Dev looks up, narrowing his eyes. “Why were you talking to Cece?”
“She’s my friend. Don’t worry, Lucy. I would never lay a hand on her.”
Dev accepts the answer with a grunt, twisting around to grab his jersey.
Luna’s here. I wonder if she’s wearing my jersey. What am I thinking? It’s way too soon for that kind of public display.
“What’s up with that, Captain?” JJ steps in closer to get up in my face. “Anything you want to share with your squad?”
He stumbles back as my fist slams into his shoulder. “Shit, man. That hurt.” He’s being dramatic. It was only a warning shot.
“Mind your business.”
“Oh, that’s a confirmation, boys. The captains are doing more than just… you know.” Dumbass actually starts flossing, half dressed in his goalie gear, eyebrows bobbing up and down in time with his arms.
“Don’t you have some crazy goalie routine to attend to or something?” Anything to get him to lay off. Now all the guys are staring at me like nosy old ladies at a retirement home.
“You assholes, too.” I scan the room with a series of what I hope are withering glares.
“I’m good,” JJ says.
“Well, I’m not. Give me half a minute of peace. That’s my routine. Get the rest of your gear on and smarten up. We’ve got a game to play.”
He nods happily, darting back to his spot. But any semblance of order in my brain has been scrambled, and I can’t stop thinking about her. This is not the time for distractions.
It’s not until my skates hit the ice that a cold sweat forms on my palms, heart racing. I forgot to retape my stick. I always re-wrap it before games, knob and blade. Now it’s all I can think about. The slight frayed edges of the tape catch my eye, and I’m fixated on them even as the crowd cheers and my legs flex and pump, pushing me smoothly across the ice. Shake it off. This isn’t the end of the world. Some of the guys only retape their knob every month or so, but I need to do the entire thing. It’s part of my ritual. When I let the noises of the locker room fade away as I visualize the game ahead. But I forgot today. Because of her. Because the memories of her face flushed from orgasm, laughing at JJ, cooing over Bluebeard, have been cycling through my head on repeat. Chasing away every other thought, no matter how important. This isn’t good.
“You okay, Captain?” Cole’s voice comes from my left, cutting through the crowd noise and the clutter in my head.
“I’m fine.” There’s no other option here and now. I can’t tell him how stressed out I am. I’m the one who is supposed to keep it together. Lead the team. He can’t see me falling apart. At least I can’t admit it.
“Wilder is up there. With some of her teammates. They’re in our section.” His gloved hand gives me a couple of taps on the back. Then he drops back, cutting across the slick surface as ifhe senses I need a minute to myself. He’s a good guy, but I’m supposed to be keeping things together.
I give in, flipping around to skate backward, eyes tracking over to the friends and family section. And there she is, perched three rows up in a purple and gold knit beanie and scarf, cheeks pink from the cold and mouth wide as she laughs at something Cece says. Her hair is down, a little wavy, and the sight of it pulls something loose in my chest. She’s wearing a Lightning jersey. Of course. I’d love to see if it’s my number she’s wearing.
It shouldn’t mean as much as it does. We’ve barely even started dating, but somehow it does, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
Something inside me goes still. Then warmer. Calmer. The chaos in my head softens, like someone turned the volume down on a world that had been screaming. The ice is the one place where the noise dims, but tonight I’ve been off. Until I saw her.
She sees me looking. Lifts two fingers in a half-salute and gives me this small, almost shy smile. My breath catches behind my chest protector.
Focus. You’re here to play.
The puck drops, and I go hard on the forecheck, but my feet are a half-second behind my brain. First period feels like I’m skating in molasses. Every pass I make is too wide or too soft. Every pivot too sharp or too late. It’s like my body knows I missed my routine, and it’s punishing me for it.
But every time my brain skids toward panic, I glance up. Bright beanie. Wide smile. Luna.
I find her face between shifts. Between drills. Between plays. She’s smiling, clapping, chewing her bottom lip like she’s trying not to yell something inappropriate. It settles something wild in me.
By second period, I start finding my legs. I win a puck battle in the corner, feed it to Cole in the slot, and he buries it top shelf.The bench erupts. JJ bangs his stick from the crease. We gain the lead 2-1.
Then it’s 3-2. Then it’s the third.
Every muscle in my body hums with adrenaline, aching. My lungs burn. My hands itch to control the puck, to shut it down, to own the ice like I’m supposed to. But there’s still this tremor inside me, this part that keeps rattling loose.
I think about the phone call. The formal event. The future I’m speeding toward. It presses on me, a constant reminder of what I’ll be losing.
But when I think about her, the oppressive thoughts are muffled. Indistinct. At least for a little while. And maybe I’m playing for her now. Or maybe I’m just playing because it’s the only time my brain ever shuts up.
