Baden (Pittsburgh Titans 1)

After the game, the plan was for me to ride with Emory and Jenna to The Sneaky Saguaro where the Vengeance usually congregate. The Titans were heading out on an evening flight to Houston, so Baden had no moral dilemma on who to hang with tonight.

But as we were saying our goodbyes to Dominik and Willow, he said, “This isn’t goodbye. I’m coming with you. In fact, we’ll take my car.”

The five of us left the arena together, settling into a spacious limousine. We chatted about the game and about the problems the Titans will have to overcome. Baden has his work cut out for him as Patrik was a hot mess tonight. The more frustrated he got, the worse he played.

“Speaking of Baden,” Dominik says, sitting across from me, Willow by his side. He holds on to her hand the entire time. “How is he doing?”

This isn’t merely a polite question asked because it’s expected but rather one of deep concern. Baden has told me how much Dominik does for his players, but in particular for Baden since his injury and through his recovery. Baden shared that Dominik was going to keep him on the roster another year to let him continue recovery in an attempt to rejoin the team.

This man cares about Baden.

“He’s doing really well,” I say, not willing to give any specifics but feeling like I can summarize the important things. “He loves the challenge of this new job. It’s stressful because it’s all so new, but Baden wants to be part of this rebuilding effort. As you know, he’s a goal-oriented man, so this feeds that part of his soul.”

Dominik nods thoughtfully but before he can ask any more questions, we’re pulling up to The Sneaky Saguaro.

The chauffeur opens the door, and Dominik nudges Willow to exit first. He then motions for Emory and Jenna to proceed. As I move to slide out, Dominik stops me.

“Just a minute, Sophie,” Dominik says, and I halt. He swivels his head, nods at the driver, and the door is shut. Through the tinted glass, I see Willow, Emory, and Jenna walking in. Jenna glances over her shoulder curiously at us remaining in the limo.

“You left something out,” Dominik says.

I jolt, my eyes snapping to him. “Excuse me?”

“About Baden,” he replies, leaning slightly forward in the seat. “Is he really okay?”

My mind races to find what I could’ve possibly left out in my summation—everything I said was true. Baden is happy with this new phase of his life. Stressed? Yes. Unsure? Of course. But he’s enjoying it.

Then it hits me.

“We went ice skating,” I say, thinking of that magical, fun day when he led me around the rink and was so sure on his skates.

How that surety hit him hard because perhaps he’d walked away from his career too soon.

I tell Dominik all about it, how surprised Baden was by his stability out there.

“It hit him with some doubts that he made the right decision,” I conclude. “I have every confidence he’ll be a great goalie coach. But playing was his passion. His dream. And he wasn’t ready to be done with it.”

Dominik doesn’t hesitate, not an ounce of equivocation in his voice. “He made the right decision. Being stable on skates isn’t a surprise. He worked hard to get his basic mechanics and motor skills back. But that’s a far cry from being on the ice during a game.”

I nod. I think I agree, but I’m not sure. I don’t know enough about it.

“Do I need to talk to Baden about this?” he asks, concern in his voice. “Do I need to reassure him?”

My heart melts a little. I smile and shrug. “Maybe. He respects you so much.”

“I’ll play it by ear tonight.” He then scoots toward the door and pulls the handle, pushing it wide open. He once again sweeps his hand in a motion for me to precede him, and we exit the limo.

I’m not ready for the screams, cheers, and flashing cameras. Somehow in those few minutes of conversation, word must’ve gotten out someone famous was here.

No, not someone famous… Dominik Carlson.

His name is chanted before he even exits.

No surprise, really. He created an expansion team and made them into champions, so he’s as much a star to this city as the players themselves.

But the minute I step out of the limo, some of the cheers give way to boos, and I know it’s my jersey spurring it. Which is poor sportsmanship, especially since the Titans lost tonight.

Dominik appears at my side, buttoning his coat. He glares at the crowd while he tucks my hand in his elbow, making it clear I’m his guest.

Immediately, the booing stops and a vigorous chant starts instead. Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!

Inside, I’m momentarily awed to a standstill by the monstrous but beautiful saguaro cactus that rises through the middle of the two-story restaurant. We’re led up some stairs to the second floor where one whole side has been roped off with multiple tables set up.