Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(19)

Never by myself.

The vibe is fun and lighthearted, but I’m definitely garnering some looks. Especially since I’m decked out in an oversize Gervais jersey, and I’m a recognizable enough face in this city.

“You’re here with Jasper?” A perfectly put-together brunette woman appears beside me, bouncing a baby in her arms.

“Yeah.” I smile.

She eyes me but not in an unfriendly way. “What’s your name?”

“Sloane. You?”

“Callie.” She hefts the baby up and sticks one hand out to me.

We shake, and I find myself liking the woman. Her handshake is firm, but she isn’t squeezing the hell out of my hand in some weird show of aggression.

“Jasper doesn’t usually have anyone up here.”

My eyes dart back down to the ice where Jasper is squirting a stream of water into his open mouth through the cage across his face. “No?” I ask quietly because I’ve always made a point of not asking about his personal life.

Always felt like it would hurt too much to know.

I’ve been swallowing the green-eyed monster for decades, but she hasn’t stayed down. She leaps up on me unexpectedly.

Potently.

“It’s got all the girls talking. His personal life is a real mystery to us all,” Callie continues, chucking her chin over her shoulder as the puck drops and the game clock starts.

“Ah.” I glance in that direction and see multiple heads flip away quickly, like children caught staring. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve known Jasper since I was ten, and he’s still a bit of mystery to me.”

“Ten!” Her eyes bulge comically and then she sighs. “Well, that is just adorable.”

I smile but it’s tight. Adorable. More like painful.

And that pain only grows as the minutes tick on. Because circumstances doomed this game from the start. Jasper is rightfully distracted. His head is certainly not on the pucks heading toward him at blistering speeds.

The opposing team scores first, less than one minute into the game. And it’s not a good goal. It’s one I know Jasper would want back.

They score again five minutes later.

I nibble at my nails, the pink wedding polish peeling away as I do.

Two minutes later a third shot finds the back of the net.

I groan and bite my bottom lip hard enough that the inside of it bleeds.

And when Jasper lets in a fourth goal before the first twenty minutes of play have elapsed, I have to blink back my tears. Not because they’re losing, but because watching him skate off—head low, shoulders slumped—after getting pulled from the game makes my chest ache.

I know he’s counting himself responsible.

He looks like the boy I met all those years ago—devastated.

And for the next several games, it doesn’t get any better.





7

Jasper


Sloane: Have I told you that you’re my favorite goaltender in the world?

Jasper: You have bad taste.

Sloane: You’re still my fav.

Jasper: You might be the only one tonight.

Sloane: Correction. Favorite hockey player. Number one fan right here.

Jasper: Know a lot of hockey players, do you?

Sloane: Only the best one. I’ll be at the player’s exit.




A loss never feels good, but somehow tonight feels worse. I’ve started four games in a row because this organization trusts me. My coach trusts me. And we’ve lost four games in a row. This entire home stand straight down the toilet.

It weighs on my shoulders.

I’ve let my teammates down. My coaches. The entire city, who is so invested in this team’s success.

I feel like I let Beau down somehow. Like I couldn’t even win it for him. I’ve also been a miserable asshole to everyone around me. And I let Beau down in that too, because that man would plaster a smile and be kind no matter what.

Then there’s the heart-stopping blonde who’s been up in the skybox every night, supporting me. I spend the games trying to keep myself from looking up at her as I sit on the bench, beating myself up. As though I’d be able to make her out up there anyway.

Tonight I’ve showered and changed but I’m disappointed. I’m sad but I’m also angry. I walk down the back tunnel toward the press gallery. I hate this part of my night after good games, but I don’t even think there is a word for how it feels to string together four shit games in a row and then be forced to talk about it on the record.

Torture, maybe.

I know I’ve played bad. My team knows. The reporters know. And now we’re all going to sit down and talk about it publicly. Fucking perfect.

The minute I step onto the stage with a long table on it I hear the snapping of cameras. A few journalists I recognize say their hellos. I give them a terse nod and fold the brim of my hat. Then I pull out a chair, sit down next to my coach, and take a deep breath.

First question comes from a reporter I’ve seen before, one who always asks the most obnoxious questions. Like he’s intentionally trying to trip us up for a flashy sound bite. “Hi. Mike Holloway from the Calgary Tribune. Jasper, why don’t you tell us what happened out there tonight?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. That’s not a question, and he knows what happened out there tonight. He saw it. Making me recount it to him is just a dick move.