Him (Him #1)(80)

Wes


At the end of my first week of training camp, Coach Harvey shifts the lines around and puts me in the second line with Erikkson and Forsberg. The latter led Chicago to a Stanley Cup win three seasons ago before being traded to Toronto. The former was tied for highest-scoring offensive player last season. And then there’s me—Ryan Wesley, wet-behind-the-ears rookie, skating with two goddamn legends.

It’s a promising sign, because that means they’re seriously considering me for the roster this season, instead of sending me down to the farm team for more development.

Our shift lasts two minutes, and just before Coach shouts for a line change, I slap a one-timer past the goalie (another former Stanley Cup champ) and accept a vigorous back clap from Erikkson, who’s grinning behind his facemask.

“Shi-it, kid, that was a beauty!”

The praise warms me up inside. And I’m even giddier when I notice Coach nodding in approval from the bench. “You’ve got solid instincts,” he tells me when I heave myself over the boards a moment later. “No hesitation. I like that.”

Is hearing that good for my ego? Damn right it is. These past two weeks, I’ve learned that praise from our head coach comes about as often as a solar eclipse. But even though he pushes us hard and is tough as nails, he’s a nice guy when we’re not on the ice, and the man sure knows his hockey.

Forsberg sidles up to me as I head down the chute, ruffling my hair like I’m a five-year-old. “You’re fast, Wesley. Keep showing off that speed in practice, okay? I want you on my line.”

My heart does a crazy somersault. Jesus Christ. How is this my life?

But my good mood doesn’t stick. I’m scheduled to meet with one of the team publicists in thirty minutes, and depending on how that goes, practice might not be the only thing that’s over today. My career might end, too.

Before it even begins.

I haven’t changed my mind, though, no matter how many times Jamie has urged me to reconsider. I’m not giving him up. This next year might be tough for us, especially if my publicist goes all fire and brimstone on my ass to keep the relationship under wraps. But I know we can weather through it.

I love Jamie. I’ve always loved Jamie. And now that I know he feels the same way, I can’t wait to see him again. To live with him again.

After accepting the coaching job and informing Detroit of his decision, Jamie went back to Lake Placid for two weeks. He told me this plan when we were lying in my hotel room after sex. And even in that blissed-out state, I’d thought it was a terrible idea. “Don’t go,” I’d argued. “I just got you back.”

Smiling, he’d kissed me. “We can’t get into the apartment yet, anyway. And Pat needs the help. Plus, this means you can focus all your energy on impressing your coach.”

I miss the hell out of him, but I’ve done what he suggested. All I do is practice and talk to him on the phone at night. My lease on the condo began three days ago. I went shopping for the essentials—a king-sized mattress and a giant flat-screen TV. But that’s all I’m buying until Jamie comes back next week to help me pick everything out.

Actually, I found an armchair on the curb yesterday and hauled it upstairs. But when I set it in front of the living room windows I noticed that it wobbled.

I snapped a pic of the chair and texted it to Jamie with a note about finding it outside. His response was fast and furious: It has to go! People throw shit out for a reason! I bet you someone died on that chair!

Tonight’s agenda: getting rid of the death chair and going grocery shopping.

Look at me being all domestic. I’m kinda digging it.

After I’ve showered in the locker room and changed into my street clothes, I walk toward the elevator bank at the far end of the training arena. The PR guy agreed to meet me in the upstairs offices, saving me from having to trek to the team’s head offices on the other end of the city during rush hour.

He waits for me in the corridor when I step off the elevator. I’ve already met him once before. It was after I signed my contract, when he’d given me an info packet about the promotional events I’ll be expected to attend this season.

“Ryan,” he says warmly, extending his hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Frank,” I greet him as we shake hands. “Thanks for coming down to meet with me.”

“Anything for our new rookie superstar.” He grins and gestures for me to follow him.

A moment later, we’re seated in a small office with a view of the parking lot. Frank dons a wry look. “Not exactly the lap of luxury here. I can’t even offer you anything to drink.”

“That’s fine. I just chugged two bottles of water in the locker room.”

“I caught the end of practice. It looks like you’re meshing well with the other guys.”

“I think so,” I admit. “Hopefully Coach agrees.”

Frank smiles. “Trust me, kid, Hal loves you. I heard that when the coaches were going over the draft prospects, he refused to look at any other centers. You were his first and only choice.”

Pleasure shoots through me. Then guilt. Because the thought of disappointing my new coach makes me sick to my stomach.

But the thought of not having Jamie in my life makes me even sicker.

“So, listen. I had something important to discuss with you,” I start awkwardly.