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saw those fucking legs, right?"
    I let out an amused laugh but didn't answer.
    "A man only has so much restraint, and besides..." He tucked his phone in his pocket when the elevator stopped and we walked to the cafeteria. "...You need someone tonight."
    "I'm fine, Leo. You don't need to babysit me."
    "I know. I want to be here with you." His eyes followed a tall redheaded nurse as she walked around the corner. "For a lot of reasons. Je-sus!" He shook his head. "Do they make it a rule in this hospital that you have to be smoking fucking hot?"
    "No idea."
    We ended up getting some food. None of it looked appealing, but we ate regardless. "What did you guys end up doing the other night?" I asked Leo, wondering how much trouble they got into when they went out after the Detroit game.
    Leo groaned. "Man, it was a fucking disaster. Remy got into a fight with some asshole that was already roughed up when he got there. Remy pushed him and then I don't even know what happened to Dave and Travis. I ended up meeting up with them in the morning for a little while, but I can't remember half the shit that happened."
    "When did you guys get home?"
    "Four? I'm not sure. I met back up with Dave and Travis around seven. I think. They both looked like hell. I didn't realize they took so many licks in that game with Detroit, but man, both of them looked like shit. So do you, by the way."
    I did look like shit. I knew that. I had no idea what I looked like but the memory of standing in the shower this morning, washing away an innocent girl ' s blood gave me an idea as to my appearance.
    And then I thought about Ami, and nothing compared to what that girl went through, or what she was about to go through.
     
    Game 37 – Nashville Predators
    December 26, 2009
     
    The morning was cold and dreary, which didn't help my mood, as I drove from my condo to the airport where we were set to catch a plane to Nashville.
    Preparing for a game was all about routine, and for me it started early.
    Before a home game, we had our morning skate at the United Center, followed by lunch. Then we went home. Some took naps while others just rested and mentally prepared themselves for the game. Usually I took a nap, but sometimes I would just lie there or watch TV.
    Then we would head back to the arena for the game. After the game the guys would get together for dinner and drinks, not always, but most of the time. Away games were slightly different but mostly the same, aside from squeezing in travel and we weren't home ice.
    The problem with my routine and my mood was that a fucking girl was wrecking it. A girl I hadn't even met. On one hand I was excited to get back on the road and play hockey, but on the other, I was a wreck because I had this girl in my head.
    Worst of all, what happened to her haunted me.
    When Coach O'Brien blew his whistle, the thought of Ami drifted and the unwanted drills began.
    Our head coach, Mark O'Brien, was not someone who was easy to like, but he was respected. He didn't slap backs, fist-bump—nothing. The only way you knew you were doing well and he was happy was if he yelled at you. When he was silent, then you should worry.
    If he talked to reporters after the game, he was all business, no smile, keeping his eyes above them.
    It was a rarity, but if he took a player aside, he spoke to them and took the time to explain something that, to him, was annoyingly clear, they were able to get inside his head and see he wasn't that bad of a guy, just misunderstood.
    And then he remembered who he was, and he was back to being not easy to like.
    I was cool with him, never had any problems. I didn't care too much for our assistant coach, Duane O'Callaghan. Without any flair or fucking charm, he was about as abrasive as sandpaper and exploded for just about anything. He was Irish, too, if that told you anything.
    Remy and Duane never got along. They couldn't even be in the same room together, and if he had it his way, he'd trade him, but we needed