Push (Colorado Storm Hockey #3)

Chapter 6

6

HUX

The final buzzer goes off and my body loosens up. My breath fogs up my eye shield, so I pull off a glove and give it a quick wipe down. It’s a good win for us, and especially for me. It felt like I was in my prime again with the way I prevented so many shots on goal. The fans seem to appreciate my performance too. They cheer extra loud for me as I hug our captain, Mac, on my way off the ice. The TV crew keeps me behind with Hawk and Foxy for the three stars of the game ceremony. I get the number one star, which I thought would go to Hawk for sure. That means I’m getting the chains tonight in the locker room.

I skate around the ice with my stick held high in the air, and then sit down for a brief interview from the bench. But even as I give my usual remarks about teamwork, I can feel that familiar hollowness creep into my chest. It’s the same old story and it’s been like this for more years than I can remember.

As I walk through the tunnel, my hand involuntarily rubs at my chest and I worry that I’m going to end the night having an anxiety attack.

In the locker room, the guys are still celebrating, giving fist bumps, and recalling aspects of the game. Their laughter echoes off walls as I make my way to my stall. Their stalls are adorned with photos of their families, while mine only contains my clothes and my gear.

Before I undress, Hawk grabs for the symbolic chains we use to recognize the best player on the ice. He often gets the chains himself, as our phenom goalie, but like I predicted, they’re headed my way tonight. He hands them over and jokes, “Don’t worry, Hux. I’m not going to make a big deal about it.”

“Thanks,” I murmur and take the chains. I hold them up and address the team. “Thank you all.”

That gets a round of applause and a few hefty pats on the back from my teammates. Then they go back to their revelry and I carry on with my routine in my best attempt to detach from everything, especially the hollowness that gnaws at me after games.

I’m smart enough to know that it’s Pavlovian, and stems from the time I still lived under my dad’s roof. The only safe space I had was while I was on the ice and when the game ended or the practice ended, I had no choice but to go home and face him. It would make me panic and fill me with so much dread and fear. I’ve long since had to go home to that man, but the memory of his abuse is still so vivid.

No matter how many pucks I cleared, no matter how many scouts were interested in me, it didn’t change a damn thing. If anything, it probably made him more angry, more jealous, and more resentful. He’d never been a good dad, but after mom died, he let his emotions rule him. He let alcohol rule him, too. And he couldn’t stand the sight of me.

My shoulder is aching from an old injury and so I methodically roll it front to back and then back to front. My body is a constant reminder that my time playing hockey is running out. Hockey has been my whole life and it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. So what am I supposed to do when it all ends?

For the past twenty years, I’ve been proving my dad wrong. I don’t think he ever thought I’d make it to the top, but I did. I made it my mission. I’ll never forget the night things came to blows between us, when I actually fought back and threw punches. I was sixteen and I’d had enough. And as I towered over him, while he cowered on the floor, he said something to me that haunts me to this day. “You think you’re tough now, boy? You’re nothing. You’ll never be anything more than a dumb jock with a few lucky breaks.”

That’s when I left home. I crashed on a teammate’s couch until I got into the Juniors program and then moved in with a billet family. I never looked back. Since then, hockey was it for me. I poured everything I had into it. I got drafted at 18, directly into the league, landing first in L.A., then off to Colorado a few years after that. But no matter how far I run, no matter how much recognition or trophies I receive, his voice is always there, whispering in the back of my mind that I’m worthless.

As I escape to the showers, I try to block out all the other guys. The hot water beats down on my aching muscles, but it doesn’t steer my thoughts in a better direction. I have a genuine fear that I’m too broken and bitter to ever have a real life outside of this game. And I fear that I’m too much like him.

I shouldn’t have said those things to Debbie when she called about the annulment. It was petty, vindictive. The kind of lashing out he would do. But I couldn’t control myself. The idea of her erasing our marriage, moving on like it meant nothing…it cut deep. Deeper than I want to admit.

And now I’ve gone and married a stranger in some harebrained attempt to one-up my ex. Real mature, Hux . I can practically hear my father’s sneer. Stupid boy, making stupid mistakes. You haven’t changed a bit.

I can’t change the past, can’t undo the damage that’s already been done. But I can fix this, at least. I’ll call the lawyer back tomorrow, get the annulment papers drawn up. Ada seems like a wonderful person. A person who, in different circumstances, I could fall in love with, a person I could have a proper relationship with. But that’s not my reality and she doesn’t deserve to get dragged into my mess.

After my shower, I towel off and get dressed as quickly as I can. I just need to get through any media requests, then I can go home to some peace and quiet. Maybe take Max for a long midnight walk in the woods.

As I step out into the hallway, I’m approached by one of the beat reporters who is always around and her cameraman. I plaster on my media smile, the one that never quite reaches my eyes.

“Hux, great game tonight,” she says. “Can you talk about your third assist in the second period?”

I give the standard spiel, something about teamwork and playing our game. But my mind is miles away, still tangled up in thoughts of Ada and the future I know I can’t have.

“Rumor has it this might be your last season with the Storm. Are you planning to retire?” the reporter asks.

I flinch, the question hitting a little too close to home. “No comment,” I mutter and take off toward the exit.

I need to get out of here and clear my head. I need to be in nature. As I slide into my jeep, I take a deep breath, my fingers clenching around the steering wheel. I can do this. I can put all these overwhelming thoughts out of my head. Even my thoughts about Ada and our drunken mistake of a marriage.

But even as I pull out of the parking lot and start heading home, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’m running scared.

Ada doesn’t leave my thoughts, though. She hasn’t for days. I’m curious about her. What does she do? Where does she live? Does she live alone, like me? Does she stay up late or rise early? I have a desire to hear her voice again. And while it would be perfectly reasonable to let my attorney handle everything and get in touch with her, I selfishly want to call her myself about it.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling over at a scenic overlook. The city sprawls below and she’s down there somewhere. My fingers hover over my phone. I shouldn’t call. It’s late, and we’re supposed to be ending this…whatever it is. But the need to hear her voice, to connect with someone who doesn’t know the broken parts of me, overwhelms my better judgment.

She picks up on the third ring, the sound of clattering glass in the background. “Hello,” she answers.

“Ada, it’s Nikolas Huxley. Is now a bad time?” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling awkward.

“No, not at all. How’s it going?” she asks accompanied by the sound of more clattering.

“Good. I just wanted to give you a quick update on the annulment situation.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” There’s a strained edge to her voice, like she’s trying to hold something heavy. “What did the lawyer say?”

“I left a message for him earlier, so hopefully I’ll hear back soon,” I lie. Not wanting to tell her I already heard back from him, but I sent his call to voicemail. “I just…I wanted you to know that I’m on top of it. I don’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary.”

She laughs, but it sounds forced. “Well, I appreciate the update. And the sentiment. I know this isn’t exactly how either of us planned to?—”

There’s a sudden crash on her end of the line, followed by a string of muttered curses. “Shit, sorry, I dropped the phone. One of these damn shelves just collapsed on me.”

“Are you okay?” I’m already reaching for my keys, concern overriding any lingering awkwardness. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine, just frustrated. My workshop is falling apart,” she sighs, and I can picture her blowing a stray curl out of her face. “I really need to find someone to help me with all these improvement projects in my workshop. Mark is too busy these days.”

Mark? Who’s Mark? And what kind of workshop? What on earth does she do for a living? I once again remember that I know absolutely nothing about her. Well, not exactly nothing. I know the way her lips feel. I know the scent of her skin.

“I can come help you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can second-guess them. “I mean, if you want. I’m pretty handy with a drill.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment I’m sure she’s going to politely decline. But then she surprises me with a soft, almost shy laugh. “You know what? That would actually be really great. If you’re sure you don’t mind. I know you had a game tonight.”

She knows? Interesting. I’m tempted to ask her if she watched me play, but I hold back. “I don’t mind at all.” I’m already sliding behind the wheel, my earlier exhaustion forgotten. “Text me the address”

“I will. It’s called Orange Blossom Botanicals. Thank you, Nik. Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”

I grin into the phone, feeling lighter than I have all night. “Hey, what are husbands for, right?”

She groans, but I can hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t push it, Huxley. When you get here, come around to the back alley entrance. It will be unlocked.”

The drive to Ada’s shop passes in a blur, my mind racing with possibilities. It’s crazy, I know, to be this excited about playing handyman for a woman I barely know. But something about Ada brings out a side of me I didn’t even realize I had missed. A side that wants to be needed, to be useful in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.

As I pull up outside the storefront, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden butterflies in my stomach. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in ages and I’m truly surprised that I’m feeling them. This doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m just here to help a person in need, that’s all. I drive back around the building to the alleyway entrance and park.

The back door to her shop has a sign on it, so I know I’m in the right spot. There’s a flight of stairs going up to what appears to be an apartment. There are pots upon pots placed all across the balcony filled with herbs. Is this where she lives?

Before I open the door, I give a quick knock in an attempt not to catch her off guard. As I pull it open and see Ada’s grateful smile, her eyes warm and bright in the fluorescent lights of her workshop, I am so glad I called. Somehow, just seeing her again makes all the tension in my chest loosen up.

The moment I step into Ada’s workshop, my senses are overwhelmed. The air is thick with the heady aroma of flowers, and something warm and spicy I can’t quite place. Cardamom, maybe, or some sort of clove. I thought this might be a florist shop at first, but it looks more like a laboratory.

“Sorry about the mess,” she says with a rueful grin, gesturing at the chaos around her. “If only you’d seen it this morning when it was tidy in here, but I’ve been working and I wasn’t exactly expecting company. And my damn shelf collapsed. I barely caught it in time.”

“No worries.” I weave my way through the jumble of equipment, trying not to stare too openly at the way her apron clings to her curves. “So, which shelf are we dealing with?”

She points to one that is installed above a workbench. There’s a bunch of boxes positioned beneath it to hold it up. “That one. I think the screws just stripped out of the drywall. ”

I nod, already mentally running through the tools I’ll need. “Got a drill somewhere in all this?”

She rummages through a drawer and emerges with a cordless drill, looking triumphant. “Here you go. And I think I have some wall anchors around here, too. Hang on.”

As she searches, I take a closer look at the various jars and bottles lining the shelves. Each one is labeled with a neat, handwritten tag, the ingredients listed in a looping, feminine script. “Rosehip and Vitamin C Serum,” one reads. “Rosewater Toner,” says another.

“Did you make all these yourself?” I ask, picking up a small bottle of something called “Stress Relief Tonic” and turning it over in my hands.

Ada looks up from her rummaging, a proud little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I did. It’s kind of my thing. I’ve always been fascinated by the power of plants and natural remedies. My teta taught me.”

“Teta?” I ask, unfamiliar with that word.

“Oh, my grandmother. That’s what some Lebanese people call their grandmas. It’s what my family calls mine.”

“You’re Lebanese?” I ask, fascinated.

“Yep, on my dad’s side, but it’s been a huge thing in my life. Hence all these things,” she says and waves her hand around. Like I said, my teta, her name is Lena, taught me everything she learned from her mother.

Ada comes over to stand beside me, her shoulder brushing mine as she reaches out to pluck the bottle from my grasp. “This one’s a blend of adaptogens and nervines. Helps calm the nervous system and reduce stress.”

I raise an eyebrow, impressed. “You sound like you really know your stuff.”

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. “Well, after my teta taught me what she knew, I started studying herbalism in a really serious way and I’ve been at that for many years now. It’s my passion, I guess you could say.”

“Got anything for a sore shoulder?” I find myself asking, which isn’t like me. I never like to talk about my injuries.

There’s that twinkle in her eye, the one from the dance floor in the Irish pub. “I do.”

I watch as she carefully plucks a jar from a shelf and she runs a finger over the label. There’s something so beautiful about seeing her in her element like this. I never would have guessed that this is what she does for a living, but now it somehow makes perfect sense, like I’ve known all along.

“This is a balm made with turmeric and some other anti-inflammatory herbs. It will definitely help your sore shoulder. I’d apply it for you, but you’re wearing that suit.”

Without a word, I slip off the jacket and start to unbutton my shirt. Ada’s eyes widen, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she watches me with a mix of surprise and amusement. I chuckle at her reaction, feeling strangely emboldened by the easy rapport we seem to have struck up in such a short time.

As I shrug off half my shirt, revealing the bruises mottling my skin from the game earlier, I see Ada’s expression shift to one of concern. She steps closer but hesitates to touch me at first. I give her a quick nod and she makes contact. Her touch is feather light as she applies the balm to my aching shoulder and then she works the salve into my skin with care. I let out a low groan of relief. The scent of turmeric and herbs fills the small space between us, mingling with the heady aroma of her perfume. That same citrus and cedar she was wearing in Las Vegas. It’s intoxicating and overwhelming in the best possible way.

“Right here?” Ada whispers as she applies pressure to a particular spot on my shoulder.

“Yes,” I say and close my eyes, letting myself enjoy the sensation of her hands on my skin. It’s been a long time since I was touched by someone like this, beyond my physical therapist and trainers.

When I open them, her wide eyes meet mine. The tension between us is palpable and suddenly the air seems heavy as I drag in a breath. It takes me a moment to realize that she’s stopped working the balm into my shoulder and that her hand is now resting on my pectoral muscle, just above my heart. It rises and falls with each breath I take as we hold each other’s gaze until she blinks and breaks the spell.

She shifts her focus back to the jar and seals it carefully. Then she places it in my hands. “There, that should help. You should take this with you.”

“Let me pay you for it,” I say, my tone gruff and tight.

“Nope, call it payment for the work you’re about to do,” she says, and then winks.

She digs through another drawer and pulls out a pack of wall anchors with a triumphant grin. “Found them. Ready to get to work?”

I nod as I slip my shirt back on and button it back up about halfway. “Sure am, boss.”

I go to work fixing the shelf and Ada is there every step of the way, never quite leaving my space. Our hands brush against each other more than is probably necessary and every time it sends some interesting feelings up my arm. I thought feelings like this had turned off in me years ago. She seems to have a reaction to me too, because her face is glowing under this light. I desperately want to know what she’s thinking, but we’re working so quietly that I’m afraid to break the silence.

Focus, Hux, I scold myself, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. But it’s hard, with Ada so close and the memory of our whirlwind wedding night still fresh in my mind. I keep remembering what it was like to kiss her.

By the time we finish, the shelf is sturdy and secure, and Ada is beaming up at me with undisguised gratitude. “Thank you so much, Nik. You really saved me tonight. I’d have to call a handyman first thing tomorrow.”

“Anytime,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. “I’m just glad I could help.”

Ada’s smile is infectious, lighting up the workshop and making me feel lighter somehow. It’s strange how comfortable I feel around her, like we’ve known each other for much longer than the few hours we interacted in Las Vegas. As we clean up our tools and put everything back in its place, a comfortable silence settles between us.

I catch Ada stealing glances at me now and then. Her gaze lingering on my face before darting away when our eyes meet. The way she tries to be subtle about it is endearing and it causes warmth to spread through my chest at the thought that maybe she’s as naturally drawn to me as I am to her.

Before I can dwell too much on that thought, Ada speaks up. “So, Nik, what made you decide to become a hockey player?”

I blink a few times, taken aback by the question. It’s a story I rarely share, especially these days. But there’s something in Ada’s eyes, something genuine and curious, that makes me want to open up to her.

“Well,” I start, my voice softer than before, “hockey was never just a game for me.” I let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck as I think about the best way to word this. “It was…an escape.”

“An escape from what?” she sincerely asks.

This is not something I talk about with anybody. Hell, even Debbie never got the full story. “A tough childhood,” I answer and leave it at that.

Ada listens intently, her expression one of empathy. “I see,” she says softly .

“Yeah,” I continue, feeling weight pressing down on me with each word. “Hockey was my way out.”

She must sense that I don’t want to say more because she blinks a few times and says quietly, “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

I nod, not wishing to say much more, and I’m sort of desperate for a subject change. She takes the hint and walks me to the back door. When we reach it, she hesitates, biting her lip like she’s debating something.

“Listen,” she says finally, her voice soft and uncertain. “I know things between us are complicated, to say the least. But I want you to know how much I appreciate you coming here tonight. It means a lot to me.”

I swallow hard, my heart suddenly pounding in my throat. “Well, I am your husband after all,” I tease to lessen the tension I’m feeling. “It’s the least I could do.”

She holds up a hand to me mid-sentence. “Please, don’t even. Lord knows I could never return the favor as your wife. It would be massively disappointing.”

I shake my head. “That’s the second time you’ve said something like that. I’m not sure why you think that’s true.”

“Because I spend all my time doing this,” she says, motioning to a table strewn with bottles and bowls. “All my old boyfriends didn’t like that too much.”

“They’re fools,” I tell her, and I mean that wholeheartedly. Any man who would let someone passionate about her work walk away is an absolute fool.

She gives me one of her sweet crooked smiles. “Okay, enough brownie points for you tonight. Goodnight, husband.”

“Goodnight, wife,” I play along but like saying it. It feels like a long time since I’ve been able to say that word and feel okay. “And lock this door behind me. Got it?”

That makes her smile. “Got it,” she says and winks at me .

This time, as I walk away from her, I look back over my shoulder and watch as she closes the door. I hear it lock and my chest loosens. As I start my drive home, I have a small smile on my face.