A Perfect Compromise

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d69a9eda-1525-55de-92b9-6b79c2514c3c)

THE HORN BLARED. Game over. Players vaulted over the boards. Helmets, gloves and sticks flew into the air and rained down onto the ice.

As the arena erupted, Jean-Baptiste “J.B.” Larocque stood stock-still—his mind numb—unable to believe it.

The New Jersey Ice Cats had lost. Game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. In overtime.

So damn close.

They’d put everything on the line but they’d fallen short by one goal. One lousy goal.

He’d had the puck and the game...the Cup...on his stick.

Only, he’d missed. He’d freaking missed.

Worse, in the shocked seconds after, Denver’s defense had grabbed the puck, streaked up the ice and done what J.B. couldn’t. Just like that, it was all over.

Sudden-death overtime had never lived up to its name so perfectly before.

The aches and pains J.B. had blocked for the past two months came flooding back full-force, making him stagger. Leaning on his stick, he fought to stay upright. As terrible as he felt, he wouldn’t let the watching world see him crumble.

Around him, his dejected teammates leaned listlessly against the boards. His closest friends, Kenny Jelinek and Taylor “Mad Dog” Madden, sat slumped on the ice. Scotty Matthews looked ashen beneath his gray-streaked play-off beard. The captain had stayed on, hoping to win one more Cup. Instead of retiring on a high, he’d hang up his skates as second-best.

J.B.’s throat tightened. Last time the Cats had gone to the Finals, he’d been the conquering hero. That meant nothing now.

He had to get out of here.

A stick tapped his leg “Come on, bro.”

Jake “Bad Boy” Badoletti nodded to where Scotty and the Cats’ veteran goaltender, Ike Jelinek, were skating slowly to center ice to form the traditional handshake line. The rest of the team followed to congratulate the victorious Avalanche players.

Damn, that was the last thing J.B. felt like doing. But he had to man up and show his opponents the respect they’d earned.

“The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get the hell out of here.” Jake laid a hand on J.B.’s shoulder. “Unless you plan to stick around for the Cup presentation.”

“Yeah, like I’m a glutton for punishment.” Each stroke of his skate on the pitted ice jarred his joints.

“Your goal got us to overtime.”

“I should’ve finished the job.”

“Truth is we should’ve put the game away in the second period. Those missed chances came back to bite us in the ass in the third.”

J.B. took off his glove and shook the first hand. He continued down the line, alternating between “good job, man” and “good game.” When he got to Tru Jelinek, J.B. hugged him briefly, congratulating his friend and former teammate.

“Thanks. I’m just sorry it means you guys had to lose.” Empathy shone in Tru’s eyes.

J.B. hitched a shoulder. “Yeah.”

“I’ll catch you guys before you all fly home tomorrow.”

“For sure.”

Never had J.B. been so relieved to get off the ice. Though he felt like crap, he tapped the hands of fans hanging over the glass by the tunnel. But he couldn’t face the disappointment in their eyes, so he looked straight ahead.

The quiet in the locker room was unnerving. Guys stripped off their gear and showered without saying a word. Here and there, pockets of bright light shone as the media carried out their postgame interviews quietly. They understood how devastating this loss was to the players.

J.B. slumped onto the bench at his stall, knowing his turn would come. He took off his skates, then rested his arms on his thighs and stared at his hands, unable to stop replaying those last moments in his head. When the light shone on him, it was almost a welcome relief.

Until the dumb questions started. How did they freaking think he felt?

Fighting his growing irritation, he toed the party line. “It was a tough series. Both teams were evenly matched.” Blah, blah, blah.

“Take us through that last play. What happened?”

Seriously? J.B. glared at the polished TV presenter, barely resisting the urge to shove the idiot’s microphone where the sun didn’t shine.

The jackass stared back at him intently, as if he’d asked the one question that would reveal something earth-shattering the public didn’t know already.

“My. Shot. Went. Wide,” J.B. said through gritted teeth.

“Do you feel responsible...?”

“Enough!” J.B. surged to his feet and pushed the mikes and cameras out of his face. “We lost. It sucks. If you’d ever strapped on a freaking pair of skates and played, you’d know exactly how it freaking feels and what freaking went wrong.”

He stomped to the shower room, ripped off his gear and stood under the pounding water, eyes closed.