“It’s something I like to do this time of year,” she explains, smiling warmly.
I study the stone for a few moments, trailing my fingers along the imperfections, and my head begins to clear.
“So,” she says, glancing into the rearview mirror. “You were going to tell me what you were grumbling about back there.”
“Oh, right. Um, it’s just the guy I’m dating plays for the Rat Kings, and the guy I used to hook-up with just got traded back to the Crowns, and they’re playing each other tonight. So, for the first time in a long time, I’ll be in the same place as him, and he had to go get hotter since I’ve seen him, which seems really unfair because now I’m dating Raph who is also hot and mostly fine, but something is missing…”
“And you think you might find what’s missing with the guy you used to sleep with?”
“Honestly, I’ve wondered what would happen if we had another chance, but I’m with Raph, and I’m sure Everett, my ex-fling, is with someone new. He and I never really got along outside of the bedroom anyway, but people change.” I laugh to myself, and my phone chimes. Placing the stone in my purse, I realize everything I just told her. “Ha! Ignore me. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I don’t even know you.”
“I have that effect on people.” She turns and winks again.
What the hell? Why did I just spill my guts to this woman? That’s not like me at all. Shaking my head, my eyes flutter shut, and I breathe in deeply.
Chapter 3: Keeping Tabs
Everett
The energy in Madison Square Garden is electric as I skate around the ice while warming up for tonight’s home game. A sea of purple and red fills the stands as fans make their way into the arena to watch New York’s oldest rivalry—The Crowns vs. The Rat Kings.
It feels good to be wearing red and gold. To be home.
The first season back with the team that started my professional hockey career—the team I grew up rooting for—feels like a dream. While I wouldn’t change the years I spent in Texas, there’s something irreplaceable about skating on your home ice.
I breathe in deeply, the cold air energizing me and burning my lungs. Gliding across the rink, I move the puck with perfect control, shooting it forward and into the back of the net.
“Let’s hope we see a lot of that tonight,” Theo Carter, our starting right-winger, says, skating around me and pounding his glove against my shoulder. “I fucking hate those guys.” He tilts his head toward our opponents.
“What are the chances Ulrich plays fair?” I ask, finding my old teammate and defenseman for the Rat Kings stretching on the other side of the rink. A smug grin is plastered across his face as he completes a set of frog stretches and stares down a pink-haired girl on the other side of the glass. Her gaze shifts from him to me, and a chill moves through the arena like a rush of wind causing the hairs on my neck to stand and my skin to erupt with goosebumps.Weird.
“Not a chance in fucking hell,” he says, chuckling.
“Did you feel that?” I ask.
“Feel what?”
“It got colder in here for a minute, didn’t it? It felt almost like wind.”
Theo laughs. “No, it didn’t. You getting sick, Nuttall?”
“No, I’m fine.” I glance back towards the pink-haired girl, but she’s gone. Quickly searching the stands, I expect to see her moving up the stairs, but she’s nowhere to be found.
Turning to continue my warmup, I attempt to shake off the strange feeling, but freeze when I spot the photo on one of the large screens hanging above the rink. Pictured is a group of ballerinas advertisingThe Nutcrackerat Lincoln Center. They’re dressed in white corsets with long tulle skirts. Snow falls all around them, and they’re holding what looks like snowballs. My eyes lock on the girl in the center. She isn’t just any ballerina. She’s Claire Silverman. Her onyx hair is pulled into a tight bun and is adorned with a white and silver crown. The ribbons of her pointe shoes wrap around her ankles, causing me to swallow hard.
My mind is instantly overwhelmed with visions of her soft pink lips and fair skin. Her body and mine tangled in her bed. Her delicate frame bent over her kitchen counter and my fist in her raven hair. My head between her thighs. What started as the worst blind date she claimed she’d ever been on turned into casual hook-ups fueled by her ability to bring me to my knees with her quick-witted mouth and our attraction to one another, until we both went our separate ways.
I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t been pining for her like a lovesick asshole for all these years.
I absolutely have, and I hate myself for it.
After I walked away, the what-ifs nagged at me constantly, and on occasion, the regret of not telling her how I was feeling kept me awake at night, but she was so clear about what she wanted back then. And that wasn’t me. So, regardless of all the feelings I was having—am still having—I let my ego get in the way every time I considered doing something about it.
When I moved back to the city, I seriously considered reaching out to her, but instead searched for her name on my socials. Black hair wrapped up into a tight bun, blush painted on her cheeks, and those same soft pink lips that for a short time I knew so well. Shelooked beautiful, and pride radiated off her in every photo, much like the picture I’m looking at right now.
She did it. She was a principal dancer on New York’s biggest stage, and I smiled to myself knowing our hard work paid off and we had both reached our goals. Despite the pull to send her a message, I didn’t. Instead, I tucked my phone back into my pocket because if she didn’t want me four years ago, there was absolutely no way in hell she’d want me now.
The screen changes to an advertisement for a concert a few months away. Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize how close to the red line I’ve drifted until I feel someone hit me hard against my shoulder, causing a shooting pain to radiate down my arm. Turning, I find Raphael Ulrich standing to my right.
