Power Play: A Second Chance Hockey Romance (Sinners on the Ice)
Power Play: A Second Chance Hockey Romance: Chapter 26

Now, October

The weather in Nashville sucks, just like my mood. It’s our first away game today, the first time I’m going to start, but I feel so fucking doomed that I can’t even be happy. I’m a loser, and nothing can make me feel better.

The game is scheduled for 8:00 p.m., so instead of staying in my room and resting, I decided to hit the gym and work my muscles. I’m staring at the ceiling above me, straining under the weight of the bar I’m lifting. My muscles are tense as I push it upward. Lifting clears my head, helping me get rid of the anxious thoughts I’ve been having for over a week. Since the morning Layla and Maya walked out of my house.

“Earth to Clay.” I blink and look to my left, noticing Roman hovering over me with a bottle of water in his hand. For a moment, I grit my teeth, trying to concentrate on my movements, not bothering to answer. Maintaining my rhythm and staying in control of the lift, I repeat the motion ten more times before I finally put the bar back into position.

“What’s up?” I ask, sitting up and wiping sweat from my brow. “I thought I’d be the only one here.”

This guy has a way of smiling that actually makes me grin back at him. It’s a half smile, a bit crooked when one corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s definitely something I’ve seen on his face more and more often. I take it as a sign that things between him and his accidental wife are changing, in a good way.

At least someone is happy.

“I needed to busy myself with something.” Roman shrugs. “I was on the treadmill for thirty minutes, watching House of the Dragon.” I arch an eyebrow at him. I’m sure I remember those episodes being an hour long. “I watch them at 2x speed.”

“That’s weird. I don’t think I could actually comprehend something at that speed,” I comment. “Do you watch it in Russian?”

“Nah, with Russian subtitles. In case I miss something or don’t hear it clearly. With all the different accents, it’s easy to do.” He uncaps the bottle and chugs half of it in one go. “Going back to your room?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Me too.”

I bend to grab my water bottle and key card from the floor.

“Let’s go. We still have time for a nap,” Roman says.

Or for mindlessly staring at the ceiling until it’s time to head to the arena. I haven’t decided what I want to do.

“How are things between you and Nevaeh? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“You’re fine.” Roman glances at me. “It’s all good. We’re getting to know each other, growing closer. Um, I’m actually thinking about going back to therapy. Nev helps me navigate my shit, but it’s not her responsibility to make me feel better. So there’s that.”

“You mean because of…” I trail off as we get to the elevators. Roman hits the button, keeping his gaze trained on me. “Because of your brother?” I finish my question quietly.

Roman slips one hand in his pocket. The other one wraps tightly around the neck of the bottle. “Yeah, grief sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He looks me up and down, a small smile on his lips. “I don’t know what it is about you, but I usually don’t talk about this stuff at all. Maybe only with Colt.”

“I’ve been told I’m a good listener. I help people figure out what they want.” I grin. The elevator doors slide open.

We both step inside, and Roman hits number seven on the panel.

“And who’s listening to you, Clay?” he asks, and my insides churn. Just like that, he hit me where it hurts the most. Keeping secrets from my friends, keeping everything that’s been happening between Layla and me behind closed doors, is hard. I forget when I last talked to any of my friends, when I was completely honest with them. I’m hiding my feelings, when in reality I want to scream about them at the top of my lungs.

It’s fucking killing me slowly.

“Sorry, Clay, it’s not my business.” Roman threads his fingers through his blond hair.

“That’s okay. Maybe one day I’ll replace someone to listen to me…when I’m ready to talk.”

The elevator stops at the seventh floor, and we both walk out of it. Roman hesitates, fiddling with his key card. “I know we don’t know each other very well. But sometimes it’s way easier to open up to someone if they aren’t that close to you.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “It helped me open up to Nev at first.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

We stand in the hallway, staring at each other, but it doesn’t feel awkward. In this strange and fucked-up way, with secrets that are probably incredibly different, we understand one another. And for me, that’s enough to make me feel grateful.

“See you later, Roman.” I extend my fist to him.

Smiling, he bumps it. “See you later, Clay.”

I turn to my right and go to my room, while Roman goes to his left and proceeds to his. I can admit, at least to myself, that he made me feel better.

Fingers crossed it will help me prepare for the game. I can always sulk in my room later.

Being a starter after spending the first four home games on the bench is exhilarating. My body is buzzing with energy I’ve been suppressing the whole time, bottling it up for the chance to be on the ice, to show my skills in the best way possible. And we’re doing pretty fucking great, if you ask me.

Colt put the Thunders ahead one to zero in the fifth minute of the first period, using our power play to his advantage. He made a move around Klein in the right circle, dragging the puck around Johannesen next with Ivchenko on his back, and then, with a backhand shot, he sent the puck over Nashville’s goalie’s glove from in tight.

We celebrated another goal right before the first period was over. At the fourteenth minute, taking a pass from Dean Crawford at the edge of the left circle, Drake sent the puck flying with an accurate wrist shot right behind Nashville’s goalie’s back. Seeing “2–0” on the jumbotron as we were heading to the locker room felt unrealistically motivating. We had a chance to win this game.

The second period has not started so well for us. Nashville returned to the ice desperate for a comeback. But our defense continued to be top-notch, feeling the game and our opponents on some hypersensitive level, letting me show my ability to goaltend. I can’t stop myself from smiling when I have yet another chance to block a Nashville advance to my net.

But in the eighth minute of the second period, Nashville finally scores. Johannesen’s shot goes wide of the net, my eyes following the trajectory of its movement. I turn around at the right post when Klein slips the rebound past me and into the crease. By the time I realize what’s happening, Johannesen is already jamming the puck into the net. Two to one.

“Fuck,” I scoff.

The arena goes wild, cheering for their team, while I shoot a murderous glare Johannesen’s way. He grates on my nerves every time I play against him, ever since my Chicago days. Something about that dude isn’t right.

Or maybe it’s because he’s a great player, and he always replaces a chance to send a fucking puck behind my back.

When the game resumes in the third period, I become even more attentive to what’s happening on the ice, feeling more at ease. But my nerves are still on high alert. Obviously, if the guys could score a third time, it’d give us a buffer, but I intend to keep our net intact this time.

Spurred on by the fans, Nashville’s players put up an awesome fight. They are relentless in their desire to score, but it also causes them to make mistakes. And mistakes lead to power plays, which give us more opportunities to dominate.

Colton and Drake rush toward Nashville’s net, passing the puck and outplaying the defense. Colt hits the puck with force, and for a second, I hold my breath, thinking he’s going to score. But Nashville’s goalie saves his net, blocking the shot. Unfortunately for him, the puck lands right in front of Dean, who doesn’t mess around, simply slips it in the bottom right corner, making the score three to one.

“Yeah, baby!” I do a silly happy dance. Euphoria is kicking in, making my smile grow so fucking wide my cheeks hurt. Even before the game ends, I know we’re going to be celebrating tonight.

And we are.

The final score is three to one, and I’m on cloud nine.

My first away game as a starter.

And my first starting win for the California Thunders.

Hopefully, things will start looking up…and not just at the games.

By the time I’m finally back in my hotel room, I’m spent. After a hot shower, I start to feel more relaxed. My eyes are sleepy as I drag myself to bed and climb under the blankets. I’m ready to turn off the light when I decide to check my phone.

A message from my parents, congratulating me on our win and telling me how excited they were to finally see me on the ice.

There are a few texts from Ethan and some from my old teammates in Chicago. I reply to all of them, but my eyes constantly return to the one I want to read the most. The one I’m dreading the most also.

It’s from Layla. And I have no idea what to expect. Our texts last week weren’t particularly good. They weren’t bad either. They kinda just were. Which actually pains me more; I pretend that I’m fine with her hiding behind her built-up walls again.

I’m eager to give her as much time as she needs. But damn if I’m not frustrated, trying to figure out how to make her actually give me a chance.

I put my phone on the nightstand without reading her text. We have an early morning flight tomorrow as we’re flying to Florida for a game on Thursday, so I convince myself that I need to sleep.

Ten minutes go by. Then twenty. I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling in the darkness of my room, watching the shadows of passing cars appear and disappear on the walls.

With a grumble, I reach for my phone again, unlock it, open her message, and stare. Out of all the things I expected to see, this is definitely not it. It’s a picture of a black Doberman lying on the floor beside Maya. I run my fingers through my hair, my eyes glued to my screen. A smile that has no reason to be this fucking big grows on my lips.

Maya sits on the floor; her hand is on Cooper’s back. A huge TV screen is hanging on the wall with today’s game on it. The most important thing in this picture is not the fact that they are watching the game, no. It’s the jersey on Maya that makes my heart go berserk. The two pigtails on top of her head give me a perfect view of her back, with my name and number 37.

With that, I put the phone back on the nightstand and close my eyes. Sleep wins me over a few minutes later.