Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

15. Zach

15

Zach

“You ready for this?” Matt asks when I climb into his truck for my first day of practice since my injury.

Three long weeks without hockey.

“You have no fucking idea,” I reply with an exhale of breath. “I wish I could actually practice.”

I’m in the next stage of concussion protocol, so I can skate on my own in a yellow contact-free jersey, which I’ll sport for the foreseeable future. It’s a tease, getting on the ice but not being able to play. Still, I’m relieved to be one step closer, and that my recovery is moving in the right direction.

“It’ll come,” he says. “You’re back fast for a hit like that.”

Matt pulls out of his long winding driveway onto an empty street. By ten a.m., this neighborhood becomes as quiet as the moment before hell unleashes in a horror movie. Kids are in school and parents are at work. I learned the rhythm of this place while on the sidelines.

“Thanks for letting me crash. It would’ve been hell recovering alone.”

He slaps me on the shoulder. “Of course, man. You’re family. You know that.”

My stomach lurches. If I was a good friend and teammate, I wouldn’t hit on his sister behind his back. I’d own the feelings continuing to grow every moment I’m around her. But I know what would happen if I did—he’d cut me out of my life for crossing the line. And Finley would stand by her family. I’d lose them both.

“I want to thank you,” Matt goes on as he merges onto the highway. “Gem told me you’ve been good to Finley. Not that I thought you wouldn’t be, but… she’s had a rough couple years, and she doesn’t know many people here. She deserves good people in her life.”

My heart stops beating for an excruciatingly long second before powering back on. “I–I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it. You warned Jennings and Volk to stay away from her.”

Matt laughs. “I was fucking around with Volk. I’m not sure the guy realizes women other than Kennedy even exist. I warned Princeton because he had that look on his face, and Finley doesn’t need any of that shit right now.”

I know I shouldn’t push the issue and raise his suspicions, but I can’t help myself. “What shit?”

Matt hits his indicator and glances over his shoulder before switching lanes. “Guys hitting on her, especially my teammates. She got mixed up with a real asshole in the past. I won’t let it happen again. I know it’s driving a wedge between us, but I can deal with her anger as long as she’s safe.”

“Jennings wouldn’t hurt her,” I manage to force out. I will never hurt her .

The vice in my stomach tightens so intensely, I curl into myself.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Matt pulls over to the side of the road to check on me. “I can take you home if you’re not ready.”

I shake my head violently. His kindness makes the guilt worse. “No, no. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have eaten so much this morning, that’s all.”

His eyebrows draw together. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” I force myself to straighten in my seat and nod toward the road. “I’m good. Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”

Matt laughs. “Yeah, I don’t want to have to discipline you on your first day back.”

He cranks the radio as I stare out the window, trying to forget our conversation before I vomit in my captain’s car. By the time we reach the arena twenty minutes later, I’ve managed to compartmentalize everything but hockey, as I’ve trained to do my entire life. I send guilt to the same place I send pain from injuries and self-doubt after a bad game.

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” Jennings calls when I walk into the Wolves locker room.

“Briggsy!” A chorus of shouts echoes around the room, the voices blending in a wave of resounding support and happiness. And damn, I’m relieved to be back with my hockey family, the guys I get in the trenches with day in and day out, all working toward the same goal.

“Hey, boys!”

Unsurprisingly, the Irish accent of Callan O’Boyle, who we affectionately call Boy-O, hits decibels above the rest of us. He’s the hype man every team needs, especially when shit gets hard. I expected to walk into one of his pranks, but he must be worried about me.

“How ye feelin’?” Boy-O asks after I plunk down in my stall. He doesn’t look up, continuing to wrap tape around his stick.

I strip off my clothes to change into practice gear. “I haven’t been nauseous in a week, which is a good sign.”

Hockey players like to follow superstitions, ranging from the clothes they wear to the food they eat pregame to their warm-up routines. I’ve never focused on that stuff until now. There’s more I could say to Boy-O, but for the first time, I’m worried about jinxing my recovery.

“So you’re finally going to get out of Cap’s hair, eh?” he smirks, stirring shit like usual.

Matt halts a conversation with Volk midsentence to reply. “You all know that’s not up to me.”

“Exactly why I remain a bachelor,” Lepel chimes in from the other side of the locker room. He likes to remind us of his perpetual singledom, as if any of us needs it. I’ll never forget the sight of his bare white ass as he plowed into one of Gemma’s bridesmaids.

“I’m a good roommate!” I protest.

Volk scoffs loudly, which draws deep belly laughs from the team. They’re all aware of the grease fire I started when I lived with him—it would’ve burned down Volk’s house if Kennedy hadn't saved the day.

“At least, I am now.”

Volk pauses his locker room exit. “Have you stopped microwaving metal?”

“Shit, I forgot you microwave metal.” Matt thrusts a hand through his blond hair, then gives it a firm tug. He’s probably imagining his fancy schmancy house burning to a crisp.

I ignore the additional round of snickers from my teammates. I can’t wait until I’m no longer the youngest player on this team, and someone else can take the razzing. I won’t be the last rookie who microwaves metal, that’s for sure.

“For the record, I’ve never had a problem with it,” I say, holding up a finger. “But yes, I’ve stopped so I won’t have to hear your shit anymore.”

“I’m glad Kennedy made it out of your apartment in one piece,” Volk says. As he walks by, he pats me on the top of my head like I’m a kid who ate his veggies. “For your sake.”

I love our camaraderie and the way we tease each other. Having great teammates to watch out for me helps since I’m so far from my family. Still, I can’t ignore the scrape against my chest at the reminder of how much of an idiot everyone in my life considers me. Most of the time, I roll my eyes, shake my head, and dish it back.

But not lately. It could be my sensitivity over this injury or the sister of the guy across the room making me want people to take me more seriously. I want her to take me seriously. To consider me.

“Glad to hear it,” Matt confirms, rising to his feet. He cocks an eyebrow at me. “And how about we stay out of trouble until tonight?”

“Tonight?”

Boy-O leaps to his feet and twerks his ass in my direction. “Time to get down at the Harris house for Halloween, Briggsy.”

I hold a hand up to block Boy-O from my line of vision. “Dude, really? My brain can’t take any more trauma.”

With the conversation in the car and the strange distance between me and Finley, the party slipped my mind. Thankfully, I ordered a costume last month when Jennings told me to, otherwise I’d be going as a ninja (last year’s costume) or a pirate (my rookie year). Jennings and I are coordinating this year since we're both going solo, him as a vampire and me as a vampire hunter.

“Get ready for more trauma tonight then,” Boy-O says. He finally stops thrusting his ass in my face and heads to the tunnel leading to the ice. “I’m going to be dancing over all of ya!”

Jennings waits for me, slapping hands with everyone as they pass. “Looks like we might need you to stake Boy-O tonight. If this is his energy level now, he’s going to be unbearable later.”

“You mean you don’t want to turn him and live with him for eternity?” I joke back.

With hockey gear on my body again, adrenaline pumps through my veins. I can’t wait to skate, even if it’s by myself. When we reach the end of the tunnel, I breathe deeply, soaking in the crisp air of the arena.

Home.

“Briggs!” Coach beckons to me with a flick of his wrist from where he stands in the middle of the ice, clad in a dark tracksuit and skates. He’s chewing gum with a mildly frightening aggression.

I don’t hesitate, zipping over to the coach who intimidates me to this day.

“Coach,” I greet as I come to a stop in front of him.

“Good to have you back. You feel ready?”

“More than ready.”

He claps me on the shoulder pad. “You’ll work with Roy today on your own. If you have any symptoms, you need to tell us. You’re too important to this team’s future to rush.”

“I’m a terrible liar,” I blurt out when what I should say is I’ll tell you everything because I’m scared shitless of putting my hockey career in jeopardy .

Coach is used to me by now, so he’s not fazed by my answer. He half grimaces, which is the Erik Pomroy version of a smile. It vanishes quickly as he yanks the whistle dangling around his neck and blows.

The rest of the team skates to us. Every practice starts the same, with a breakdown of our play in the last game and how we’ll address issues. By the time he finishes his speech, every guy on the ice would run into the eye of a hurricane if he asked.

I rein in that instinct, the part of me I bring out only on the ice. The fierce competitor who would do anything to win, willing to follow instructions and absorb pain.

But I remind myself it won’t be long before I can let it loose again.