Hunching, I slip around the barricade in the opposite direction, laser held up in a ready position in case Parker jumps out at me. I’ve barely made it a handful of careful steps before the buzzer goes off that indicates a player is out of the game. Quickening my pace, I round another glow-in-the-dark obstacle.
Jack is standing, laser held loosely at his side, and chest guard lit up to indicate he’s been hit. His eyes meet mine overParker’s dark head of hair and he smiles. Before Parker can, I raise my laser and hit him.
“No way!” he protests over the buzzer, whirling around and looking at me in shock. I smirk at him as the lights in the room brighten, indicating the end of the game. “You betrayed me!”
The look on his face is so comically appalled, I burst out laughing. Jack joins in, which only makes Parker look more scandalized. His jaw drops dramatically and he shakes his head, looking between us.
“On mybirthday,” he adds.
“You may have lost this battle, Parks, but you won the war.” I point over at the scoreboard, showing how many times Parker trounced us.
“I hope you appreciate what I did for you,” Jack says to me, unable to give gravitas to the sentence between the rosy cheeks and the grin. I put a hand flat on my chest.
“Martyrs are never forgotten,” I tell him, which sets him off laughing again. Parker smiles, and wipes an arm across his forehead.
“Go-carts?” he asks hopefully.
“Go-carts,” I agree. Waiting for Parker to pass and lead the way out of the laser tag arena, I step into place beside Jack, walking close enough for our shoulders to bump. “We’re probably going to have to team up in go-carts, too, if we want to beat him.”
“I figured,” Jack agrees on a sigh, dropping his voice low before continuing. “Nate told me my ‘heavy ass’ would weigh down the car.”
Laughing, I reach to put an arm around his waist. I manage to snatch my hand back before touching him,surprised by the urge. Stuffing my hands into my pockets where they’ll be safe, I clear my throat and look to the side. What the hell?
11
Jack
I’ve gotthe puck in my glove, held protectively against my chest, when the offenseman hits me. I don’t see him coming, having tucked my chin when I’d caught the puck, and grunt in surprise as I’m shoved hard into the pipe. Having alreadystopped the fucking shot, I lose my balance and sprawl on the ice, unwilling to use my glove hand to catch myself. Not when that puck is nestled in there, and there is any chance of them scoring a goal. Istoppedit, for once.
Someone lands on top of me, and the sharp retort of the referees whistle is offset by the grunting and swearing of the players.
“Get the fuck off of him,” I hear Nate growl, right before the weight is lifted off my back.
It takes a lot of effort to push myself up onto hands and knees, encumbered by the pads, but I manage to eventually sit up onto my knees. Nate is directly in front of me, apparently doing his best to strangle the forward who hit me, andcompletely ignoring the referee trying to pull him away. The rest of my teammates are piled against the boards, gloves and sticks littering the ice as everyone fights.
I rise to standing, using the crossbar to pull myself up, and watch as the ref finally manages to free the Denver player’s neck from Nate. He says something to him I can’t hear over the screaming of the crowd, hands outstretched to keep them separated. Allowing himself to slide away, Nate bends down and picks up the DU player’s helmet. Casually, he chucks it down the ice. Not quite done, he snags a glove and tosses that out of reach, too. He keeps scattering the DU player’s gear as the referee tries fruitlessly to get him to stop. Watching him, I find myself grinning—a rare enough occurrence on the ice that I can’t remember the last time it happened. As he’s turned forcefully toward the bench by the referee, he catches my eye and winks.
It takes a couple minutes for everyone to gather their disseminated equipment and the referees to confer. Unsurprisingly, Nate is given a ten minute misconduct. Coach Mackenzie steps carefully over the bench, hand resting on Vas’ shoulder, to lean over the boards and talk to the ref. I watch him, flushing when he gestures toward me and the referee looks my way. I look over at Desmond instead—always the safer option. He catches my eye across the ice, and places a hand flat on his belly.
Oh, right. Dutifully, I carefully go through a few rounds of muscle relaxation, breathing deep and even through my nose. I’ve felt better tonight than I usually do, and while I do think Desmond’s techniques help, I don’t think that’s the main reason I’m feeling so calm right now. I’m feeling good because this is it—my last game. Tomorrow, I’m going to talk to Coach Mackenzie and quit the team. The knowledge sitscomfortably warm in the center of my chest, like a kitten curled up there, purring. The light at the end of the tunnel.
The puck is dropped, and the game goes on. Nate’s absence from the ice does break through some of the flimsy calm I’ve been able to maintain, which only adds to my certainty that I am making the right decision to quit. If one player missing from the bench means I can’t play well, I shouldn’t be here at all. It’s not fair to use Nate as a safety blanket, or to keep bringing the team down so I can pretend to be something I’m not.
We win the game and tears prick at the corners of my eyes, throat scratchy as my teammates skate over and hug me or bop my helmet. It’s the last time they’ll ever do it to me. I miss it already.
Vas skates up, glove already reaching up to tap my helmet. I pull him into a hug instead, squeezing a little harder than necessary and trying to say thank you without actually saying the words. We all love Vas, and I’m no exception to that rule. It’s possible I love him a little more than the others, if only because he works so hard to help me when I’m feeling rotten.
“This is a good night,” Vas says cheerfully, skating next to me as we make our way to the chute.
“Yeah, it was. Sucks Nate got in trouble, though.”
Vas chuckles. “Oh, I do not think he will be feeling badly about this. We must protect our most valuable player, yes?”
I blush as he claps me on the shoulder. Most valuable player, my ass. Only Vas could manage to say that without laughing. I’m the least valuable player.
Desmond is standing beside the bench, waiting for us to step off the ice before following us to the locker room. As I pass, he puts his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes gently. I smile, cheeks warm but otherwise pleased with theattention. He doesn’t even seem to care that my skin is slippery with sweat, which is nothing short of a miracle. I sure wouldn’t want to touch me right now.
Nate was wrong when he joked that I’d gotten over my crush on Desmond. I haven’t. If anything, it’s worse now that I know him a little better. Know Parker. Sure, I still find him insanely attractive, but now, instead of fantasizing about what it might be like to watch him undress, my mind seems to settle more on how it would feel to justbewith him. Go to the park and play video games with Parker and laugh at the expression on Desmond’s face when he eats a carrot—that’swhat I want.
