart beating fast and my nerves stretched, watching the clock wind down with the score tied at one-all. I’m trying to will my man Jason to score a fucking goal. Yes, he’s my man. What is it about watching someone suffer in silence, bravely and without whimpering or excuses, that makes you want to confess to anything?

But if I search my conscience, I’d admit I’ve wanted him for mine all along, mostly because I can’t imagine letting anyone else claim him or imagine anyone else in my bed.

There, I admit it. But that admission doesn’t help the nausea I feel about not consoling him when I had my chance. In my defense, I’ve gone a long time thinking any kind of relationship with the likes of him would be a shameful thing, superficial and beneath me.

I guarded against this kind of need for so long, guarded against wanting anyone too close, and especially guarded against being anything like my mother, choosing a professional athlete over a heroic man like my dad.

That’s all gone to fuck now.

There are four minutes left in regulation, and I stand and automatically grab my camera. I aim it at Jason as he prepares to jump the boards and get back onto the ice with the line change. The tension and focus war on his face, and I stop myself from reaching out, from climbing over the boards to wrap myself around him and give him all the energy, determination and goddamn hope I have in me.

Where it’s coming from, I have no idea because I haven’t let such hopefulness surface in a long time. I’ve made it a practice to remain cynical to save myself the agony of disappointment. Now, I’m only too aware that there’s a worse agony, and I don’t know if my need for him to succeed will go anywhere, but I can’t stop it.

The Brawlers’ fresh line controls the puck and funnels it toward Washington’s end of the ice. Tony G takes O’Rourke’s place and whips a shot that misses and ricochets off the boards behind the net. Jason races around to take control of the puck and takes a hit to the boards, making me flinch and my camera jump. But he manages to pass the puck out front, feeding it to Rafe. There’s traffic in front of the net, with too many players from both teams converging, but Rafe skates in a circle in a graceful figure skater move like only he can do and takes a shot from where Washington’s goalie can’t see him—a screen shot.

The red light flashes, and the Brawlers players raise their sticks and raise mayhem as they converge to celebrate the go-ahead goal. My camera focuses on Jason as he hugs Rafe and pounds his back with his gloved hands.

Then I drop my camera on my seat, and with two fingers, I blow a loud whistle of celebration and high-five Carlos, who has a hand raised in triumph.

“Glad to see you’ve joined the ranks of us hockey fans,” he says.