Chapter 3: Isla

I shimmy along the bench and sit down beside Antonia, our resident physio. Connecting my phone to my mini tripod, I balance it on the lip of the boards, ready to record snippets of training to post to the Storm socials. It's a weekly routine. Not my favourite, but if I avoid looking at Nick too much then it's just about bearable.

Unfortunately, Nick is exactly what the people want to see: our youngest yet brightest star. Our best path to the Stanley Cup.

"Damn, Coop is looking good." Antonia sighs in admiration. "I'm digging the new facial hair."

"Probably to cover all the bruises."

She laughs and nudges me. "I saw that video you posted. The one where he chokes on his beer? Hilarious."

"He didn't seem to think so."

He's currently at the far side of the rink, practising corner drills. At 6'4", plus the height gained from his skates, he's truly a mountain of a man, packed with so many muscles it's hard to gauge where his body ends and his padding begins.

As the drill finishes, he pulls off his helmet and shakes his hair free. The wavy blond strands flop over his ears, right before he scrapes a broad palm over his forehead to push them back from his face. Scooping the puck up onto the blade of his stick, he bounces it a few times, then glances over his shoulder to laugh at something Cam is saying.

Yeah, I guess he is looking good.

Antonia tuts to the side of me, and I drag my gaze away from Seb to follow her line of sight.

"I think Matt's hiding an injury," she says. "His shot isn't as powerful as usual, and he took that big hit last week against Ottawa."

I know enough about hockey to comfortably run a social media page, but Antonia is leagues ahead of me when it comes to the finer details. If Matt is injured, though, that leaves a first-line position open.

"Nick would give anything to play on the first line," I tell her. "He thinks it'll get him firing."

She snorts. "Playing with Tait and Corms would get anyone firing. I hope you're not still fucking that asshole."

"No." It's the truth, but my cheeks heat. "I hope you're not suggesting that could be the reason for his rut."

Guilt slices across her face. "Not at all. I just wouldn't want him throwing you under the bus again. Using you as an excuse. Maybe it's time he realised he's not the next Sidney McDavidzky and he can't blame anyone but himself for it."

Despite her open appreciation of the men on the team, Antonia has categorically ruled out ever becoming involved with one of them. She fought hard to earn her role here and feels a relationship with one of the players would undermine that. She's here because she wants to practise physiotherapy—not because she finds athletes attractive.

I used to feel that way. Even if I hadn't had a brother who'd made me resent hockey players, running a channel half-dedicated to the sport brought with it a plethora of opinions from strangers on the internet who believed a girl—a British girl, no less—had no place commenting on the NHL. Hooking up with one of the players would have only added weight to their argument that I wasn't taking it seriously.

So I dated outside the sport for my first four years in Canada. When I drunkenly hooked up with Seb the evening after he'd been traded to Saskatoon, unaware of who he was, the fight that ensued the next morning stemmed from far more than just my flippant comment about not wanting to get involved with a hockey player, but it reminded me exactly why it was a bad idea. Because this man who, like me, couldn't remember anything about the night before, instantly belittled my job and accused me of deliberately deceiving him.

Then Nick happened a few months later. I tried to ignore it. Tried not to laugh at his cheesy jokes or be charmed by his chivalrous gestures. But I fell hard. For him. The person. Not the hockey player. And then of course it was the hockey player in him that made me regret ever breaking my rule in the first place.

Practice shifts to some 3-on-3 plays. I record in short bursts, focusing mostly on Nick because I know that's what's going to earn the views.

He's not a bad guy. The opposite, in fact. He's kind. Sweet. Thoughtful. Not a fuckboy like Cameron Cormier or a goon like Sebastian Cooper. He just loves hockey. With all his heart and soul. And that led to him making a panicked judgement when he got sent down to the AHL ten months into our relationship. As the first overall pick in the draft, it was a devastating crash after a magical first season that had seen him become the new face of hockey. He needed something to blame.

That was me.

A loud thump plummets me back down to the practice skate, just in time to see my phone topple over the boards. Seconds later, there's an unmistakable crunch.

Inches in front of me, Seb and Matt battle for the puck. It isn't until they've moved further along the boards that I can stand up and peer over at the damage.

My phone lies on the ice, in several pieces. Shit. This is not what I need right now. Nausea churns through my stomach as my pulse quickens in panic.

The whistle blows and Seb glides over. He skids to a stop, then bends down to gather the remains of my phone.

"Hope you weren't filming anything," he says. "You should be more careful in the future."

Suspicion dawns on me, but before I can accuse him of anything, he's off again.

I spin to Antonia. "Did he deliberately knock my phone into the ice then skate over it?"

Her smooth brow wrinkles. "It was a fierce battle. Not sure if it was his elbow or stick that knocked it off."

"But either way, deliberate?"

"I know the pair of you don't get on, but do you really think he'd crush your phone?"

Yes. I do think that. But judging by Antonia's tone, she doesn't, and I don't want to look like a fool.

"This phone is literally my job." I try to hide the wobble in my voice.

"Just get a new one. Claim on your insurance."

I don't tell her I don't have insurance. It's an expense I needed to cut, although now I realise how short-sighted that was. How many months will this set me back? I'm currently saving every penny I can between my two jobs, and this will be a dent.

When my eyes start to prick with tears, I leave the rink. It's such a stupid thing to cry over. It's not worth it. But it's not just about the phone. It's about hockey once again getting in the way of my future.

*

Later that evening, my phone lights up with a call from Rob. For a split second, instinct is faster than pride, and my chest warms at seeing my brother's name on my screen. He hardly ever calls me. He hardly ever calls anyone. The man can go days without checking his phone, and that is a trait we do not share.

I answer the phone to hear noise in the background, and my heart instantly deflates. He's out somewhere. That probably means he needs something.

"I saw what happened at practice today," he tells me. "I'll send you some money to replace the phone."

Just like that, pride kicks in. His best friend crushed my phone, and Rob's solution is to just pay me off? He has absolutely no concept of reality. No concept of money. Rather than check if I'm okay, he just wants to make the problem disappear. I'll be damned if I accept a cent from him.

"I don't want your help, Rob."

"Isla." His sigh is infuriatingly patronising. "It's not a big deal, okay? It's only a phone. Just buy yourself a new one and forget about it."

I grit my teeth. "I don't need my big brother bailing me out when his thug of a friend was the one who smashed my phone. Is this like an apology on his behalf or something?"

"I'm not getting involved in whatever—"

"Except you're paying to replace the phone he broke, so you're involved."

"The money is nothing to me. I won't notice it's gone. Just swallow your pride and accept it."

I don't accept it. Not for myself, anyway. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx