Blane sighed and shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m back in peewees,” he grumbled, but his lips were twitching. “Still, I hope you’ll forgive my next bit of nosy-as-fuck, but joke away, man. No one is too big or important for it here. Don’t worry about hurting feelings. Just be you.”
“I—” Liam stopped, not quite knowing what to say. He wasn’t a rookie. He’d been around the league a while, and though—obviously—he’d never quite found his place . . . Blane seemed to know that.
Cool.
He was the pathetic guy everyone felt sorry for—
Enough.
The word was harsh enough through his mind that he jerked slightly.
Fuck, was he just going to keep doing this? He’d spent the previous morning with a woman who was rigid and unflappable at first glance but had so many deeper emotions beneath the surface—fearful but soft, scared but determined, fragile but not breakable. Yet, she’d let him push her outside her comfort zone, had taken steps to do it herself.
So, was Liam really just going to play it safe and do the same old shit?
Stay in the same cycle? Piss away what might be his last months as a professional hockey player?
Fuck. Just . . . enough.
He missed loving the game from the moment he stepped on the ice. He missed joking with his teammates. He missed the rush that came from making a good play or seeing a linemate score. He missed the relief that overpowered the demands of his lungs, his heart, his mind when he hauled ass back to stop his goalie from facing a two-on-O. He missed . . . the sport.
And if he was only going to have a few months left then, for the first time in years, he wanted to make those months count. He was less scared of fucking up and more scared of never getting back what he’d lost. Because one thing was clear, this half-life, this playing on the fringes and just barely hanging on, wasn’t enough anymore.
“Anyway, I know the room is a little different with Mike and Stefan retired now. We’ve tried to keep the vibe the same.” A shrug. “We all play better when we’re relaxed and messing around—off the ice, that is. Loosens that hold on our sticks enough to focus on the system, on being creative and improvising rather than being so scared to make a mistake that we’re robots more than artists.”
“Robots more than artists?” Brit said, on the other side of Liam, suddenly tuning in to their conversation. Her voice was incredulous. “Blane”—she clamped a hand to her chest—“oh my. You’re a poet.”
Max and Coop snickered.
Blane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling . . . especially when he locked gazes with Liam for a heartbeat before reaching up and balling a sock, launching it at Brit’s head.
Since she was prattling on about poetry while sharing smirking sentiments with Max, she didn’t see it coming.
“Hey!” she exclaimed when it nailed her in the temple.
Liam snorted, biting back a grin.
At least until Blane pointed at him and said, “He did it.”
“I—”
But before he could muster more than that syllable, Brit picked up the sock and threw it back at Blane, who caught it easily. “Don’t worry, Li,” she said. “I wasn’t joking about growing up together. I know how that one’s”—narrowed eyes at Blane—“dirty ass socks smell. Fuckers could rouse the dead.”
Blane launched the sock back, but Brit saw it coming this time, and thus caught it easily. “Ha!” she said. “All that glove hand practice does me good.”
She wound up again, and Liam found himself interjecting again. “Maybe we should take that glove hand onto the ice,” he said. “Practice starts in five.” He nodded at the clock that hung over the door.
Brit made a face. “Fine,” she said, tossing the sock back to Blane. “Be reasonable, why don’t you?”
Blane snorted, shoving the sock ball back into his shoe. “That’s in short supply with this team.”
“Hey!” Max said.
“Pot meet kettle,” Coop added, getting up and heading to the door.
Liam saw why a second later, when Calle, one of the team’s assistant coaches and Coop’s wife, poked her head in through the doorway and called. “Let’s hit it, boys!”
“Shit,” Brit muttered, dropping to her knees and buckling her leg pads with the same rapid efficiency that Liam had used on his skates. Years and years of muscle memory that ensured they’d be fastened exactly right. After, she stood and started strapping on her chest protector as he was working on his elbow pads.
They slipped their jerseys over their heads at almost the same moment, Brit grinning as she fixed her long blonde ponytail. “You’re kind of fast, Williamson.”
“Um, thanks?” he said. “You, too?”
A beatific smile. “Yeah. And you know what that means?”
“Oh no,” Max mumbled, but Brit was still talking, and Liam was focused on her words.
“It means, you’re officially invited to run with us.”
“Oh no,” Max moaned. “Abort. Abort!”
Brit punched him. “Stop,” she said. “Coop promised me earlier that he was coming, too. Plus, it’s fun!”
“It’s something,” Blane muttered, standing and heading out the door. Still, he paused and looked back. “Straight after practice?”
Brit nodded. “Yup. Gear off. Stairs on.”
Max groaned. “Oh God.”
“I’ll be there,” Blane said before he disappeared into the hall.
“Max?” she asked.
“Heaven help me for peer pressure, but yes.”
She fist-pumped, turned her bright blue eyes on him. “Liam?”
He shoved his hands into his gloves, wondered for a moment what he was getting himself into and if it was possible that he’d screw up whatever Brit wanted from him. But . . . no. He was sticking with it. Fuck it. This was nice. The teasing. The poking fun. The insult-trading.
Maybe that gave an insight to how fucked up he was inside, that he liked the insults and wanted more. But again . . . fuck it.
If these were his last months, then he was going to do what he wanted.
He was curious. They’d invited him. He was going to stop worrying and start putting some words to action. “Okay,” he said, nodding, excited rather than dreading . . . and if he’d known the fate he’d just ensured himself, then Liam definitely would have been dreading.
“Yes!” Another fist-pump. “Lose the gear, trade skates for sneakers, and meet at the PT Suite after practice.” She walked to the door.
Max clapped him on the shoulder as he made his way out. “Man.” A shake of his head. “You just signed your death warrant.”
“What?” Liam asked.
“Of course, it’ll be worth it in the end,” Max said, “but still. Death. Warrant.”
“What—”
Before he could finish the question, Max disappeared.
He chalked it up to more joking, but yeah, if Liam had known what was awaiting him on those stairs, he definitely would have taken Max’s words much more seriously. As it was, he spent practice loose and relaxed and looking forward to something hockey-teammate-related for the first time in a long while.