FYI your pool has officially been christened Flamingo Lagoon.
Every photo and every line is like a breadcrumb trail into her life. And all week, I’ve followed it, smiling at my phone like an idiot, getting more of Lulu from a handful of messages than I have in the year I’ve known her.
I barely have time to shower, let alone think about what all of that means, before I’m back out the door. Quick wash, game-day suit, a hand through my hair. Dusty farewelled, flamingo and swan still bobbing in the pool, Lulu’s Post-it burning a hole on my table. Then it’s straight to the rink, adrenaline already sparking before I even hit the players’ lot.
Home opener. There’s nothing like it.
The locker room is a wall of noise when I step inside. Music pounding, sticks clacking against the floor, the sharp rip of tape, along with the smell of fresh sweat.
“About time, Pookie,” Chase calls. “Thought you were gonna sleep through puck drop.”
“Had to remind Dusty who his favorite is,” I mutter, tugging my jersey over my pads.
Eli snorts from across the room. “Good luck. That dog’s traded up.”
I don’t rise to it. Not when I know exactly who he means. Not when I agree.
The tunnel swallows us next, our skates biting against the rubber mat, crowd rumbling overhead. Warm-ups blur by, the anthem locks everyone into place, and then the horn sounds.
We burst out into floodlights and noise that rattles the rafters. The arena is shaking, thousands of fans on their feet, pounding against the glass.
“Let’s go, Storm!” someone yells from the boards. The noise is deafening, a roar that shakes the ice under my blades.
First shift and the puck’s in our zone. Their winger cuts across the blue line, eyes locked on the net. I angle wide, lower my shoulder, and step into his lane. Steel collides with steel as I hip check him through the body. He spins out, the puck squirts loose, and Reid sweeps it clear.
“Nice one, Pooks!” Hutchy hollers, stick banging against the post.
Next whistle is a faceoff at center ice. I glance up, scanning the stands out of habit, looking for a familiar face. My mom and dad don’t attend the games, though. Never have. Too much noise and chaos. Easier to watch it from their living room in Minnesota with the remote in hand, so they can rewind every mistake and call me after.
Tonight, though, my eyes find her.
Lulu.
Second row, right behind the bench with Zoe, Charlie, Claire, and Tamara. She fits into their WAG cluster so easily—leaning in to hear Zoe over the noise, laughing when Charlie tugs her arm, scarf slipping from her lap to the floor. The Storm jersey she’s wearing hasPARNELLstitched across the back in bold white.
My gut twists. Of course, she’s wearing Eli’s name. It’s her name, too. But it doesn’t stop the burning in my chest at the sight of it stretched across the back of her shoulders.
The ref drops the puck, play explodes again, and I force myself to move with it. One of their forwards drifts up to Eli at the dot, voice pitched low.
“Parnell,” he sneers, eyes bouncing toward the glass. “That’s your sister, Lulu, in the stands, eh? Bet she looks good on her knees.”
Eli bristles, his shoulders squaring and jaw flexing, ready to take the bait.
I get there first.
Boards shake as I hammer the guy clean into the glass, his helmet cracking against Plexi hard enough to rattle teeth. Controlled and legal, but my stick pins him there, forearm across his chest so he feels every ounce of pressure.
“Put her name in your mouth again,” I snarl, “and you won’t have teeth left to keep it there.”
The ref’s arm stays down as I spring off him, and he skates off. Eli glides past, brows drawn tight, shooting me a look that could mean a dozen things. Suspicion. Thanks. Maybe both. I just set my jaw and push off, resetting my stance. It’s a defenseman’s job—cover your guys. End of story.
From there, it’s muscle memory. Clearing the crease, eating a hit to break up a rush, leaning on their top line until their legs burn. In the third, the puck slides clean to me at the blue line, so I wind up and fire it low. It clips a shin pad and bounces straight to Chase, who buries it top shelf. The goal horn blares, and the crowd detonates.
“Atta boy!” Chase slaps my helmet as we circle back.
The final buzzer is bedlam. Storm take the win. Helmets off, sticks raised to the glass, the roar deafening as though we’ve already lifted the Cup.
I glance back to the row where I saw her, searching for one last flash of blonde hair, but the seat’s empty now. Makes sense. The wives and girlfriends will be waiting in their lounge, but Lulu doesn’t belong there. Not officially.
