Garrett
Page 62
How is my girl feeling? He had texted.
Little nausea, no vomit. All good, I wrote back.
Thinking of you. Missing you. Will call you after the game.
I immediately texted back, Miss you too. Good luck tonight.
He didn’t text back, but that didn’t bother me. I know he was getting into game mode and had bigger things to focus on than me. When Stevie was done eating, he put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into my bed so we could watch the game.
At the end of the second period, I throw the covers off and swing my legs out of the bed.
“Where are you going?” Stevie asks as he sits up. “I can get whatever you need.”
“I need to pee. Think you can handle that for me?” I say with a laugh as I head toward the bathroom.
He calls out, “Smart ass,” and I snicker to myself, but, damn, I love him. I’m so blessed to have the friends that I do.
Once I finish in the bathroom, I take some Tylenol because I started getting a headache about an hour ago that I’d hoped would go away by now. Looking in the mirror while I wash my hands, I note that my skin is a little paler than normal, but I just assume that’s from the chemo. During my last treatment, I was too sick to even look in the mirror at myself.
By the time I get back to my bed, I’m a little out of breath, and Stevie notices. “Jesus…you’re huffing like you just ran a marathon.”
I suck in a lungful of oxygen before crawling back into bed and let it out slowly. “I’m just a little tired…that’s all.”
“How about we turn off the game and go to sleep? You got another treatment tomorrow and you need your rest.”
“No way. I’m not missing one second of this. Besides…Garrett’s going to call me after the game.”
“Fine,” Stevie says, holding his hands up, and then plops back down onto his pillows. “We’ll finish watching the game, you can talk to your honey, then it’s lights out. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree, and nestle in so I can indeed watch my honey kick some ass on the ice.
Chapter 21
Garrett
My legs are burning. Feels like fucking lava flowing through my quads. My line has already been out here for close to fifty seconds, but there hasn’t been a sufficient break in the action to allow us to change up.
This has been a hard-fought game so far against the Demons…the second L.A. team we’ve played this week. Every time they’ve scored, we’ve answered, but we haven’t been able to pull ahead. As the final minutes of the game tick down, both sides are running on their reserve fuel tanks, and I’d kill for someone to just ice the puck so the whistle will blow.
Instead, a greater wish is granted to me.
The Demons’ center makes a sloppy backhanded pass to his winger and it’s almost too easy to intercept, even on my blown legs. I pick the puck cleanly, and the first thing that flashes through my mind is Go, Go, Go. The second thing I think about is Olivia…wondering if she’s screaming while she watches from her apartment.
Just the thought of her gives me a burst of energy and I dig my blades into the ice hard, streaking down the right side. Alex calls out from behind—on your heels—so I know someone’s hot on my ass and Alex will be supportive down the middle.
I close in on the goalie, a big, burly bastard who takes up too much of the net. The Demon behind me reaches out in a half-assed attempt to hook me, but the blade of his stick scrapes harmlessly across my ankle. I can hear Alex tapping his stick and calling, “Dump it.” He’s an option, but I don’t need him to tell me that, and in fact, we play so well in sync together that I know he’s doing that to get the Demon off my ass…provoking said Demon to commit to him instead.
It works because I can literally feel his presence drop back and then it’s just me and the goalie. I cut left across the net, aiming for the upper pocket, and when the goalie stretches his frame upward, I give a short flick through the five-hole, clean into the net.
The red light goes off, Alex practically tackles me from behind, and then I’m swamped by my other teammates. And while this is usually one of my favorite moments as a hockey player, my only thought is of Olivia and how I imagine she’s going crazy for my goal right now.
—
I walk out of the locker room shower, one towel around my waist and another over my shoulders, and I use one end to rub over my hair. “Dude…you were on fire tonight,” Alex says as I walk up to my locker, which sits next to his. He’s already half dressed, but I take my time. I know the bus that will take us back to the hotel won’t be leaving for at least another half hour, as some of our players were getting ice baths for their joints.
Dropping the towel around my waist, I pull on my underwear and then sit down on the bench. “Thanks, man.”
Reaching for my phone, I turn it on and wait for it to boot up so I can check my texts, eager to see what Olivia has left for me. After the Dragons game the day before yesterday, I turned my phone on to find out she had texted me after every single exciting play that I had made. It may have only been a good forecheck or it could have been an assist or goal, but her texts made me feel awesome.
Holy hell, babe. You are amazing.
You totally smoked that douche.
Can you hear me screaming from across the nation?
You are so hot on the ice. I’m surprised you’re not melting it. :)
My screen pops up, a photo of me and Olivia that Sutton had taken of us together at Busch Gardens. Her arms are wrapped around my waist, mine around her shoulders, the fronts of our bodies pressed in tight. Our faces are turned toward the camera and my chin rests on top of her head. Both of our smiles are a mile wide, and it’s probably the best representation of what my relationship with Olivia has been like so far. Fun, thrilling, comforting, and natural. I’m discounting, of course, the parts that have been terrifying and stressful.
Little nausea, no vomit. All good, I wrote back.
Thinking of you. Missing you. Will call you after the game.
I immediately texted back, Miss you too. Good luck tonight.
He didn’t text back, but that didn’t bother me. I know he was getting into game mode and had bigger things to focus on than me. When Stevie was done eating, he put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and then crawled into my bed so we could watch the game.
At the end of the second period, I throw the covers off and swing my legs out of the bed.
“Where are you going?” Stevie asks as he sits up. “I can get whatever you need.”
“I need to pee. Think you can handle that for me?” I say with a laugh as I head toward the bathroom.
He calls out, “Smart ass,” and I snicker to myself, but, damn, I love him. I’m so blessed to have the friends that I do.
Once I finish in the bathroom, I take some Tylenol because I started getting a headache about an hour ago that I’d hoped would go away by now. Looking in the mirror while I wash my hands, I note that my skin is a little paler than normal, but I just assume that’s from the chemo. During my last treatment, I was too sick to even look in the mirror at myself.
By the time I get back to my bed, I’m a little out of breath, and Stevie notices. “Jesus…you’re huffing like you just ran a marathon.”
I suck in a lungful of oxygen before crawling back into bed and let it out slowly. “I’m just a little tired…that’s all.”
“How about we turn off the game and go to sleep? You got another treatment tomorrow and you need your rest.”
“No way. I’m not missing one second of this. Besides…Garrett’s going to call me after the game.”
“Fine,” Stevie says, holding his hands up, and then plops back down onto his pillows. “We’ll finish watching the game, you can talk to your honey, then it’s lights out. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree, and nestle in so I can indeed watch my honey kick some ass on the ice.
Chapter 21
Garrett
My legs are burning. Feels like fucking lava flowing through my quads. My line has already been out here for close to fifty seconds, but there hasn’t been a sufficient break in the action to allow us to change up.
This has been a hard-fought game so far against the Demons…the second L.A. team we’ve played this week. Every time they’ve scored, we’ve answered, but we haven’t been able to pull ahead. As the final minutes of the game tick down, both sides are running on their reserve fuel tanks, and I’d kill for someone to just ice the puck so the whistle will blow.
Instead, a greater wish is granted to me.
The Demons’ center makes a sloppy backhanded pass to his winger and it’s almost too easy to intercept, even on my blown legs. I pick the puck cleanly, and the first thing that flashes through my mind is Go, Go, Go. The second thing I think about is Olivia…wondering if she’s screaming while she watches from her apartment.
Just the thought of her gives me a burst of energy and I dig my blades into the ice hard, streaking down the right side. Alex calls out from behind—on your heels—so I know someone’s hot on my ass and Alex will be supportive down the middle.
I close in on the goalie, a big, burly bastard who takes up too much of the net. The Demon behind me reaches out in a half-assed attempt to hook me, but the blade of his stick scrapes harmlessly across my ankle. I can hear Alex tapping his stick and calling, “Dump it.” He’s an option, but I don’t need him to tell me that, and in fact, we play so well in sync together that I know he’s doing that to get the Demon off my ass…provoking said Demon to commit to him instead.
It works because I can literally feel his presence drop back and then it’s just me and the goalie. I cut left across the net, aiming for the upper pocket, and when the goalie stretches his frame upward, I give a short flick through the five-hole, clean into the net.
The red light goes off, Alex practically tackles me from behind, and then I’m swamped by my other teammates. And while this is usually one of my favorite moments as a hockey player, my only thought is of Olivia and how I imagine she’s going crazy for my goal right now.
—
I walk out of the locker room shower, one towel around my waist and another over my shoulders, and I use one end to rub over my hair. “Dude…you were on fire tonight,” Alex says as I walk up to my locker, which sits next to his. He’s already half dressed, but I take my time. I know the bus that will take us back to the hotel won’t be leaving for at least another half hour, as some of our players were getting ice baths for their joints.
Dropping the towel around my waist, I pull on my underwear and then sit down on the bench. “Thanks, man.”
Reaching for my phone, I turn it on and wait for it to boot up so I can check my texts, eager to see what Olivia has left for me. After the Dragons game the day before yesterday, I turned my phone on to find out she had texted me after every single exciting play that I had made. It may have only been a good forecheck or it could have been an assist or goal, but her texts made me feel awesome.
Holy hell, babe. You are amazing.
You totally smoked that douche.
Can you hear me screaming from across the nation?
You are so hot on the ice. I’m surprised you’re not melting it. :)
My screen pops up, a photo of me and Olivia that Sutton had taken of us together at Busch Gardens. Her arms are wrapped around my waist, mine around her shoulders, the fronts of our bodies pressed in tight. Our faces are turned toward the camera and my chin rests on top of her head. Both of our smiles are a mile wide, and it’s probably the best representation of what my relationship with Olivia has been like so far. Fun, thrilling, comforting, and natural. I’m discounting, of course, the parts that have been terrifying and stressful.
