Kaleb

Shea's being inducted tonight.

As captain of the Vancouver Canucks.

Ever since we arrived, he's been emotional. He made a speech in the locker room earlier, one that brought me to tears. Some teammates gave me strange looks, but I didn't give a fuck. They don't know how long Shea dreamt of this. Or what it's like to have him as a captain. No one fits the role better, and I know he'll lead this team to great places.

Now, as we stand in the tunnel, he continues to shift his weight back and forth on his skates. He's fuelled with adrenaline and anticipation. Through the tunnel, we can hear the buzz of the crowd. It's our opening game for the season, and we're battling the Calgary Flames. A good old rivalry never looked so good.

"Dude," I say, giving him a nudge. "Stop that. You're making me want to fidget."

He glares at me.

I flash him a quirky grin.

"KJ," Brenna says, rolling her eyes. She saunters over to her husband and locks her arms around his waist. With his skates on, Shea towers over Brenna. A good foot, maybe two. He smiles and dips his head down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

Brenna's back here with us because she's helping with the presentation of Shea's new jersey. And mine and Max Andreyev's. Me being in the mix was a big surprise. Personally, I don't find myself captain or alternative captain material. Even if my goal is to make a statement whenever I step onto the ice.

I make a gagging noise. "Save it for the bedroom."

They stop, Brenna still wrapped in Shea's arms. She flashes me a quirky grin. "Melody will be here soon. Then you won't feel so left out."

No comments sit on my tongue because Brenna's made a point. Watching them get all touchy-feely makes me long for Melody. It's difficult to go from sleeping beside someone every night to having no one to share a bed with. My heart doesn't feel whole without her. Road trips are already hard enough. This is the first time I'll return home and not see Mel post-game at a home game.

Shea presses his lips to Brenna's forehead. "That was uncalled for, Bren."

His voice is a subtle murmur, but I still hear him. And his comment makes me feel better. Back in high school, Shea was an asshole when I was dating Ella. All throughout our break up and then our on-and-off, he wasn't supportive. Until he developed a brain and started holding himself accountable for his behaviour, that is. I received many apologies and had some good discussions with Shea.

I wave off Shea's comment. "It's fine. She's stating the truth. Seeing you two makes me a little jealous."

He flashes me a weak smile that's full of understanding. Shea knows what it's like to be separated from the person you love. Before I was traded, we used to exchange texts all the time. Their relationship has always been mutually beneficial. They parted ways after we graduated high school to pursue their dreams. Once that happened, they got back together. Had they not done that, things would've been different. At least, that's what I'm assuming. Shea needed that scholarship. Brenna needed to attend UBC and display her stellar hockey skills to make Canada's Olympic team for women's hockey.

What I admire is their ability to make decisions that benefit each other. When I make decisions, I don't care how it affects me. All I care about is Mel and her well-being. Sometimes, it's not a good approach. But I can't help myself. She's my world. 

So, yeah, seeing Brenna and Shea together makes me jealous. Not to the degree where it'll reflect in my behaviour, but to where all I can think about is Mel.

Down the tunnel trickles the announcer's voice, getting ready to introduce the team. Season opener games at home are something special. Everything is intensified, from the music to the lights to the anxiety that's settled in my gut. I'm starting a new season on a new team, with new fans in the building. There's a lot weighing on my chest.

"Well," Brenna says. "I'll see you on the ice soon, Captain."

Shea blushes and presses a quick kiss to Brenna's lips. "See you in a few."

Brenna saunters to down the hallway, winding her way through the rest of the team. A few of the guys say hi, but the majority keep their eyes averted. Not because Shea is present, either. They know not to mess with Brenna. She'll strike like a viper if someone tries to sexualize her or treat her as a subordinate.

Brenna's a boss bitch.

Again, we hear the announcer's voice. The murmur of the crowd heightens. From here, we can see the ice, but not the surrounding lower and upper bowl seating areas. The lights are low, but the green, blue, and white strobe lights are in tune with the sudden uptick in bass.

Shea gives me a nudge with his elbow. "Ready?"

I take a deep breath, staring down the hallway. Although I want to turn around and head back to the locker room with my tail between my legs, there's no escaping this. "Did you really have to make me go first?" I grumble.

He flashes me his signature grin. "Fuck yes." He gives me a shove forward. "You're a shiny new toy for the fans. They need to see their new favourite hockey player. Don't trip over your weak ankles, Jones. Vancouver fans are ruthless. Fuck up once, and you'll have to beg for their forgiveness."

Twisting my hockey stick in my gloved hands, I flip Shea the bird. "Again, fuck you."

A crease forms between his brows, despite his everlasting grin. "Again?"

I tap my temple. "It's all in my head. The amount of 'fuck yous' running through it is concerning. My mother would probably cut my skull open and wash it with soap."

Shea grimaces. "That was a very grotesque description."

Using my hockey stick, I tap his shins. "See you out there."

Without looking back, I head down the tunnel and step onto the ice. Lights are flashing. Music is pumping. And the crowd drowns my own thoughts as I skate the perimeter of the ice.

The announcer's voice booms over the sound system.

"LET'S GIVE A LOUD VANCOUVER WELCOME TO KALEB JONES."

Smiling, I raise my hand, giving the crowd a wave to let them know I appreciate their unanimous voices. Which I do. Even with the nerves gnawing at my mind, I feel electrified. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, making me jittery. The anticipation of this game is getting to my head—but not in a bad way. With the fans cheering and my skates scraping against the ice, there's nothing more I want than to prove myself. To the fans. To the team. The entire franchise.

And even myself.

Despite being drafted first that year, there are always ways to improve. To contribute to the team and wrack up the victories. That's what I want to do for this team.

Hopefully, I can do that.

After my lap around the ice, the rest of my teammates join me for warm-ups. The other team also joins the ice, claiming their half of the ice to take shots on their goalie.

From centre ice, I watch Shea knock over the stack of pucks from the bench area. They scatter across the ice, and our teammates collect them. Some shoot the puck on the net. Others skate around and stretch their muscles out.

Shea joins me at centre ice. He taps my shins with his hockey stick. "You didn't trip."

As much as I want to make a jab at him, the connection between my mouth and mind is temporarily frozen. Standing at centre ice at Rogers Arena is making me feel nostalgic. Shea and I used to talk about this when we were teenagers. We would dream of it.

"Can you believe we're standing here?"

Shea's gaze lifts to the surrounding crowd. The scoreboard. The arena itself. There's a nostalgic expression on his face.

"No," he admits. "I can't."

We look away, both of us surveying the arena with smiles on our faces.

* * *

Climbing the stairs to my apartment room is agonizing. Tonight's game was a success; we won 5-2, and I scored two goals and got one assist. The crowd was pleased with my display of skills. As was the media. Shea gave me the player of the game award, despite our goalie deserving it. He stood on his head for us. Despite the goals we scored, there were moments where the defence and forwards didn't deliver. There were lots of positives, though. In hockey, there's always room for improvement or critique.

Good or bad, my thighs don't care. They're screaming in agony as I climb the stairs, and the weight of my hockey bag doesn't help. It feels like hours have passed before I reach my floor. By then, I'm ready to drag my hockey bag as opposed to carrying it. Season openers, despite the training camps during the summer, are difficult. Training camp never matches the same intensity of a real game. When you're on the ice, playing for points that will get you into the playoffs, there's more effort.

Trudging down the hallway is a lot of work. My shoes slide along the sickening, stained carpet, leaving streaks of mud and dirt. It's pouring outside, so my shoes got pretty muddy walking across the dirt parking lot next to the building. Messing up the carpet isn't polite, but any common courtesy has slipped from my mind. I'm too exhausted to care about a little mud. All I want is a cup of tea, a hot bath with Epsom salts, and then my bed.

However, when I'm passing Ella's door, something makes me stop. Brenna said she didn't show up to tonight's game with Abbey. Whenever there's a home opener, the wives and girlfriends and their kids attend the game. Mikael invited Ella, and Ella asked if Abbey could tag along to keep her company. Mikael pulled some strings for her.

I thought it was a kind gesture. Yet I'm still wary of him. Shea's a good judge of character. But unless something bad happens or I see some red flags, I won't intervene in Ella's life. Shea wasn't a good person until Brenna called him out. Until he changed. Perhaps Mikael is in a similar situation.

Staring at Ella's door, I expel a deep sigh.

Then I rap my knuckles against Ella's door. Having her not show up to an NHL game is concerning. It makes me wonder if Ryland stopped by. If they got into a fight. If that's the case, I may have to track Ryland down and knock some sense into him. Otherwise, he'll face the wrath of Melody. Which is never good.

On second thought, maybe having Mel kick his ass would be a good thing.

Several seconds tick by. When there's no response, a crease forms between my brows. Ella's home. I saw her vehicle in the parking lot.

Gripping the door handle, I test it to see if it's unlocked. It is, so I push it open, rapping my knuckles against the door again. My hockey bag knocks against the doorframe. "Ella?" I call out. "Are you home?"

Ella's apartment smells like vanilla and cinnamon; it's warm and comforting. There are no lights on, and no shoes are on the mat beside the entryway. Quietness greets me, too, so I retreat. Maybe she went out with friends and forgot to lock her door. Not something Ella would do, but I have to cut her some slack. Her asshole ex-boyfriend was cheating on her with her best friend. I wouldn't be in my right mind, either.

However, just as I'm about to shut the door, I hear someone sniffle. My posture straightens. She's home.

"Ella?" I call.

I drop my hockey back in her hallway, shutting and locking the door behind me. Not that it'll do any good if Ryland's gone on a drunken escapade and shows up knocking at this late hour. Ella hasn't changed the lock on her door yet. Abbey, Mel, and Brenna keep telling her to do so, but I think she has too much on her plate. Maybe, after the road trip, I'll do it myself.

When I enter the main room, I see Ella laying on the couch. She's wearing baggy black sweatpants and a lime-green crop-top. Her hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun. And although she's not looking at me, I can see the red puffiness rimming her eyes.

My heart squeezes while anger boils in my blood. Ryland must've been here.

There's a box of Kleenex on her coffee table, so I grab a couple tissues, holding them out to her as I kneel beside her. She doesn't take them. Nor does she look at me. All she does is stare ahead, tears leaking from her eyes while she sniffles. She seems numb.

I set the tissues on the coffee table. Getting her to talk will be difficult, so I decide to take a more physical approach. Hooking my hands beneath her arms, I help Ella into a sitting position. My arms shake as I do this. Every muscle in my body is sore and bruised from tonight's game.

"Come on, Ella," I grunt. "Hockey's got me feeling like an old man. You've got more muscle than me." I'm not embellishing with those words, either. If she wanted to, Ella could kick my ass. She's a personal trainer who's also taken advanced self-defence classes.

She doesn't react to my honest words, but she stays sitting up. Giving her a moment to collect her thoughts, I drape the blanket she was using around her shoulders. Then I try handing her the Kleenex again. She takes it, wiping beneath her eyes first, then her nose.

When I feel like she's somewhat stable, I sit on the edge of the coffee table and cross my arms. Our knees are touching since there's such limited space, and for several seconds, there's nothing but silence. Ella won't look at me or speak. Her gaze is focused on the used Kleenex in her hand.

"Ella," I say, breaking the silence. "What happened?"

Setting the Kleenex down next to her, she removes a folded piece of paper from her pocket. Then she hands it to me, staring me directly in the eye.

My gaze stays locked with hers as I unfold the chalky piece of yellow paper. Once it's flat in my lap, I look down.

A bad feeling spreads through my gut.

It's an eviction notice.

Ella hiccups. "I thought I'd be able to afford it alone, but I can't. Prices are increasing for rent, food, gas—it's too much for my paycheck. Plus, I'm helping pay rent for the facility downtown now that one of our other trainers quit." She drops her face into her hands, her body shaking from the sobs. "What am I supposed to do, Kaleb?"

I run a hand through my hair, then set the paper down beside me. "Ryland should have to help you pay this month. $1,791 a month hits you hard, Ella. You still have to buy groceries and gas. Pay bills for utilities and insurance. He should help you this month at least. Give you time to plan."

As rude as it sounds, I don't think Ella can afford to pay rent on her own. Maintaining an apartment alone is near impossible in Downtown Vancouver. Prices continue to climb across BC with every year that passes. Unless she can find someone to split the costs with...

I rub my jaw, preventing myself from finishing that train of thought. 

"No," she spits. "I don't want his money."

I raise my eyebrows. While it's admirable for her to want nothing to do with Ryland, he needs to be held accountable. It's not like Ella would mooch money off of him. He has to pay his part, even if Ella kicked him out. That's how relationships work—even when they've fallen through.

"Fuck," she curses. She presses her face into her hands. "What am I supposed to do? That asshole left me hanging in more ways than one."

"Murder Ryland?" I suggest.

She tosses a pillow at me, trying to keep her smile hidden from me. It's good to see her smile—even through the tears.

The pillow hits my chest and falls into my lap. I discard it to the side with the other decorative pillows. There has to be a solution to this problem. Ella can't uproot her entire life because of Ryland's infidelity. She didn't make the mistake. It's infuriating to see Ryland continue to live while Ella is suffering. He should be the one paying for his poor decisions. But that's just how life is. The man feels nothing. Unless you have a situation where the women team up like in The Other Woman. That movie was with Cameron Diaz, Leslie Mann, and Kate Upton, where their characters get revenge on the cheating asshole. It's one of my favourite movies, and I can see a potential advantage here. Helping Ella exact revenge through malicious pranks would be amusing.

That being said, I can't afford to risk my reputation. Especially after being traded here, to Vancouver. If someone caught me... I suppress a shudder. There would be consequences.

Still, there has to be something I—

An idea pops into my head.

Our house has a basement suite, and we're moving in soon. Maybe I could convince Ella to have Ryland help split the payment for this month, then offer her the basement suite. We would work out a fair price while she gets back on her feet. Of course, I'd have to run this by Melody, but I think she'd be game. Ella's our friend—and you never leave a friend to suffer.

"Melody and I's house has a suite in the basement. It's entirely separate from the main house. We'll figure out a—"

Ella's eyes widen. Her lashes glisten with damp tears in the dim lighting of the city streaming through the window. "Kaleb... There's no way I can accept that."

I cross my arms. "You can accept it. You should accept it. Melody and I would love to help you out. We can figure out a price that suits you. It doesn't have to be permanent, Ella. Consider it... Consider it a helping hand until you feel ready enough to find your own place. Or can at least find a roommate. A friend like Abbey or a co-worker."

I reach out and take her hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Please, Ella. I think it would be good for you." My eyes survey the area. While I don't have many memories associated with this apartment, I know Ella does. She's been living here with Ryland for quite some time. I'm inferring, but it must be difficult for her. "Maybe moving will help gain independence again. It could be good for you."

My tone is light and suggestive. I don't want Ella thinking I'm trying to manipulate her into accepting the offer. I'm not. What I want her to know is there's a safe route; another option for her to choose.

Leaning over, Ella reaches for another Kleenex. She blows her nose, grimacing at the snot production. She murmurs a quiet yuck and then climbs to her feet. Her feet stick to the cold floor as she saunters to the kitchen sink. Without flicking on any lights, she pumps some soap into her palm and turns on the water. For several seconds, all I can hear is the sound of running water. The sound of Ella scrubbing her hands.

"Would Melody be okay with it?" she asks over the running water.

I nod without hesitation. "But we could FaceTime her tomorrow if you want to have a better discussion. Or I can talk to her. Not that we really need to. Mel will say yes."

Ella turns the tap off and collects a dish towel to dry her hands. Once she's done, she places the cloth on the counter and looks at me. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are still red and puffy. There are dark purple half-moons beneath her eyes.

She opens her mouth, ready to answer me, but her words are stolen by a large yawn.

And since yawns are contagious, I yawn, too.

Ella loosens a soft chuckle. "How about we discuss this in the morning? We're both tired."

With the heel of my hand, I up my forehead. Exhaustion has crept into my bones and muscles. My mind feels like soup. That bath seems like a pipe dream now. All I want is a bed. 

I yawn again. "Yeah, maybe that's a good idea."

I push to my feet from the coffee table, flashing Ella a small smile. "Think about it, okay? The offer stands, and I'm positive it will tomorrow. Like I said, we can figure something out. I know you won't stay for free—even if we offer."

"You got that right," Ella snorts.

The corner of my mouth hitches upward. "Same old Ella."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue with my reference to her stubbornness. "Same old Kaleb."

I run a hand through my ragged hair, still displaying a half-grin. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ella. Are you good? Do you need anything?"

Ella flashes me a sardonic smile. "What needs fixing... I don't think it can be fixed."

My gaze flicks down to my muddy shoes. The mud is dry and caked to the bottom of my once-polished dress shoes. They're what I stare at while I wrack my brain for a response.

But the truth is, I don't know how to respond. Aside from our on-and-off relationship in high school and the cancer scare with Mel, my heart doesn't know what it's like to be broken. To suffer from someone cheating on you. Ella and I parted ways with mutual feelings. Melody survived. All my heart has felt is relief and love; the potential of something good. 

Which is why I flash her one more smile before heading for the door and collecting my hockey bag. It makes me feel like an asshole, but I'd rather say nothing than say the wrong thing.