When Coach O'Brien blew his whistle, the thought of Ami drifted and the unwanted drills began.
Our head coach, Mark O'Brien, was not someone who was easy to like, but he was respected. He didn't slap backs, fist-bump—nothing. The only way you knew you were doing well and he was happy was if he yelled at you. When he was silent, then you should worry.
If he talked to reporters after the game, he was all business, no smile, keeping his eyes above them.
It was a rarity, but if he took a player aside, he spoke to them and took the time to explain something that, to him, was annoyingly clear, they were able to get inside his head and see he wasn't that bad of a guy, just misunderstood.
And then he remembered who he was, and he was back to being not easy to like.
I was cool with him, never had any problems. I didn't care too much for our assistant coach, Duane O'Callaghan. Without any flair or fucking charm, he was about as abrasive as sandpaper and exploded for just about anything. He was Irish, too, if that told you anything.
Remy and Duane never got along. They couldn't even be in the same room together, and if he had it his way, he'd trade him, but we needed Remy. He knew that. I rarely felt favored by either coach, but I knew they ultimately liked me. Leo was their favorite because he scored more than anyone in the league.
O'Callaghan was leaning on the boards, yelling at Remy about something when my mind drifted back to the other night. I saw her lying in the snow and the blood she was covered in. The images of me in the shower, the blood, her blood, being washed away, but the memory still remained, still burned its way in my skin. Every single thought I had had shifted and was now about her. And it pissed me off every time, and I found myself getting more and more aggressive trying to clear the thoughts.
I hadn't been on the ice since I found her. Leo noticed my mood our first morning in Nashville. When we were in the locker room prior to the game, he voiced this concern.
"What's your problem?"
"Nothing." I tried to focus on taping my stick, but Remy wasn't letting me off that easy.
He shoved against my shoulder, sending me rocking slightly. "Who's the girl?"
"None of your fucking business."
"She got a sister?"
Leo gave Remy a look. "Lay off man."
"No way..." Remy continued pushing, "...you jerks are always baggin' on my girls. What's with you, Mase?"
Leo and I exchanged a look. His voice dropped to maintain a certain amount of privacy we didn't have in the locker room. "Her family is dead. No, she ain't got no sister, and she's barely alive right now. Not exactly a time to be dishin' on her."
"Oh." Remy looked chastised.
"Yeah, don't be a dick," Leo said, reaching for the tape in my hand. "Leave his girl alone."
"She's not my girl," I said, throwing my stick and walking away. "She's just a girl."
I thought maybe when warm-ups began the boys would drop the questions surrounding Ami, those that knew at least, but they didn't.
"Honestly, man, have you heard anything?" Leo asked, nudging me forward in the line we were waiting in, each one of us taking shots at the goal.
I shrugged. "No." I took my turn at a shot during warm-ups and then circled around the back of the line. Leo did the same and then came up behind me. "I called the hospital when we landed and no word yet."
"You still hung up on her?"
"I wouldn't say I'm hung up on her. Just concerned."
"She's in your zone." His mood shifted, we looked up and saw Cage shove Remy away from him. Instead of trying to shoot the puck for practice, Remy took his stick and waited around the back side of the net. When guys would go for the shot, he'd smack Cage in the back of the head. "Oh man..." He took the end of his stick and jabbed my ribs. "...I forgot to ask you, how was that girl after the Bruins game. She looked wicked."
"Man," I groaned, looking over my shoulder as I remembered the raven haired beauty I took home a few weeks back. "Seriously, five times that night she wanted to go. I finally had to tell her to leave."
With Leo's shit-eating grin and Remy leaning over the boards like he couldn't look at me, I knew something was up.
I looked at Leo. Leo looked at me.
"Are you mic'd up?" I finally asked, taking a shot, unamused. This wasn't the first time Leo had done that shit to me. He once got me talkin' shit about Sid Holgrove, a defenseman with the Boston Bruins, only to find out we were filming a commercial together the next day. I had some explaining to do.
"Yep." He beamed, twirling around as though he was a figure skater. I followed his head tip toward the monitors. "Gotta love ESPN."
"You know..." I shoved him against Remy who approached us, knocking them both into Travis. "...both of you are assholes."
"Mase!" Leo gestured to the camera pointed at us. "Keep it PG-13 for the kids."
I wanted to say so much more but didn't.
Coach was eyeing us so calmly; horsing around was done.