Comeback (6 page)

I should probably go to more games in person than I did these days, but I tended to be a very habitual person. Early on, I’d decided to watch most of the games on TV so that I could hear the commentators and learn the ins and outs of the sport. I didn’t want to feel like an idiot when I went to the games or interacted with the guys on the team. Even though I understood the rules and the nuances of the game now, I’d had a hard time changing my ritual.

Liam gave me tickets to every home game as a perk. The ones I didn’t use for myself, I donated to various charities. Tonight was this season’s home opener, and since I had worked late trying to get caught up on my accounting, I’d given my tickets away. That was how I ended up in my pj’s on the couch with a small tub of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia during the second intermission.

The Storm were up three goals to one against the Arizona Coyotes. Darryl Carlson, the Storm’s play-by-play commentator, was as annoying as they came, never seeing that the Storm’s players had done anything wrong, always blaming the other team or the referees when something didn’t go their way. With the Storm leading in this game, he wasn’t too bad tonight. Even with his obnoxious homerism, his voice was oddly comforting to me. I guessed it was because he’d become familiar to me, much like the terms “icing” and “offside” and talk about the goalie’s “crease.”

I toed off my fuzzy slippers and tucked my feet up under me, making myself comfortable and attacking my ice cream with gusto.

On the pre-game show earlier, they had highlighted a few of the new players, talking about what they should bring to the team and what fans could expect of them. Then they’d had a brief feature on Mattias “Bergy” Bergstrom and the rest of his coaching staff during the first intermission. But here in the second intermission, a new face to the broadcast crew, Anne Dennison, had spent a minute interviewing a very sweaty Mitchell “Q” Quincey, who’d scored the Storm’s go-ahead goal. It was nice to see a woman on the broadcasting team for a change. Spending as much time around the Storm organization as I had over the last several years, I’d come to the conclusion that there just weren’t that many women involved with hockey teams, at least as far as the NHL was concerned. Even in women’s hockey most of the coaches, trainers, and equipment staff were men. Things were starting to change, but it was a very slow process.

After Q’s brief interview, Darryl Carlson focused in on Nicky and Hunter Fielding, talking about the fact that Nicky was back with the team this year and hoping to fight Hunter for time between the pipes. Nicky was on the bench tonight, though, wearing a purple-and-silver Storm baseball cap and wielding a clipboard and pen.

As of yet, I hadn’t figured out what Bergy had the backup goalie track each night, but it was something I noticed every game. Whichever goalie was on the bench, he had that clipboard and pen in hand, and he marked something down every now and then, all the while keeping his focus on the ice and the action he undoubtedly wished he was part of. Maybe one of these days I’d ask Nicky about it.

I doubted he’d get in on any more action than that clipboard tonight, though. Hunter was playing lights-out hockey. The one time the puck had gotten past him was when Levi Babcock had accidentally scored an own-goal. He’d been trying to get his stick in the way to block Coyotes’ captain Shane Doan’s shot from getting through, but the younger Babcock brother had deflected it just enough that it had fooled Hunter and gone in over his pad. It had been a rough first night in the NHL for the rookie defenseman all around, but that was definitely the lowlight of his debut. Throughout the game, the Coyotes had been peppering Hunter with shots, but he’d been cool and collected in the net, not letting anything ruffle his feathers.

It had been three days since Nicky had shown up in my office, and we’d talked for a little while every day since except for today. With each conversation, it had grown harder for me to keep Nicky in the friendly-but-professional box. The more he shared of his life, the more he chiseled away at the brick wall of protection I’d placed around myself. I was starting to wonder how much longer I’d be able to maintain any sort of distance between us.

Through no small effort, I’d at least convinced him to set up a meeting with Jim Sutter so he could explain what was taking place. Whatever happened with Nicky’s sister and those kids, a lot was going to change in Nicky’s personal life in a very short period of time, and the team needed to be aware of what was going on. If nothing else, maybe Jim would have a solution for what Nicky could do with the kids. He couldn’t be the only single guy in the league with kids to look after, the only one who didn’t have any help at home.

That meeting was supposed to have happened today after the team’s morning skate. It had taken a supreme amount of willpower on my part not to call Nicky to find out how things had gone, but I hadn’t. If he wanted me to know, he would tell me. This was his life. His gig. Not mine. It had nothing to do with me, even if he’d dragged me into it by showing up at my office and spilling his guts to me, making me care a hell of a lot more than I wanted to in the process.

By the time the puck dropped at the start of the third period, I’d finished the entire tub of ice cream. I’d only intended to eat half of it but things got a little out of control with all my thinking about Nicky.

Right out of the gate, there was a more intense feel to the action in the final frame. Coyotes defenseman Keith Yandle laid a big hit on Riley Jezek along the boards less than a minute in, and Jamie Babcock retaliated by slamming into two different guys before stealing the puck and sending it up the ice to a streaking Aaron Ludwiczak. Luddy kept the play onside and got off a good shot, but the goalie caught it with his glove hand and stopped play.

The next several shifts were just as intense as that first one had been, with big hits and fast end-to-end action. I had no doubt that while Bergy would be thrilled with the physicality his team was displaying, he would much prefer that the game didn’t turn into a track meet the way it seemed to be doing—back and forth, turnover after turnover accompanying the increased hitting.

Only a few minutes had ticked off the clock before the very man who’d been consuming my thoughts was filling up the screen, his smile bright enough to warm me even through the television. Nicky had a headset on over his cap, and Darryl Carlson was welcoming him to the show and getting ready to interview him. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself because it was so unexpected. This wasn’t something that they had ever done before on the Storm broadcast. But then again, Anne Dennison had been new, too. Maybe they were making a bunch of changes in their on-air presentation for the new season. It wasn’t unheard of.

I sat up and leaned forward, turning up the volume with the remote control.

“First of all, welcome back to Portland, Nicky,” Darryl said. “I know a lot of people are glad to see you here instead of in the minors in Seattle.”

The camera was still showing the on-ice action on one half of the screen as the game continued, but Nicky was filling the other half. He still had that clipboard in his hands and his eyes were following what was happening in front of him instead of focusing on the camera. I wasn’t even sure he knew where the camera was.

“Thanks. I hope you’re right, although I think Bobby would have preferred to be here instead of me.” Nicky laughed as he said it, his self-deprecating humor shining through.
Bobby
was what the guys all called Sean Roberts, who’d been the backup goalie last season.

Darryl laughed, as well, but his laugh was high and nasally, giving the sense that he wasn’t truly amused. “Fair enough, fair enough. From up here in the booth, it looks like the intensity has really ramped up here at the start of the third. What’s your sense of it from ice level?”

Nicky didn’t have time to answer before a bone-crushing hit took place in front of him along the boards. Vladimir Berezin, a young Russian forward for the Storm, popped up off the ice following the hit and climbed over the boards on a line change, sitting down on the bench directly in front of Nicky with a huge glower on his face.

“I think Vladdie would say it’s a little more intense, yeah,” Nicky said wryly, quirking a grin at the back of his teammate’s head.

Vladdie whipped his head around to glare at him. Nicky raised his brows and shrugged, leading to Vladdie rattling off a long stream of Russian blabber that was likely not very complimentary based on his tone.

“What’s that Berezin is saying?” Darryl asked, and I couldn’t help but groan. Whether Nicky understood what his teammate had been saying or not, I doubted it was anything that could be repeated on air.

“Vladdie says next time he’s going to get the better end of a hit against Ekman-Larsson, but I think if he’s going to do that he needs to spend a little more time in the gym.” When Vladdie’s head whipped around this time, Nicky flexed his arm muscles almost comically.

More Russian babble came after that, followed by a very audible,
Fuck you, Nicky
, that the television censors apparently weren’t ready for.

Nicky smiled from ear to ear. “You too, buddy. You too.” Then he looked straight into the camera, disproving my earlier assumption, and he winked. “Hope my mic didn’t pick up any of that. My niece and nephews are watching tonight. They don’t need to learn any dirty Russian. They already know too much dirty Swedish.”

It warmed my insides to see him smiling like that, particularly with all I knew he had going on in his life.

Darryl kept talking to him for another minute or two. All the while, Nicky kept smiling and joking, seeming as though nothing was wrong. This was the Nicky I’d come to expect in the time that I’d known him, a man who could make light of any situation. Only, in the last several days, he hadn’t been like that at all. Maybe he was better at putting on a mask and pretending everything was all right than I’d given him credit for. If I didn’t know everything happening with his sister right now, I would have never been able to guess that anything was bothering him.

That was how things had been with my ex-husband, Steve. At least for a while. Any time he wasn’t drunk, he’d seemed as put together as could be. No one outside of our marriage had ever suspected that he had a drinking problem. He’d been the life of the party, always ready with a smile or a laugh, always there to ensure everyone around him was having a good time. It was only when we’d been alone and he’d been drunk that everything about him changed, and he’d become a surly, angry, depressed man determined to bring me down with him.

I’d stayed with him for six years of that before I’d started trying to convince him that he needed help. And when he’d refused to try, I’d known there was nothing else I could do. Whether I loved him or not, I couldn’t keep living like that. So I’d left and I’d started over. He was the last addict I could ever let myself love because it hurt too damn much.

Nicky signed off so the commentators could go back to calling the game, smiling into the camera one more time, and then he winked as he took the headset off. The broadcast went back to the full screen on the action, and he wasn’t grinning at me anymore. I reminded myself that he hadn’t been grinning at
me
, anyway. It had probably been for his sister, for his niece and nephews. It had been a smile meant to show the whole world that he was fine, that he wasn’t broken inside.

It had been a lie. I had to remember that or else I’d end up as broken as he was.

EMMA, HENRIK, AND
the kids were all still up by the time I got home from the game. It was after eleven but it was a weekend, and they were all still jet-lagged and trying to adjust to the time change.

I’d barely come through the door before Hugo and Nils were attacking me with hugs and attempting to climb up my legs. Henrik looked at me from the kitchen, where he was putting away dishes. He chuckled and shook his head at the way they were all over me.

“Did you
see
that goal Golston scored?” Nils demanded.

“I did.” Nicky nodded. “I was on the bench with a great view.”

“Spin-o-rama! Between his own legs!” Hugo said in fervent awe. “I’m going to score a goal just like that.”

“Do you think he can teach us how?” Nils added.

“I doubt even he knows how he did it,” I said, laughing and trying to move into the living room with both boys hanging on to me, but they weren’t making it very easy on me.

“He wouldn’t have scored on you,” Hugo said emphatically.

The Coyotes had come back in the third period and tied the game, but with only twenty-seven seconds left in regulation, Ghost had managed to get out on a breakaway. He’d had a defender coming hot on his heels, but he’d somehow deked a couple of times and then dropped the puck back between his skates, getting off a backhander. I was pretty sure he’d actually lost the puck in all the stickhandling he was doing, getting too fancy with it, and that was why it had gone between his skates like that. But he’d still managed to score an amazing goal, so I doubted that Bergy would give him a hard time over it. Next time, though, Ghost wasn’t likely to be able to repeat a performance like that. Bergy would want him to keep it simple. If he’d lost that puck completely and hadn’t managed to get off the shot, the defender would have overtaken him and turned it back the other way, and the game would have had a completely different complexion.