It was the glimpses of something I caught that made it feel different too. The sight of seeing someone becoming comfortable enough to allow the mask to slip. To show themselves without the fear of being judged. It was rewarding to see Elliot fully be himself around me.
Well, up until he mentioned the charity baseball game. I can’t help but wonder if it was the tone of my voice that had the walls coming up quicker than I could tell him I wasn’t annoyed, only curious. But by the time I could reach him, it was too late. The walls were back up, and I knew I was going to need to work to earn that trust back.
Because I will earn it back.
I need to see the unadulterated joy in Elliot’s expression again more than anything. And for him to know he doesn’t need to be anyone except himself around me.
After dropping Elliot off, I received a call from Walt letting me know he was ready to be picked up from Matilda’s.
Now it’s been six days, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Elliot. I needed to see him again. In any capacity. And it’s the reason why my wallet is now four hundred dollars lighter, and I’m about to watch him play hockey.
Being here brings a sense of anticipation I haven’t felt in a long time. The last time I had this fluttering sensation in my stomach was when I was traveling home to Duncan after deployment and he didn’t know I was on my way.
And that realization terrifies me. Because feelings can be dangerous, but damned if I don’t want to try. For him.
Taking a sip of my beer, I let myself take everything in. I’m seated about twelve rows behind the bench, giving me a perfectview of where he’ll soon be defending the net. Something I know already because I’ve been stalking the news outlets for the starting lineup.
We’ve been texting in between my shifts and his busy schedule, so I could have asked him, but I haven’t told him I was coming tonight. I want to see him in his element without any awareness of my presence.
The jumbotron counts down the minutes until warm-ups. People are beginning to filter in, either heading to their seats or down to the boards with handmade signs. There’s a mix of player names on the back of the black and red jerseys. Some old, some new. But there’s no way of missing how many people are wearing Elliot’s name and number on their backs.
He’s loved, truly loved, and something about witnessing it firsthand causes my chest to tighten.
Would I be a fool to even consider the possibility of something with him? He’s too good for me, in so many ways. I come with a lot of baggage. If it’s not the whole having a deceased husband thing, it’s my insomnia and my nightmare episodes. Luckily, those don’t come as often as they used to, but still, it’s not something I want to put someone else through.
The lights come up, and my gaze is pulled to where players appear from the tunnel behind the bench and step out onto the ice. Elliot is leading the group, looking so much bigger in all his padding. His blond waves poke out from beneath the bottom of his mask. He skates over to the goal and begins to scuff up the crease, sliding his skates from side to side before going back in the other direction. His teammates skate laps around their end of the ice, but I don’t pay them any attention. I’m purely focused on Elliot. He taps his stick against both goalposts before patting the top bar with his glove.
When he turns around, he uses the blade of his stick to trace the outline of the blue paint three times. I wonder if this ispart of his ritual. I know a lot of hockey players have the same routines, and I can imagine Elliot has a few. Maybe if I had social media, I would know these things already. But then again, would it take away the element of surprise when I learn things about Elliot in real time? Seeing it with my own eyes? Probably, yeah.
He moves into position, and he deflects every shot his teammates aim his way. After taking about thirty shots, he skates off toward the blue line. I can’t fight my smile as he bobs his head along to the beat of the music blaring over the speakers. He drops down onto the ice and goes through various stretches. Heat rushes down my spine to my balls at how fucking flexible he is. I’ve only ever seen him in oversized clothes, or now his hockey gear. He must be hiding one hell of a body.
I’m unable to tear my eyes off him for the entire time he’s out on the ice, up until he disappears down the tunnel. Only then do I realize I’m being watched by a blond guy sitting a few rows in front. He’s wearing a knowing smile, like he’s familiar with me, but I don’t recognize him. As soon as he catches me looking his way, he smirks and lifts his eyebrows slightly before turning back toward the ice.
Huh. I wonder what that’s all about.
The announcer runs through the starting six once the teams come back out onto the ice. The crowd roars with each player’s name being read out, and if it’s possible, the crowd cheers louder when he says, “And starting in the goal tonight, it’s Elliot Olsen!”
I’m grinning instantly.
We all stand for the national anthem, and then I drop back into my seat and take another sip of my beer. Elliot goes through the same routine he did during warm-ups, scuffing up the ice in front of the net before tapping the goalposts. My body tenses as his brother lines up for the face-off, and suddenly, I’m more invested in this game than I ever have been before.
I want Elliot to win.
I want him to fill my phone with messages where his excitement is so visceral through those digital bubbles I can feel it in my chest. Because his texts are swiftly becoming the thing I look forward to every day.
Elliot makes it look so effortless in front of the net. He snaps up the puck with ease and controls the rebound like he could do this all day. The Columbus players are starting to look agitated every time they return to the bench for their line changes, but the first period ends scoreless.
Two minutes into the second period, Jackson Wilde scores, putting the Thunder in the lead by one. This only fuels Columbus’s hunger, but Elliot continues to deny all of their advances, smacking the puck away like a bored cat.
When the horn sounds, indicating a TV time-out, the doors open for the ice crew to come on with their shovels. I keep my eyes locked on Elliot as he lifts his mask to rest on top of his head. His skin glistens with sweat. He picks up his bottle from the top of the net and squirts water into his mouth. The jumbotron camera pans over to him and captures the moment his face lights up. Train’s “50 Ways to Say Goodbye” starts playing, and he sings along to the words. His body moves to the beat under all the padding as he skates over to the Thunder’s bench. He lifts his stick up and mimics playing the trumpet during the chorus, and I cough out a laugh.
He’s incredible. There’s no other word for it.
His green eyes sparkle under the bright lights as he laughs at something one of his teammates says, his cheeks flushed with exertion.
“He’s gorgeous, right?”
I turn toward the voice to see the blond guy from earlier is sitting in the empty seat in front of me. He’s wearing the same expression that’s full of recognition, but I still can’t place him.
