"Listen, Dylan..." Even as she searched for the right words to adequately explain her worries, she shifted closer, drawn to him and not ready to lose his touch. Spending time with him away from the rink had started in the off-season when she'd helped some of the guys train for a sprint triathlon. Grabbing meals together had evolved out of that. And then the one on one time when he'd been hurt. But if that one on one time continued, resisting him would be impossible. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I want to, but you're just getting back and there's a lot going on, and to be honest, I have a lot to think about."
"Hey, there's no rush here. Let me get a couple games under my belt. I feel like things have been off kilter for the past few months and I need to get back on track. And after that, we'll... talk." The way his voice dropped suggested a lot more than simply talking and her skin burned to feel more.
Thoughts and cravings conflicted. She definitely needed more time to think. "Then I guess I'll see you here at ten o'clock tomorrow for the morning skate."
He loosened his hold and slowly slid his hand free, the achingly slow progress prolonged their contact. "I'll be here. But I'll be thinking about you tonight, Blair."
Want pooled in her blood, and her eyes fluttered closed. When she opened them, Dylan gave her a final smile and then he walked away.
She blew out a breath and watched him go. He was only thirty-one, the same as she. If he played for another six or eight years like he'd talked about wanting to do, and if he sustained any more concussions, what would his future hold? She couldn't shake the scary image of him becoming as debilitated as her dad. And she didn't want to be a caretaker for yet another person who was too stubborn to listen to medical advice. Maybe that was selfish, but she already felt stretched too thin.
But maybe she was getting ahead of herself there. She'd take her time and think, and then when it came down to talking, she would be honest.
And then she would see where they stood.
DYLAN STOOD IN THE tunnel with his teammates, restless, anxious, and so ready to get back on the ice. The atmosphere was electric. The fans were ramped up, and the intensity of the playoffs made everything feel bigger. He'd been on edge all day.
Six weeks was a long time away.
A staff member opened the door in the boards and waved him forward.
Finally, go time.
He led his teammates onto the ice. The roar of the crowd rose like a wave, building and building until it faded into the rock music blaring from the speakers. He took a lap of the Bedlam's half of the ice, ignoring the Tampa Bay players on the other side on the rink, and taking in the crowd.
He'd missed this. All those days and nights when symptoms had plagued him, all he'd wanted was to get back to the place he loved most. The cool air swirling around him, the smooth surface beneath his skates, the familiar blue jersey, the fans, his teammates, and the game itself.
As he stood between Celek and Leo for the National Anthem, he spied Blair and Peter at the bench. They'd been a huge part of his recovery. Especially Blair, with her care and concern, bringing him dinners, checking on him, keeping his spirits high when he sank too far down. He had to convince her to give him a chance.
But first, the Bedlam had a game to win.
Lining up for that first face-off had never felt so good. He won, poking the puck to Celek. Then joined the rush and chased it into the corner with two Tampa Bay players. His muscles tightened and shoulders hunched as he moved in and knocked the puck free of their skates. He hated turning his back to the ice now. Hated that he was playing with one ounce of worry. He couldn't get distracted wondering whether a hit was coming. He needed to focus only on executing the game plan. There was no room for fear.
Twisting, he fired the puck to Leo. The huge winger muscled through a defenseman, and his shot rang off the crossbar.
When play moved to the opposite end, Dylan headed to the bench for a line change.
Leo tapped his thigh until he shifted over enough for the winger to sit beside him. "You need to relax. You're playing too rigid."
Dylan huffed a sigh. His frustration at himself doubled. "I know."
"I have your back out there."
"I know that too." And that made him smile. He was bound to get hit, or could fall to the ice in a tangle of players. Cautious or timid play never worked out well.
As the game wore on, he relaxed.
On the last shift of the first period, Dylan and his line mates kept up the pressure in the Tampa Bay zone. The Tampa Bay goalie made a pad save on Leo's shot from the right circle but didn't hold on to the puck. Celek gained control and spun around. Dylan rushed toward the goalie, calculating where Celek would go. Tied up with a defenseman, he tapped it to Dylan. Handling the puck, he kept moving and his wrist shot sent the puck just past the goalie's pads and into the net.
The goal light and siren went off, and the crowd cheered. Getting the goal felt great. His first of the playoffs, but hopefully not his last. His teammates on the ice surrounded him in celebration, with hugs and taps of their helmets against his. He skated back to the bench and went down the line high-fiving
