It never used to be like this. Hockey used to be the easy part. I never made it a point to stick handle more than I had to. Never went out of my way to make a goal into an epic celebration. But once upon a time, I still had fun.
I'd make the occasional trick-shot or do some sort of inside joke of a celly with my teammates. But that was my natural enjoyment shining through. The general happiness I felt in my escape during a time that would be hard on anyone, let alone a young teenager. And I think people recognized that.
I was a personality on the ice, but that wasn'twhoI was, justhow. Now, it's all different. Those things are what's expected, but all over the top. Now the "fun" is more-muscle memory than innate behavior. All of my natural joy for making the game my own, lost among the rest of it.
To be this close in score doesn't typically help with the heaviness. But then again, I don't usually haveherwatching me. Not like this, at least. I take note of the way that even the thought of Brooke calms that uneasiness. It doesn't matter if I have to lie to Jane or hide from my dad or sneak her into the back of my car like I'm seventeen again. In four minutes, I get to have her. And that's all the motivation I need to end strong.
Bending over my stick, I get into position, the ref hovering between our center and the Hurricanes'. The whistle starts the clock again as the puck is dropped between them, hitting the ice with a smack. Their sticks tangle together as they both push for possession, and I glide forward toward our opponent's net.
The puck sails backward toward our zone and Burns steps up, cracking it up the boards. Petrov is there to receive it, two of the Hurricanes' defenders heading toward him. He skates behind the net as the rest of my line and I get into position to shift the puck around. Alexei deeks right but sails left, and instead of dumping it into the net himself, he kicks it out to Burns as one of the defenders rams into him. Burns pulls his stick back and fakes a shot, following through past the puck and tapping it to me behind him.
I inch toward the blue line, unnecessarily close. My skates cross over into the neutral zone, the puck nearly touching it. It hovers so closethat if the incoming Hurricane skated any quicker, the breeze he'd cause would push it out, forcing my team to recover. I play with the puck for an extra beat before passing it to Petrov by the boards and sprinting past my defenseman. In one fluid motion, Alexei sends it to me—a tape to tape pass under two players' sticks—and I rip my shot.
As smooth as butter, the puck sinks into the corner of the net, and the horn blasts through the arena. Like Pavlov's law, I fall into a rhythm after the sound, cruising toward the boards and skating past the bench. All the while, I sweep my stick past me on either side of my body, "rowing" myself past my coaches and teammates. When I clear the blue line, I throw my hand to my helmet, my pointer finger running along the top of my shield as if I'm searching the stands for a safe landing from the ice's rough waters.
And maybe I am.
I spot her once more, but just as I do, I also find a rip current from the corner of my eye. My dad tips his chin up at me from his usual seat at center ice—pride and annoyance both present on his face—and it's no surprise that a weight settles in my chest again.
It hasn't always been like this. I used to look up to my dad—aim to please him. But that came from wanting him to be proud of me for succeeding in something that I know he loves. But after Mom died, I realized it was never about me. And if anything, losing her just made it worse.
I could be drafted into the NHL, win Rookie of the Year, make captain for our hometown team, and I'd still never be enough to fill the holes left in his heart from his first two loves. I tolerated it for years—busted my ass to get here soDadcould finally see Anderson on the back of an NHL jersey—but lately I've realized he brings with him some of the loudest noise that I'm trying to avoid.
"Nice," Petrov says as I step through the boards. He tips his chin down at me, his hands wrapped around his stick that sits between his legs.
"It'll do," I pant, squeezing water into my mouth. I hand my stick to Max, knowing at this point I won't be going back in, and slip my helmet off before running a hand through my sweat-locked hair.
"Good shit, Drew," Monte says, tapping the pad at my shoulder.
I wipe the dew off my brow with the sleeve of my jersey, then nod back at him. "Thanks, Coach."
With my body turned away from the ice, I glance up and immediately lock eyes with Brooke. She arches one brow at me seductively, and my jaw tenses, my racing heart settling into a slow pounding rhythm.
I don't normally celebrate a win like I used to. Game nights off are one of the exceptions with my deal with Jane. But something tells me that I won't be soaking in my ice bath at home, listening to music, and decompressing from the last two hours like I'm used to.
Well… at least not alone, I hope.
21
Brooke
Standing at the end of the hallway that leads to both an exit and the locker room door, I have to make it a point to do something for "work." The truth is, I've been posting stories on Instagram and Facebook all night, have a reel and TikTok both scheduled to go out of footage I took from the first period, and a list of ideas to dive into next. But I can't just wait here for Drew without looking busy. What if his teammates notice? Or worse—what if whatever we're doing doesn't include seeing me after a game?
So, instead of setting myself up for possible failure, I pulled out my phone when I rounded the corner from the equipment office and walked past the locker room to the end of the hall. I have my camera app up and have been asking the players that don't look completely wrecked to show me their "big win face" before they walk out the door.
Only two guys have left so far, one of which was Hughes—who I have learned to differentiate from Ellis off the ice by his eccentric style—and the other was Carter Ward. I didn't expect that the goalie would be the first out the door, hummingThe Macarenamay I add, but I've come to the conclusion in my first week here that my research is right. They're totally strange.
I'm looking at Carter's picture, one eye winking and two finger guns aimed at the camera, when a man I don't recognize rounds the corner at the other end of the hall. At the same time, the door between Drew and me blows open, and my whole body stands on edge as it has each time it could be him walking out. Once again, it's not. Instead, Petrov's massive body charges into the space and nearly swallows the man behind him, who I barely had time to look over before he blocked him from my view.
I smile at Petrov, whose usual stone-cold expression erases the mystery man from my mind.One day I will get this guy to smile.I wait for him to approach me, and as he does, I can finally see past him. Drew must have snuck out right behind him because he's standing with the man looking six kinds of gorgeous in his full game suit, the slate blue color taking me right back to the gala. He starts talking to the guy, his voice so low I can't hear a thing, but I do notice that he and the man bear a striking resemblance.
"Brooke." The Storm's voice rumbles through me like thunder during a…huh… fitting.It catches me off guard and draws my attention back to him.
"You remembered my name," I say, surprised and impressed.
He continues to stare at me blankly. "You have only one."
My eyes run down the length of him in his jet black… everything, as I attempt to figure out how this poetic version of him fits into his overall picture. I purse my lips when I fail to see it, but am still just as taken aback by him. "That I do, Alexei. That I do."
