The Heart Chaser by Gina Azzi
Luca
The moment I skate onto the ice, I know I’m in for one hell of a game.
Firstly, because the Eagles are having a good season and are going to be a tough team to beat.
Secondly, because games with Vancouver always go sideways. Mainly because one of their players used to date Indy and the douchebag rubs it in Noah’s face every chance he gets.
But tonight, there’s going to be a third reason. Tonight, I’m hopped up on adrenaline and anger, a dangerous cocktail for a sporting event. My hands are itchy, desperate for a good fight. And the Eagles aren’t known for keeping their mouths shut.
After several days of hell, fielding phone calls from my family, getting swept up into a social media and PR shitstorm, and battling it out on Abbi’s behalf with senior management after they pulled the plug on her March break camps, a greeting muttered in the wrong tone will have me flying off the handle.
“You good?” Austin gives me a look as I glide in front of the net.
“Good,” I confirm, lying through my teeth.
East shoots me a look over his shoulder and I know he sees through me. He narrows his eyes at me and I lift my chin, daring him to call me on it. He mutters something under his breath and turns away.
That’s right. No one look at me sideways tonight. I don’t have the patience, I don’t have the practice, and I sure as fuck don’t have the composure. Not when my girl’s plastered across the Internet like some botched photo shoot gone wrong, some celebrity gossip turned sour.
I drop into position for the face-off and breathe a sigh of relief when Austin gains control of the puck, passing it to Noah who moves it up the ice.
Right now, I hold on to hockey, on to this game, with both hands. My head is fucked up, my body twisted, over everything Abbi is enduring. Work put her on a temporary leave of absence as they sort through the backlash her images have received from parents and school administrations around the city. She doesn’t have any family to lean on. Chloe and I have been stepping up as much as we can but with both of us working and traveling, it’s meant long, lonely hours for a vulnerable and hurt Abbi.
The puck travels down the ice in a whir of movement, hockey sticks, and massive, monsters of men. The Eagles winger tries for a shot on goal but I catch it, relieved I can still play the game with my head spinning in a hundred different directions.
I let my anger, my helplessness over this entire fucked-up situation, fuel me. My game is on point and while we score three goals by the third period, I don’t let one shot pass into the net.
It’s after a boarding penalty call that all hell lets loose.
James Ryan is pushed hard against the boards and Noah jumps in to push the Eagles center off-balance. Jace Edwards, Noah’s long-time nemesis, runs his mouth and the next thing I know, Easton’s fist flies.
Finally. A surge of excitement, the first positive emotion I’ve felt all week, explodes through my limbs and I jump into the fray, cocking back my arm and letting my fist connect with one of the Eagles.
I hit one of their defensemen in the face but it’s their right wing who pushes me over the edge.
“You can hit every guy on the ice and it won’t change the fact that we’ve all jerked off to your girl’s pussy,” he taunts, his words callous. Dangerous.
Fighting words.
I turn and punch him in the mouth, smirking when blood shoots from his nose. He catches me across the face, making my anger surge into a blinding rage. I go all in on him, my fists flying, my chest heaving, my mouth running at full speed. He manages a few good hits and the fight turns ugly. The intensity is unmatched to any other altercation I’ve ever been involved in.
Shouts ring out, whistles pierce the air, but the sounds barely register.
“Lock your shit down,” Austin growls as I feel arms cross over my chest like bands. A few more guys on both teams get in the middle to separate us, to quell the fighting.
My helmet connects with the boards. “Knock this shit off right fucking now,” Austin’s voice is murderous.
The guy I went at is lying in a heap on the ice, barely able to get to his feet. I look at him and feel sick. His face is a mangled mess. Streams of blood flow down his face and red tints his hair. I don’t even know his goddamn name.
“Fuck,” I mutter, realizing he’s nearly unconscious. My hands shake as adrenaline leaves my body and disgust rushes in.
“Out,” the ref boots me from the game.
Coach Phillips glowers and I feel sick to my stomach, bile crawling up my throat as I stare at the player who finally manages to get his legs under him. One of his teammates grips him under the arm to support him and my shame nearly stamps out my existence. What the hell have I done?
“Get out of my sight,” Coach tells me, not even looking me in the eyes. “I’ll deal with you later.”
I skate off the ice to the crowd booing. I can’t bear to look at the box where the wives and girlfriends, the kids and families of players, sit. I can’t witness the disappointment in any of their eyes.
So, I don’t. I make my way back to the locker room, pull off my gear, and take a shower. When I’m fully dressed and seated in front of my locker, the door bangs open and the team files in. Even though we secured a win, no one looks happy. There’s nothing to celebrate. Shame hangs over the locker room like a thundercloud.
And that’s on me.
* * *
Every moment spentin the company of anyone who isn’t Abbi is like having bamboo sticks shoved under my fingernails. Torturous, painful, and awkward as fuck.
Coach suspended me from playing the next four games, which I deserved. The team is pissed at me, first for how I handled myself on the ice, and then for leaving them in a vulnerable position as we line up against tough opposition. Austin can barely look at me and I don’t blame him. Only Easton, my teammate who wreaked his own kind of havoc a few seasons back, clutched my shoulder sympathetically and advised me to keep my head down until things blow over. But he promised things will eventually blow over. I’m not sure I believe him.
My family is worried, constantly calling to check in on Abbi and me. My sisters think I should skip Robbie’s dinner since it’s clear I can’t keep my temper in check. Plus, they know I won’t come without Abbi and they know things will suck for her if we show up together. Deep down, I know that too but their incessant calls and probing questions leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth.
That bitterness expands into shame when I recall that they watched me completely lose control. My nieces and nephews watched me pummel a guy with complete abandon. It’s the kind of recklessness I swore I shook off years ago and yet, here I am, blistering with shame.
I feel wild, nearly unhinged with anger at myself and a need to do right by Abbi. To prove to her that I can be better.
Except, even Abbi is put out with me.
“You can’t just blow off Robbie’s dinner,” she tells me one night over dinner. Her fork spears a piece of lettuce like it personally affronted her and the puffiness of her eyelids lets me know she’s been crying.
Being suspended from her position, even though she did nothing wrong, rattled her. Having strangers gawk at her and yell out shitty, sexual things is messed up on every level. But now, even in the safety of our space, my apartment that I want her to think of as hers, the air is tight, the energy off.
All the external pressure and bullshit of the day-to-day follows us home every night, taking up residence in the space between us and making it seem like we’re on opposite sides of a bridge, in the rain, when we’re really only inches apart.
I blow out a heavy sigh. “This again? I’m not blowing it off, Abbi.”
“So, you’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The tines of her fork jab at a strawberry.
“With you,” I add.
She rolls her eyes, her fork banging nosily off the rim of her bowl when she drops it. “Luca, please. Why do we have to keep rehashing this? We’re talking in circles. It’s in everyone’s best interest—mine, yours, yourbrother’s—if I don’t go to Philadelphia. Why won’t you let this go?”
“Because you shouldn’t have to hide,” I bite out, my words severe. “You did nothing wrong. Why the hell should your life, our lives, be disrupted by some bullshit on the internet that trolls are getting off on? Why? Has anything changed for Phil? Let me guess, not a fucking thing.” My fingers smack off the edge of the table as I push back my chair, ready to snap. “Why can’t you see that?”
“I do see that!” she explodes, pushing her bowl away from her. “You don’t think it kills me to know that this is all bullshit? That I’m in the middle of a freaking double standard? ‘Oh, look at the slutty little home-wrecker. Let’s all point our fingers at her for fucking athletes. She’s got her hooks in a hockey player this time. Poor Phil, his wife is about to have a baby, and the family man doesn’t need to deal with this drama’?” She changes her voice, mimicking gossip trolls. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes but they’re an emotional overload from her anger, from the resentment that burns in her chest. And I’m happy to see them. I’ll take this version of her, the fighting, kicking and screaming, tough girl over an indifferent one any day of the week.
“So, come to Philly. Don’t let them dictate how you live your life.”
She stares at me for a long second and then her shoulders roll forward, her face crumpling. “Don’t you get it, Luca? I’m not going to win this. All I’m going to do is bring more negative attention to you and your family. You can’t go around beating up every guy who talks shit about me. You’re now suspended from playing.”
“It’s four games,” I rationalize, even though guilt coats my throat.
“Four games,” she scoffs, seeing through me. “Exactly. It’s four games,” she emphasizes, holding up four fingers. “You’re fighting with your team, your family, because of my stupid mistake. You’re putting walls up between yourself and your people, the ones who’ve always had your back, because of me.” Her voice cracks and she shakes her head. “Please, just go to your brother’s dinner.”
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Abbi.”
“I’m tired,” she announces, standing from the table. She takes her half-eaten salad with her and tosses it in the trash. She stares at me from the kitchen, her eyes sad. “I’m going to head home tonight.”
“Hey, come on.” I stand up, holding out my arms. “We can figure this out. You don’t have to run—”
“I’m not running.”
“Or hide just—”
“I’m not hiding.” Her tone is sharp. “I just, I’m tired. Okay?”
I stare right at her, witnessing the coldness that filters over her face like a shield. I understand why she’s got her gloves on with the rest of the world, but why the hell is she still wearing them around me?
“Okay, baby,” I murmur.
She shoots me a small smile that’s fake as hell and mumbles good night.
I watch her walk away, wincing when the door latches behind her.
Growing up with two sisters, I’m a beast at navigating the emotions of women. For a guy who spent nearly two decades trying to get girls into my bed and not give the impression that it would mean anything, I’m a pro at reading the room.
But this room, this vibe, this woman is all new territory for me.
How can I keep her heart when she’s got it locked up so damn tight?