1
HEART IN THE CREASE (EDEN)
First dates are supposed to be clean slates—until my past drops into the crease.
Ten years ago, my brother’s best friend cracked my heart. I glued it back together and called the seams “growth.”
Tonight, I’m doing the sensible thing. Madison Square Garden. Defenders hockey. Six rows up with a tall, tailored finance guy who booked the tickets, found our seats without squinting, and asked what I wanted before he told me what he likes. He smells of cedar and competence. He’s exactly my speed.
The lights dip. The organ growls. Cold air rolls off the ice and beads my drink. I am fine.
Then the goalie folds into the blue paint.
The familiar set of shoulders. Number One.
Nate Russo.
He used to know every corner of me. I’ve spent a decade dodging the places he might be and calling it moving on. New friends, new routes, new rules: do not feed the past.
“Great seats,” Bennett says, offering me a nacho.
“Great,” I echo, and my pulse stutters against the plastic rim of my cup.
Nate shuffles, taps each post, settles. The crowd swells into a single loud heart.
Don’t look at the crease.
The goalie lifts his chin a fraction, the tiniest tilt of the mask, and glances up into the crowd.
I forget how to breathe.
The puck drops. Sticks clash. Life surges forward.
Bennett leans in, warm and steady. “You follow the Defenders?”
“Not lately,” I say, becauseonly the one who ruined meseems impolite.
A shot whistles in. Nate swallows it because gravity’s only a suggestion to him. The horn doesn’t sound, but my rib cage does.
I grip my drink.Watch the puck, I order myself. Not the past.
Except the past is wearing blue, standing in the crease, and he just found me.
Bennet takes my hand without asking. He’s steady, assured, and the warmth feels good. There’s no jolt, but maybe the voltage will show up later. “You okay? You look a little…keyed up.”
“Crowds,” I lie, and unstick my shoulders from my ears.
The Garden thrums under my heels—bass, blades, voices stacked into one big pulse. Number One looks bigger than the boy who taught me card tricks on summer porches. Broader. Sharper.
“Fastest game in the world,” Bennet says near my ear. “Watch Seventeen, Finn O’Reilly. He’ll change your religion.”
I hum and play along. I don’t mention I was at Finn O’Reilly’s wedding last summer—or that his wife Jessica Novak O’Reilly runs PR for half the roster now. She’s also representing my brother, Leo—boxing, not hockey. My brain’s already analyzing plays and spotting mistakes I’d call out if that were my job. It isn’t. My job is saying yes to life.
“We could’ve done martinis on a rooftop,” Bennett says during a whistle. “But this felt more…us.”
Us. Optimistic, but points for effort.
The Raiders rush. Number One slides, squares, erases the chance. My chest pulls tight. I know that precision; he wastes nothing. He waits you out, a silent challenge.
