Lucien wastes no time, quickly throwing a hard right hook that rocks Volkov. The fans get even louder, and Volkov jabs Lucien so hard I cringe. My exercise physiology training changed my views on hockey fighting. As the daughter of a coach and former player, I used to cheer for them.
Now that I know how the brain responds to trauma, I know there’s nothing to applaud. But it’s part of the game, and Lucien seems to relish it. He’s grinning at Volkov as they trade a few more hits before Volkov slides and falls to the ice, taking Lucien with him.
The refs break them up, and both men get sent to their respective penalty boxes. Lucien chirps at Volkov as a ref leads him by the elbow to his box. He looks like he’s on the verge of laughter.
Volkov, on the other hand, looks ready to commit murder. A dark cloud covers his expression.
Tampa fans pound on the sides and back of Lucien’s box with their fists and palms, trying to get a rise out of him. He smiles and waves at them like a queen greeting her subjects, which only eggs them on.
I can’t help smiling. He’s damn good at what he does, which is firing up opposing teams so they’ll focus on him instead of the Crush’s offensive lines.
It’s working. Carter quickly scores a goal, bringing the score up to 3–0. Isaac’s fart yoga must be helping him, because he’s chasing a shutout. From the talk I overheard in the locker room earlier, he needs the boost a shutout would give him.
“Miss Turner? May I get you anything?” an arena attendant asks me.
VIP service is part of sitting here, and I’ve already had popcorn and a glass of wine. I shake my head and smile at the attendant, reaching into my bag for a tip since the game is almost over.
“I’m good, thanks.”
She nods her thanks and I return my focus to the game. Tampa’s players are getting aggressive, trying to make up for the huge deficit in the score.
When I lived in San Francisco, I volunteered at a group home for disabled adults one evening a week. I led them through modified dance moves to get in some exercise, and then we’d have pizza and an activity, which was sometimes watching a sporting event.
One of the men in the home, Coop, loved watching hockey. I told him my dad coached a team, and I pointed him out on the TV screen during a game. After that, Coop stayed glued to the screen for every minute of the Crush’s games and when Dad was on screen, he’d get excited and yell, “That’s your dad, Talia!”
I miss Coop. Really, I miss everyone I worked with. I tried to go back to work a week after Kyle called off our engagement, but it was too hard. Some of the children and adults I worked with also had intellectual disabilities, and their reactions to finding out I wasn’t getting married were soul crushing.
Many of them didn’t understand. They’d ask me questions that made me cry, or offer me hugs and sweet encouragement that made me cry even more. Coop even said he was going to beat Kyle up.
I took a leave of absence from work, and I planned on going back. But with every passing day, week, and month, I drifted further and further from being the person I was before the future I planned was nuked into a mushroom cloud.
Home is safe. Alone is safe. Being here, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, is jarring, but at least I don’t have to socialize with anyone.
I feel the vibration of my phone in my bag, and I take it out to check it. It’s an alert I get daily from a countdown app I have.
Voldemort/Cersei nuptials: 34 DAYS
I wrinkle my nose and stuff the phone back into my bag. I still don’t know what got into me when I told my dad I’d go to the wedding. It felt like a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
If I don’t go, it sends the message that I’m still upset over the whole thing. Which I am, but I don’t want them to know that. Now I face another lousy option, though—going alone and looking pathetic.
It’s weird that I haven’t found a hot boyfriend while lying on my couch polishing off Ho Hos and binge-watching Love Is Blind, but here we are.
My birthday is next month. Maybe my dad will get me an escort for the three-day tropical extravaganza Audra has planned.
Just the thought of asking him makes me laugh out loud. The guy in the seat next to mine side-eyes me, probably wondering if I’m seeing something he doesn’t.
I’m going to have to fake a major illness. It’s the only option. I’m scrolling through serious but not terminal illnesses on my phone when the buzzer signifying the end of the game sounds.
The home crowd is already filtering out as the Crush players embrace each other, all of them grinning.
The losing streak has been snapped.
“Stay out of that last stall, boys,” Silas calls as he walks out of the locker room bathroom later. “I just shit a Redwood and clogged it.”
I exchange a look with Melina. My dad didn’t allow me inside a team’s locker room until after I was twenty, and even then, it was only a couple of times, so we could talk in his office when I was in college and home to watch one of his games.
“You’ll get used to it,” Melina says, shrugging. “They’re like cavemen—they communicate with belches and farts and love discussing their bathroom habits.”
