Blair glanced at Dylan. That was exactly why she wanted him to retire after the season. Hopefully, he would view her dad as a cautionary tale and make the right choice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GAME SEVEN OF THE CONFERENCE Finals seemed to be never-ending. At least they were at home and had the support of the Bedlam crowd. As the third overtime period of the night drew to a close, Dylan made his way to the bench for a line change. He was wiped out. Completely. Playing essentially two full games within six hours wasn't easy. During the intermissions, he and his teammates had gobbled down energy bars and gels loaded with electrolytes, glutamine, and other much-needed nutrients to replenish depleted energy levels, but his muscles protested every movement.
He sat between Celek and Leo, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and took a couple of shots. "Someone needs to score."
It wasn't just the extra periods of play. Since he'd returned to the lineup, keeping up had been harder. He'd told himself that he just needed to kick the rust off, that in a couple of games, he'd get his legs back, but no. Thirteen games in, and he still had to make a conscious effort to keep up. He ignored the niggling thought that things hadn't been this way before that last concussion.
Leo took the bottle after he'd finished. "We need to fucking win this game."
Otherwise, the season would be over, and none of them were ready for that to happen. If they won this round, they'd move on to the Cup finals. The last step to winning it all.
He scanned a glance over his teammates. They were drenched in sweat. Exhausted. Starting to make sloppy mistakes. Slater overturned the puck to a Washington center and play moved down to the Bedlam's zone. The guy ripped off a shot and the puck fired at the net. Dylan winced and his heartbeat stuttered, but Rod blocked the shot and then fell on the puck, covering it and stopping play.
Coach tapped Dylan's shoulder. "First line."
He, Celek, and Leo rose and climbed over the boards. In the corner of his vision, Blair stood at the end of the bench, hands gripped, and gaze locked on him. The smile she sent his way gave him a surge of fresh energy. He skated to the face-off circle to the left of Rod.
Time to win this thing.
He lost the puck to Washington's top center, but Leo barreled into the guy and Celek came away with the puck. The winger flew down the ice and Dylan followed. They had a two-on-one facing a Washington defenseman. Celek passed it back to Dylan, and he fired it across the ice to Leo. His line mate shot it at the net and the puck slipped just inside the left post.
The red light came on. The horn sounded.
They'd won.
Excitement and elation surged through his muscles as he threw himself at Leo and Celek, hugging them hard. Hits came from all sides, jostling him as their teammates swarmed in to join the celebration.
The cheering crowd made the moment even better. It was always good to win at home.
After lining up to shake the other team's hands, a hockey tradition that he loved, he waited by the door to congratulate each of his teammates individually. He was so proud of his guys.
Post-game interviews, contrast baths, and finally more substantial food, helped him unwind and recover, but that tiredness remained. By the time he and Blair reached his home, he was having trouble staying awake. He grunted goodnight to Rod and Arielle, and pulled Blair into his room.
"I want you." He spoke through a yawn. "Give me a few minutes to wake up more."
"You're exhausted. Lie down and let me work on your muscles. You relax. After all, you guys played the equivalent of two full games." She straddled his waist and then her capable hands worked magic into his back muscles.
Dylan pulled a pillow under his head. He fought to keep his eyes open, but they grew heavier. He let them close and promised himself just another moment and sank into the darkness and the seduction of sleep.
The soft click of a door closing woke him. He turned his head, groaning at the dull ache thudding in his skull. Light peeked into the room through the gaps in the curtains. A glance at the bedside clock showed that he'd slept for a solid ten hours. So much for spending time with Blair before he'd crashed. He stretched his arms and legs then realized she wasn't beside him.
A wave of dizziness washed over him when he stood. Cold fingers of unease stroked through his stomach. It was too similar to the dizziness he'd experienced after his concussions. The headache was too. He rubbed his hands over his face. Maybe they'd happened due to low blood sugar or dehydration. That could be. His last meal had been hours ago. And that game had been so long and grueling.
After cleaning up in the bathroom, he pulled on shorts and a t-shirt and made his way through the quiet house. Rod, Arielle, and Blair's voices led him to the kitchen.
"Morning." He bypassed the coffee pot and pulled a pitcher of water and a carton of orange juice from the fridge, then poured a glass of each. Downing them quickly by the sink, he looked out over the yard, trying to remember how many times he'd gotten hit or had doled out a check.
Mentioning it to Blair or Rod would only make them worry. He'd monitor himself for now.
"Dylan, come and eat." Arielle waved her hand over the table. Someone had cooked. Plates of toast and eggs and bowls of fruit and yogurt
