Cold As Puck: A Cold Love Series Novel Page 3

  My forehead pressed into my palm as I tried to take in what they were saying. It sounded messed-up. It wasn’t what they thought. Nowhere near it.

  I shook my head. “I did not try to take my life. I cut myself trying to shave.” I pointed to my new baby face. “I drank too much and let the tub run too long. That’s it.”

  “You’ve had a rough year. Your father’s passing left a void. And not being able to get back to Russia for the funeral.”

  My lips pursed uncomfortably. “That’s not your business. I didn’t miss the playoffs.”

  “As a team, we appreciate your commitment, but I’m trying to talk to you man-to-man now.”

  “Right, with Rick, Jerry, and Woody. Man-to-man,” I snarled. “Continue, Coach.” I slumped back into the chair.

  “That kind of loss takes a toll. Any loss of a parent, but especially a man’s father.” He nodded at Rick. “Not having time to mourn or attend his funeral might be something you need to deal with. That goal sent you spiraling, we get it.” I shook my head in disbelief. They didn’t know Feliks Sorrow. They had no idea what kind of man my father had been or what type of relationship we'd had. They had no right to interject.

  “We want you to check into rehab, Roman.”

  My throat closed. The night after the game had been dark and painful, but they had it wrong. All wrong.

  “I don’t have a drinking problem. Or a drug problem,” I added. I'd never touched pills in my life. Not even when I had an injury. “Ask doc. He’ll tell you I don’t take anything. I’m clean. Always have been.”

  “This isn’t about drugs. It’s about getting your head straight.” Their eyes were on me.

  “You want me to talk to a shrink?” I shook my head.

  “Yes. Your mental health is important to us. And to be honest, the team would be negligent if we brushed a suspected suicide attempt under the rug. I can’t look the other way. No one in this room can, either.”

  “I did not try to kill myself. I fell asleep in the tub. It could happen to anyone.”

  “You left the water running and flooded the three rooms below yours. You caused extensive damage to the hotel.”

  I groaned. “I’m paying for the damages. I apologized to the Ritz, and they know I’ll take care of it.”

  Rick cleared his throat. “It’s not about the damages. Mental health is an important issue in the league right now. This is something that is being emphasized on every team. Frankly, it’s a big issue going around other leagues, too.”

  “Are you getting pressure from the league?” I swiveled my head from one to the other. Just how many people knew what happened to me the other night?

  “We care about you, man,” Jerry said. “Just do what you need to do to get better.”

  “I don’t need to get better. There’s nothing wrong with me. Are you trying to tell me the other guys didn’t get drunk after we lost?” I pressed them. I wasn’t going to throw my teammates under the bus, but I knew Viktor had gotten shitfaced with Henrik that night. They always did, win or lose.

  “No one else was found unconscious in a bathtub.” The mood in the room was more somber than it had been.

  “I can’t believe this,” I muttered.

  “We’re going to face this challenge head-on.” Coach straightened his shoulders. “We have a list of treatment centers. I’ve looked over them, son.”

  “No.” I shook my head. I turned when he tried to slide a stack of brochures toward me.

  “We can’t let this go, Roman.”

  “There has to be another option. I’m not putting a stain on my career by going into one of those places. Not to mention, I don’t need to go. It was an accident.” I filled my lungs with air. “Woody, can management force me into this? Is it in my contract?”

  The attorney crossed his arms in front of his chest. “No, technically they can’t have you committed to an in-patient treatment plan, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It is.” I felt a sliver of satisfaction. They were posturing for nothing.

  “But they can put you on team leave.”

  I blinked. “What? It’s the off-season.” There were twelve weeks until we had to report to training camp.

  “The league has decided to bring mental health issues into the spotlight. This isn’t going away. Seek treatment in the off-season, then report back for training camp on day one.”

  I was supposed to leave for Belize in two days.

  “I can’t accept this.” I rose from the chair. Their eyes followed me.

  “Wait, wait,” Jerry barked through the phone. “What if I fly in and handle this personally?”

  I was about to smack the offer down when Woody jumped in. “What are you proposing, Jerry?”

  “Just thinking on the fly here, but what if Roman takes time off, out of the spotlight, and agrees to counseling for the summer?”

  “Keep going,” Coach urged.

  “What’s that little town you’re from, Sorrow?”

  My jaw tightened. “Penny Hill,” I answered.

  “Your mom still lives there, right?”

  “Yes,” I groaned.

  There were a few beats before Jerry continued. “What if I drive Roman to Penny Hill? He can spend time with his mother. Stay away from the press and the supermodels. Find a local therapist. I don’t know, cut some firewood and go on some hikes. Come back to camp all sorted out.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I barked. Jerry had never been to Penny Hill.

  But it was too late; the other men were already nodding in unison. “Good plan. Excellent plan, Jerry.”

  I shook my head.

  “All right. We’ll see you when you get here, and you and Roman can work out the details for the trip.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Coach pressed a button on the phone and the line to Jerry was disconnected.

  He glanced at me. “That’s a good agent right there.”

  “I didn’t agree to go back home. Or talk to a fucking shrink.”

  Woody put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “It’s the best option you have. I’d take it.”

  “Sending me home doesn’t mean what you think it does,” I warned.

  But they didn’t care. They were too busy congratulating themselves on having solved the problem that was Roman Sorrow.

  “See you at training camp.” Coach grinned. “You’ll be a new man. A happy man ready to clinch the cup next season.”

  I walked to the door. “I guess so.” I fitted my Dires cap to my head, flexing the brim in my hand.

  “Good luck, Roman. And know you can call any of us at any time. Day or night.”

  I glanced back at them. If I did need help, I wasn’t going to find it in that office. The incredible part—my dad was dead and still managing to tug puppet strings from beyond the grave. Unbelievable.

  “Good to know.” I slammed the door behind me and walked through the administrative offices.

  A gloom hung over the desks as if someone had opened the windows and let in low-rolling fog. I couldn’t shake the bleakness of it. The assistants wouldn’t even make eye contact with me when I walked past. I didn’t know if it was because I missed the goal or because they overhead that Roman Sorrow had tried to drown himself in a hotel room after he'd failed in front of the entire world.

  6

  Roman

  Eight Years Ago

  I'd never made dinner for a girl before, but for this girl, I needed to pull out all the stops. She was smart and gorgeous, and she kissed like no one I’d ever met. She’d turned me down for an entire week. I didn’t know why she finally said yes when I asked if I could cook her dinner, but she did. I think her answer surprised us both.

  I stared at the kitchen I shared with three other guys from the team. It was a shitshow in here. Pans with crusted egg piled in the sink. Beer bottles stacked on top of the trash can. Gatorade spilled on the counter. I groaned. This wasn’t the way to impress any
one. What the fuck was I thinking?

  Luca strolled into the kitchen in his underwear. He looked half asleep. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “Hey, brother, help me clean this up.” I pointed to the plates, glasses, and bottles. “I’ve got a girl coming over tonight.” It was noon.

  He reached into the fridge and sniffed the milk before tossing it in the trash can.

  “Luca, come on. I need help.”

  I hadn’t known Luca Salak until freshman training camp. We’d been matched in the roommate assignments by the student athlete housing office. So far, it had worked out. The verdict was still out on the other two guys on the team that lived with us.

  He leaned his head back to look at me through hooded eyelids and shuffled to the pantry door. “Sure. I’ll help,” he groaned. “After I make some breakfast.”

  “Thanks, man.” I hauled the bag from the trash and stared at the leaky goo pooling in the bottom of the container. “Shit.”

  It took a couple of hours to scrub, wash, and organize the kitchen. When we finished, I promised Luca a six-pack of his favorite beer. I also grabbed the duct tape and wrapped it in front of the kitchen bar, making a huge X. I plastered a sign to the front that read in sharpie: Don’t Enter, FFS.

  The kitchen hadn’t looked this good on move-in day. My roommates were going to the bar tonight. From there, half the hockey team planned to take rides to the next town over, where the clubs stayed open until 4am. I knew none of them would be back until tomorrow. It was why this setup should work.

  I was missing one major player—I had no idea what to cook for Sophie Fairchild.

  I held the phone to my ear. It rang a few times.

  “Mom.” There was a rush of panic in my voice.

  “Everything okay?” I heard the hum of the sewing machine in the background.

  “Yeah. Yeah. I just needed some help. I know you’re at work. I’ll make it quick.” I leaned on one foot and then the other.

  “Are you feeling okay? You aren’t sick, are you? Injured?”

  “No. No. Nothing like that.” I stared at the ceiling. “I need to make dinner. It’s for a…a date.”

  There was nothing but the whirr coming from her workshop on the other end.

  “Mom?”

  “I’m here,” she answered.

  “Good. I thought I dropped the call or something.”

  “What does she like to eat?”

  “Good question. I’m not sure. I have no idea what to cook.”

  “Russian or American?” she asked.

  “Oh, she’s American.”

  Mom laughed. “No, I meant the meal. Are you trying to introduce her to something from Russia?”

  “Hell no,” I growled.

  “Roman,” she scolded. Guys were never too old for their moms to hate cursing.

  “Sorry. I want to stick to something she’s heard of before.”

  “Why don’t you just do spaghetti? That’s easy. You’ve made it a hundred times.”

  “Out of a jar,” I argued. I wanted to impress Sophie, not show her I could open a few bottles and boil water.

  “Lasagna?”

  I groaned. “That takes forever.”

  “Roman, I don’t know what you can make on this kind of schedule.” Her exasperation with me was evident. “Why not try some chicken and stir fry vegetables? I can text over a list of seasonings and the oils I use.”

  “What goes with that?” I asked.

  “Bread? Rice? Even potatoes.”

  I nodded. “Okay. That will work. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Sure. I’ll send over a list in a few minutes. Someone just walked in the door.”

  “I’m headed to the grocery store now. I’ll let you go.” It wasn’t the first time my mom had saved my ass, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last.

  * * *

  I looked at the picture on my phone and checked the table again. They seemed to match up. Forks on the left. Spoons on the right. I nodded at my accomplishment just as the doorbell rang.

  I pulled the door open and there she was.

  Sophie.

  A bright blue scarf tucked around her neck. A white beret slanted on the top of her hair. The snow fell lightly. She rubbed her arms.

  “It’s freezing out here.”

  “Oh, shit. Come in.” I jumped back so she could enter the apartment. She stopped as soon as I closed the door. Small puddles formed under her boots.

  Her eyes combed the place floor to ceiling. “How many roommates do you have?” she asked.

  “Four. All on the team like me.”

  I took her coat, shaking off the snow. She unwrapped her scarf, and I saw just how low her sweater’s neckline plunged. Shit. It made me lick my lips. Lush, perfect breasts. Sophie bent over to unzip her boots. As soon as she stepped out of them, she was easily three inches shorter.

  “And no one is home?”

  “Bar night,” I explained, taking a few strides to the kitchen. She was on my heels. “They won’t be back tonight. Trust me, we don’t want them back.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I meant because they can be a bunch of drunken dicks when they party.”

  Her lashes rose and I wondered if I’d ever seen a more beautiful girl in my life. The first time I saw her, the night of the homecoming game, I had actually stopped climbing the bleachers. I’d hit one of my buddies in the chest and demanded he tell me who she was. It took asking a few of the underclassmen to get an answer. By the time I did, she was gone. The night I saw her in the undergrad library, I thought I’d seen a mirage.

  “Just so you don’t think I’m staying over on the first date,” she laid it out there.

  I chuckled. “You’re very certain, aren’t you?”

  “No reason to give false expectations.” Her eyes darted to her coat. “And I came with mace. Just so you know.”

  I put my hands in the air, backing into the kitchen. “Don’t shoot, okay?” I grinned, watching her neck turn pink as the color crept to her cheeks.

  “I hope I don’t need to.” Her lips twisted together.

  “Can I pour you wine, or will that get me in trouble?” I had uncorked a bottle of white. Mom had told me that was the color to serve with chicken.

  I could tell she was considering it. I could also tell she was the kind of girl who considered every decision that was put in front of her. She wasn’t a waffler, but a person who saw the need to take decisive action.

  “One glass, please,” she said, entering the kitchen and letting go of the eye contact she had made with her coat pocket.

  I poured the wine and handed it to her.

  “What’s for dinner?” She peered over my shoulder.

  “My famous stir-fry chicken and veggies. French bread and rice pilaf.” I was proud of what I had made, even if the rice came from a pre-packaged box with instructions.

  It was easier to see all the shades of brown in her eyes when she widened them like that. “Wow. You sure you aren’t feeding the team?” she joked.

  I laughed. “They don’t get any of this. It’s all for you.” She was standing a few feet from me. In the small kitchen it was hard not to encircle her with my arms and steal another kiss. But after that mace comment, I was going to let this play out on her terms.

  “I’d ask if there was something I could do to help, but you even set the table.”

  Until now, that table had been nothing but a dumping ground for liquor bottles and porn magazines, an occasional puck and helmet. It was the first time it had been scrubbed. It was the first time two people were going to sit down at it and eat a meal together.

  As we stood there staring at each other, I felt as if Sophie was pulling me out of the rubble. Throwing me a lifeline. She didn’t even know it.

  The timer beeped for the bread, and I jumped into action. “Everything’s ready,” I announced.

  I placed the bottle of wine on the table for Sophie, just in case, and opened a cold beer for myself. There were two heaping
plates of food in front of us, and I had started a playlist. We ate in silence for a few minutes. But I couldn’t sit this close to her and not know more. Not know her.

  “So you moved from Russia?” she asked. “How was that?”

  Damn it. I had wanted to start with the questions.

  “I was ten.” I scratched the back of my head. “My parents split, and my mom wanted to come back to the States.”

  “Was it a big culture shock for you?”

  I shrugged. “I kept playing hockey. As long as I can skate, I don’t really see anything else around me. Easy enough to meet new kids on a team when you’re that age.”

  “I bet you get a lot of questions about where you grew up.” She studied me.

  “I don’t advertise it. I’m still American, you know?”

  “Oh, I know. I didn’t mean to say you weren’t. Only, moving is hard, right?”

  I chugged the beer. The icy smoothness put me at ease. “My dad’s still over there. And he wants me to visit.”

  “That could be cool, right?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I’m too busy anyway with practice, games, team stuff. I don’t think I’m going.” Dad had been trying for two years. He’d sent plane tickets. I’d thrown them all away and never mentioned it to my mom. It was easier to keep things from her when I was at college.

  “But you’re the one with the spy dad,” I teased, steering the conversation away from my father.

  “He’s not a spy.” She clutched the wine glass. “Military intelligence,” she explained. “His job took us to Penny Hill. But no more moving for me. He can go wherever the military sends him next. I’m no longer a military brat. A free woman.” She smiled. “I want to be in one place and actually spend some time making friends. Getting to know the town longer than two seconds before I’m yanked out of there. He loves moving around. I do not.”

  “And your mom?” I asked. “What does she think about moving around so much?”

  Her eyes slipped from mine. “Not around anymore. Not since I was five. The memories are fuzzy.” She replaced the wine glass with a piece of crusty French bread. “It’s just Dad and me.” She nodded. “Really, that’s the only way I ever remember it being.” She exhaled. “Imagine growing up with a strict father and no mom. Not the easiest childhood for a girl who wanted to get her ears pierced and wear makeup. He was totally out of his element. I think he still is, which is how I found your mom’s shop when it came time to get fitted for prom.”