He didn’t text.
Or come to my office.
And he isn’t inhisoffice.
Frowning, I scroll through my phone, half-expecting a text to pop up as I wander through the halls.
They’re buzzing with an interesting type of energy, one I’d likely pay more attention to if I wasn’t staring at my cell’s screen, perplexed by the sudden disappearance of my boyfriend.
Thecrackof sticks connecting with the ice, the echoes of pucks hitting the boards, the din of male voices giving each other crap…it takes a second, but eventually, I process what I’m hearing.
Strange.
I arranged the ice time.
But the guys mostly use it to fuck around, to practice individual skills, to unwind or try out a new play.
It’s generally fairly quiet, only a handful of players using it at a time.
The noise I’m hearing…
It’s more than that.
Muchmore.
I pick up the pace without really realizing it, tucking my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as I push through the door to the practice rink.
“Oof,” I mutter several moments later when the door slams into my back.
Because I’ve frozen in the opening, trying to process what I’m seeing in front of me.
“Damon,” I whisper, shoving the door off me and stepping fully into the rink.
“I know,” I hear, jumping about five feet in the air. Kylie smiles at me, her fingers finding mine and squeezing in silent apology for startling me. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it either.”
She looks back out onto the ice and I do the same.
Because…he’s out there.
In skates and gloves, a stick in his hand, moving gracefully as he carries a puck, stick handling fluidly, eyes up as he passes the biscuit over to Colt.
One touch brings it back to Damon who continues fucking around, bouncing the puck off one skate and forward, returning it to the blade of his stick, then firing it back to Colt. Back and forth, nothing too fancy, and there are definitely moments where I can see Damon is rusty from not having played in a long time.
But the instincts are there, the talent is being buffed to a beautiful shine, and?—
Crack!
My mouthquirks.
He’s still got that killer slapshot.
“Wow,” I murmur.
“I know,” Kylie says, leaning next to me, resting her hands on the dasher and peering through the glass. “I remember going to his games. It used to be my favorite part when he made that shot. Like he was a superhero sending the puck at super speed.”
She falls quiet.
I do too.
