“Oh. Um…” She checks her notes. “Oliver Levesque.”
The injured goalie? Hmm. I suppose he’s still a big name with the savior-of-the-franchise phenom status bestowed upon him in his rookie season last year. But that was before The Hit Heard Around the NHL. There’s talk he’ll be out this entire season with a vicious ACL tear.
“Levesque? Isn’t he on injured reserve right now?”
Hadley returns a dry look. “Uh, what’s injured reserve? Also, what’s hockey?”
“Right, sorry. Not your thing,” I say with a smile. “I just mean… Well, maybe that makes sense. His schedule is probably pretty clear at the moment.” Playoff hero to team PR whore? He can’t be happy about that.
Hadley’s face scrunches into a mix of admiration and disgust. “It’s adorable how much you know about hockey.”
“It’s criminal how much you don’t.”
“Perfect complements we are. It’s what makes us such a great team.”
I return her smile, but the mood settles again as she gets lost in her work and I get lost in my head. Because once it’s silent… there’s that horrible mirror again. I hear it shouting from across the room, reaching out invisible tentacles to reel me in. It wants me to look, always looking but never finding. Always seeing but never understanding.
She stares at no one.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe. This room is too big and too small and too bright and just too freaking much right now.
“Hey, so, I’m gonna take a walk before showtime. Clear my head. We have a few minutes, right?”
Hadley glances up, concern etched into her face. She nods slowly, her gaze locked on me. “You sure you’re okay?”
I force a smile—my killer, show-stopping one—and close the container of half-eaten salad. “Absolutely. Just, you know, with the pace lately, I need a minute. I’ll be back in time for touch-ups before we go out.”
“You want company?”
“No, I’ll be fine. You have a lot to do. In fact, keep them also.” I motion toward Brett and Walt stationed at the entrance.
“They won’t like you wandering around alone.”
I smirk and push to my feet. “Yes, well, they do like what I pay them, so they can suck it up.”
Once I escape that stifling mirror, the air comes a little easier. The practice building is smaller than the cavernous arenas I’m accustomed to, more laidback and intimate with its carpeted hallways and team memorabilia lining the walls. Best part, with the Trojans out of town on an East Coast road trip, this place is a ghost village except for the occasional maintenance worker or member of my crew. I’m sure the main rink area is packed with press and guests, but back here, I’m free to be no one. Gosh, I just want to be no one for a while.
I run my fingers along the wall as I wander the corridors like a new Disney princess in her first castle. If I started singing, would a handful of creepy talking rodents assemble? Maybe those annoyingly happy birds. See, no one talks about the excrement those rats and birds would leave behind. Still, I’ll take a fake castle over a real one any day. The deserted conference room could be my pretend dining hall. The training rooms, my royal spa. Oh, and the weight room—
“Fuck!”
I stop cold at the cry—very close, very male, and very violent. Peeking through the wall of glass to the team gym, I find two men glaring intently at each other.
“Ollie, you need to stop for today.”
“I can do it!”
“I’m serious, man. You’ve been at it since the crack of dawn and—”
“I can fucking do it, Carlos!”
The older man grunts and steps back as the younger one lifts his right leg to balance on his left. He lowers about an inch, holding the position for a split second before buckling. Carlos lurches forward to catch him before he hits the ground. A long string of French expletives rushes from his lips as his trainer helps him to a nearby weight bench. I don’t speak French, but I’m fluent in frustration.
The player shoves his hands in his hair, pulling hard while the older man looks on with a mixture of sympathy and severity.
“You’re pushing too hard, Oliver. You have to follow the protocol.”
“I know.” Oliver doesn’t look up, his fingers gripping harder in his medium-length brown locks.
“Look, I get how difficult this is, but it’s imperative that we not rush this.”
“I know.”
“There’s a reason for the protocol. If you push too hard, you’ll re-injure—”
“I fucking know, okay?” he snaps, blasting a glare at the trainer. His dark eyes flare with anger. Pain. Frustration. Failure. I bet he despises mirrors right now as well.
He releases a heavy sigh and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just…”
Carlos’ expression softens as he clasps Oliver’s shoulder. “It’s hell, man. I know it is, but you’re gonna get through it. We’re getting you back on the ice, got it?”
Oliver returns a weak nod that tugs at something inside me. In fact, my entire stomach feels clenched in one giant knot.
“Okay, well you have about a half hour to get ready for that meet-and-greet. Grab a shower and clear your head. You did good today.”
Oliver huffs a dry laugh as the trainer moves toward the exit. I’m far enough from the door that the man doesn’t see me when he takes off in the other direction. Oliver clearly doesn’t know he has an audience either when he swats at his eyes. Tears of pain or anger, I don’t know, but they only last a second. Cursing again, he pushes himself to his feet and rips off his sweat-soaked shirt to wipe his face.
Maybe I’m a creeper, but the fires of hell couldn’t chase me from this view. My life revolves around beautiful people and beautiful bodies, but there’s something about this man’s raw power combined with the raw pain on his face that takes my breath away. Every muscle in his form is trained to its flawless peak, and yet physical perfection can’t overcome the
