Caspian (Carolina Reapers 8)

I loved him.

And he was leaving soon.

My heart ached at the truth, but I took in a deep breath. I’d make the most of every second he gave me, and I’d make sure he understood just how damn amazing he was while I was at it.

15

Caspian

“I think I killed the plant.” Maxim’s voice filled the barn from my speakerphone.

“Which one?” I laughed and shot another puck into the fraying net of the goal I’d had since childhood. Synthetic ice was never as good as the real thing, but long hours in this barn had gotten me where I was today…which ironically was back in the barn.

“The green one in the living room. At least it used to be green. It’s a kind of dingy brown now.” He sighed, and I pictured him running his hand over his hair like he did when he was agitated.

“If it’s not completely dead just take it to Mila’s. Evie will revive it.” That girl worked wonders with anything green.

“When are you coming home?”

“Awh. Miss me that much?” I selected another puck from the bag I’d scattered on the worn plastic tiles and shot it at the net.

“Hardly, but I could use a wingman. Brogan’s a broody bastard who scares off every female within fifty feet and everyone else worth hanging with is already attached at the hip to their woman.”

A chuckle rumbled through my chest. “He can’t be that bad.”

“Oh. He is. Trust me. The only women who approach him look like they could hold their own behind bars.”

“He’s never struck me as a soft touch.” Another puck. Another shot.

“Seriously though. You know you only have a couple of weeks until you actually have to show your face around here, right?”

“Yeah.” My stomach knotted. “But contractually I’m good as long as I show up before physicals, which are more than a month away.” I’d done the math about fourteen billion times over the last week, trying to find a way to spend as much time with Ryleigh as possible.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” His voice walked that line between disbelief and humor.

There was nothing funny about this.

“Caz, we’ve always spent the month before preseason getting our asses back in shape, and you can’t tell me you’re over there getting ice touches every day in Des Moines.”

I shot another puck at the net with half-hearted strength and kept quiet.

“What about pick-up games with the Reapers? You know Coach likes to run a few August sessions for fun.” A note of panic seeped into his tone.

“I know.” I shot again and again, firing the last few pucks into the net.

“So what the fuck are you doing?”

“I wish I knew.” I put my stick in the tall, wooden box Dad made when I was seven and sank onto the bench he’d constructed at the same time. Making quick work of my laces, I tugged off my old skates—the ones I kept in this barn just for the small patch of synthetic ice—and put them in the storage locker behind me.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Do you ever wonder if there’s more?” I laced up my shoes and leaned back against the metal locker.

“More than what?”

“More than…hockey.” It was the question I’d been asking myself for the past month.

“Fuck, no.” He scoffed.

“I’m wondering.” My head hit the locker as I stared up to the hayloft I’d spent my childhood playing in. The scent of this barn—clean hay and the tang of metal from the equipment—was as familiar to me as the ice, and just as comforting.

“Caz, we both know this doesn’t last forever.” There was a rustling sound, like he’d just fallen onto the leather couch in his den. “One day we’ll be forced to retire. We’ll get hurt. We’ll get old. We’ll get slow. Right now is all we have, all we’re guaranteed.”

“So the games, the money—that’s enough for you?” My best friend had never been shallow, but he’d always been driven by darker demons when it came to the love of the game. I’d always played because I loved it, but Maxim played because there had been no other option for him growing up.

“No,” he answered. “The ring will be enough. Maybe three.”

Because his father had two.

“Rings don’t keep you warm at night.” Rings didn’t lean into my touch, or smile at me over dinner, or consume my thoughts. That was all Ryleigh.

“Is that what this is all about? The redhead?” His voice lifted in surprise. “I’ve never known you to question your career over a woman.”

“I’m not questioning my career.” Wait…was I? “I’m just trying to figure out how to balance the two.”

“Shit, that’s a question for Jansen. Or Briggs. Or any of those guys. Are you that serious about this one?”

I glanced around the barn, seeing Ryleigh in every corner. Her bright red hair and knobby knees at eight years old, playing with London. Her wide eyes and blatant shock at fourteen when she’d busted in on me with a girl’s shirt off in the loft. Her bright red cheeks after we’d spent the day swimming the summer I’d come home from college. Her soft lips when I’d kissed her against the wall yesterday.