Push (Colorado Storm Hockey #3)

Chapter 26

26

HUX

Focus, Hux. You’ve got a job to do.

The puck drops, and just like that, we’re in the thick of it. Florida’s coming at us hard, trying to get revenge on us for shutting them out in Game 3. But we’re not giving an inch. Not tonight. We desperately need to tie this series.

Denver’s crowd is fucking loud. But it all feels hollow without Ada’s voice among them. I shake off the pang in my chest I feel when I think about her at home with her family, grieving for her grandmother.

As I slam a Florida forward into the boards, my mind flashes back to Lena’s hospital room. The chaos, the alarms, Ada’s screams. I blink hard, forcing the image away. Now’s not the time.

“Hux! Heads up!” Mac’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I react on instinct, intercepting a pass meant for Florida’s star center.

I clear the puck down the ice, buying us some breathing room, and skate back into our zone.

The first period ends scoreless and I’m as happy as I can be about that. I did my job. In the locker room, I check my phone while eating a protein bar. No messages from Ada. I try not to read too much into it, but worry gnaws at my gut.

“She doing okay?” Mac asks and nods at my phone. He’s the only person I told about what happened. I haven’t even told Coach Bliss. I don’t want the team to think I’m distracted at the most critical moment of our season.

I shrug and then shake my head. Ada is not doing okay.

“She’ll be okay,” Mac says and pats me on the shoulder.

I let out a deep breath and hope that he’s right. Seeing Ada in pain feels like someone’s ripped my heart out. I can’t possibly explain this out loud, even though Mac, of all people, would understand.

The game intensifies in the second period. Florida scores early on, but we answer back quickly. I assist on the goal, threading a pass through two defenders to Wags. He puts the puck in the back of the net.

By the third period, we’re up 3-1, but Florida’s not going down without a fight. They’re doing the absolute most to score, but Hawk is holding them. He’s amazing.

With five minutes left in the third period, Florida’s defense gets caught on a bad change and I end up alone with the puck. It’s just me and their goalie. I have to go for this. I fake left, go right, and lift the puck over his glove.

The arena erupts as the red light flashes and the horn blows. 4-1. My teammates mob me as our celly song begins, but all I can think about is how much I wish Ada was here to see it.

As the last seconds tick down, a strange mix of emotions washes over me. I’m proud of our performance and that we’ve tied up the series. I’m weirded out—and maybe a little panicked—that the goal I scored might very well be my last in professional hockey. And I’m feeling all of this while aching for Ada. Compartmentalizing has gone out the window.

After the game, there’s still no word from Ada. I quickly type out a message to her before hitting the showers. Thinking of you. Call if you need anything. Anything at all.

I hit send, then add, I miss you .

As I head home, the weight of the past few days settles on me. The image of Ada, broken and sobbing in my arms, haunts me. I’ve never felt so helpless, so desperate to take someone else’s pain away.

And that’s when it hits me with the force of a blindside check. I’m in love with her. Not just attracted to her, not just fond of her. I’m in love with Adaline Khoury.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like everything finally makes sense.

The flight back to Colorado all the way from Florida feels shorter than the triple overtime we just endured. Every muscle in my body aches. It’s a reminder that I’m no longer a young man. I’m just not cut out for that much ice time. We fought hard and won. 2-1 in the third overtime. Mac slipped one past their goalie on a beautiful pass from Wags.

We’re one win away from the Cup and I’m one win away from going out a champion.

But as the plane touches down in Denver, it’s not the Cup on my mind. It’s Ada.

I find her at Teta Lena’s house, surrounded by boxes and her grandmother’s clothes. Ada looks small and fragile. My chest tightens.

“Hey,” I say softly. I don’t want to startle her.

Ada looks up, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. “Hi,” she whispers. She manages a weak smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

I crouch down and place a hand on her shoulder. My knees ache, but I don’t care. “How are you holding up? ”

She leans into my touch, and I pull her into a hug. It feels so good to hold her again. I missed her so much.

“It’s been hard. There’s so much to do, and I just…I keep expecting Teta to walk in and tell me I’m doing it all wrong and take over the job.”

I chuckle softly while running my hand down her back. “Sounds like your grandmother.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“What can I do?” I ask, looking around at the chaos of boxes and clothes.

Ada sighs, gesturing to a stack of boxes in the corner. “Those need to go out to the garage. But they’re heavy. I was waiting for Mark to take them.”

I’m already moving before she finishes the sentence. “I got it.”

As I carry the boxes out, I hear Ada on the phone, her voice a mix of exhaustion and forced cheer. When I come back in, she’s hanging up.

“That was my dad,” she explains. “His flight gets in tonight. I should probably go pick him up, but I don’t know if I can face the airport crowds right now.”

“I’ll do it, A,” I offer without hesitation.

Ada’s eyes widen. “Nik, you don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” I cut her off gently. “Let me do this for you, okay?”

She nods, relief evident on her face. “Thank you. Although it’s not exactly the way I thought you would meet my dad for the first time.”

She says it with a laugh, which is so like her. Honestly, it’s like all of her family. I think they’d rather joke than cry.

“Me either, honey,” I say, surprised at how naturally that rolls off my tongue.

We work in comfortable silence for a while, sorting through Teta’s things. Now and then, Ada will pause, holding something and smiling softly at some memory. I find myself watching her more than I’m actually helping, memorizing the curve of her cheek or the way her hair falls across her forehead.

Ada breaks me out of her spell. “I heard you won. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. It was a tough one. Three overtimes.” I’m not sure why I feel a mix of pride…and guilt. Like it doesn’t feel fair for me to feel this way when Ada is so sad.

“That must have been brutal.”

I shrug and downplay it. “Nothing an ice bath and about twelve hours of sleep won’t fix.”

Ada’s quiet for a moment, fiddling with a colorful scarf in her hands. “Nik, the funeral is tomorrow. I know it’s a lot to ask with everything you have going on, but…”

My stomach drops. I’d been dreading this conversation. “Ada, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it. We have a mandatory team meeting that conflicts with her funeral and then we have practice after.”

The hurt in her eyes is like a punch to the gut. “Oh, okay,” she says flatly.

“It’s just, for something this big, there’s an expectation that I’ll be there. I need to be focused, and?—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts me off and turns away. “I understand. It’s an important game. Like really important.”

But I can hear in her voice that it’s not fine. Not at all. And suddenly, I hate myself for this.

It feels all too familiar. Hockey vs. marriage. It’s the same dance Debbie and I did for years, and look how that turned out. But this is different. Ada is different. And I’m different too, aren’t I?

“Ada, I?—”

“You should probably go,” she says, still not looking at me. “I have a lot to do here. And don’t worry about my dad. I’ll have Mark pick him up. ”

“Are you sure you want me to leave?”

“Yes,” she says, unable to meet my eyes as she folds a blouse.

I stand there, frozen, wanting to say something, anything, to make this right. But the words won’t come. Finally, I nod, even though she can’t see me, and turn to leave.

As I get into my jeep, I feel like absolute shit. I’ve let her down. Again. Some husband I’m turning out to be.

My phone buzzes as I start the engine.

Debbie: Good luck tomorrow, Hux. Rooting for you.

Once, a text like this from Debbie would have meant the world to me. Now, it just underscores how much has changed. How much I’ve changed.

Because the only person whose support I really want right now is Ada’s. And I might have just pushed her away for good.

I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. Between the triple overtime and tossing and turning all night, my body’s screaming at me. But it’s not the physical pain that’s got me fucked up. It’s the silence from Ada.

I check my phone for the millionth time. Still nothing beyond her text from last night. Sorry, busy with family. Talk later.

Fuck.

I drag myself out of bed, trying to shake off the funk. I should be focused, getting my head in the game. Instead, all I can think about is Ada and the funeral.

The funeral that starts at the same time as our team meeting.

I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over Coach Bliss’s number. This goes against everything I’ve ever done in my career. Team first, always. But Ada.. .

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit call.

“Hux?” Coach’s gruff voice answers. “Everything okay?”

I take a deep breath. “Coach, I need to miss the meeting and practice today.”

There’s a long pause. “That’s not like you, Hux. What’s going on?”

And so I tell him. About Ada, about our Vegas wedding, about Teta Lena. About how I think I might have found happiness in this new marriage, and how I can’t let Ada go through this alone.

When I finish, there’s another long silence. Then Coach sighs. “Hux, you know how important this game is.”

“I know, Coach. But this…is more important.”

Another pause. Then, “Go. Be with your wife. But I need you focused tomorrow, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I hang up and relief washes over me. Then I’m in my closet, pulling out the black suit I wore to Kyla’s wedding. It still smells faintly of Ada’s perfume.

As I knot my tie, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look different. Older, maybe. Or just more human.

I grab my keys, giving Max a quick scratch behind the ears. “Wish me luck, buddy,” I mutter.

As I drive to the church, the only thing on my mind is Ada. Not hockey. Not the game tomorrow.

I park and take a deep breath, straightening my tie one last time. I see Ada standing with her family outside the church, gathered near the hearse.

My heart clenches at the sight of her. She looks small, vulnerable, surrounded by her grieving family. But beautiful. Always beautiful.