He’d been called up to that Buffalo game, and at first, I was too caught up in his excitement and being super supportive—he was finally returning to the show. But then the Vipers had gone on their Canadian swing, nearly two weeks of back-to-back away games, plus extra time for team bonding in Banff. Fuck’s sake. I couldn’t visit him, between Walker’s new schedule and the Vipers being out of town. After twenty-eight days of phone calls and video chats, I couldn’t touch him.
And today, finally, I would get to do as much touching as possible.
I stood at the kitchen counter, a half-eaten piece of toast forgotten on my plate, double-checking my backpack for what felt like the hundredth time. Main luggage, already in Bob’s car? Check. Walker’s spare hoodie for the game? Check. Folded tightat the bottom. Charger, wallet, backup battery, water for the drive? Check.
A ping lit up my phone, then two more in rapid succession.
Walker: Hey sexy, don’t be late. You’re my good luck charm.
Walker: Ps… I love you xxxx
Walker: PPS… I miss you xxxxxxxxxxx
I grinned like an idiot.
Finn: Leaving now.
Finn: Also… I love you X <3
Finn: And also… I miss you X X X X X
Finn: God, I miss you.
“Ready?” Taft’s voice echoed from the hallway. Bob was already in the car, Taft was in charge of organizing me, and both were as overexcited as kids heading to a carnival that they were coming for the one game. Then, they had to be back tomorrow for a showdown against their league rivals. On the other hand, I was on day one of spring break, which meant ten days I could stay at Walker’s rental apartment and focus solely on loving and touching him and getting a refill of my man. I slung my bag over my shoulder and hurried down to the car.
The drive to New York was all caffeine, banter, and the occasional outburst of hockey trivia of things Taft and Bob thought I needed to know. They weren’t as cool as the stats that Chip threw out, but it made me smile, nonetheless.
“Did you know,” Taft began, his eyes on the road. “That in 1979, the Erie Egrets went an entire season without a single shorthanded goal? I got that from Chip.”
Bob snorted. “Total myth. That stat’s been debunked about five times. You’re thinking of the Albany Anchors, and it was ?81.”
“Fake news,” Taft shot back, delighted at the chance to argue. “I had a vintage card of their goalie, Ned ‘No-Hands’ Hansen.Legendary guy. Stopped a puck with his face once and still kept the shutout.”
“Yeah, and then, he retired with a broken nose and two chipped teeth. Heroic, sure, but not the best strategy.”
I grinned and leaned back, letting the back-and-forth wash over me.
“Also,” Bob added smugly. “Walker’s playing style? Pure ?92 Vultures. Controlled aggression. You can tell he watched those tapes growing up.”
“That’s not history, that’s opinion,” Taft muttered, reaching for another handful of trail mix. “But sure. Let the record show Bob’s hockey hot takes are alive and well.”
They continued bickering for half the drive, trivia flying between them like slapshots. It was ridiculous and completely perfect.
Taft and Bob made it their mission to keep my spirits high, and I appreciated it even if my stomach was twisted in knots the whole way.
We’d barely pulled into the parking structure outside the arena when my phone buzzed again.
Walker: On the ice soon. I’ll find you.
Bob clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go see our boy light up the place.”
Inside, the energy hit me like a wave. Lights, noise, fans in jerseys shouting over each other, the buzz of the Zamboni still smoothing the ice. It was everything I remembered, magnified by the fact thatthis timeWalker was one of the guys skating out.
Bob and Taft got what I jokingly called backstage passes for the three of us. We didn’t end up behind the bench, but our seats were right behind the glass, close enough that I could see the texture of the ice and feel the vibration of each hit. People noticed them: Taft with his shyness and Bob trying to act cool but loving the attention. A couple of kids asked for autographs.
I didn’t expect to get noticed, but I caught a couple of nods from people in Walker jerseys, subtle, quick, and maybe they recognized me. Perhaps they didn’t. Maybe it was just a fan thing, a number thing. Who knew? But at that moment, I didn’t care. I was there. He was on the ice. And in a few hours, I’d be in his arms again. That was all that mattered.
When he came out for warmups, wearing number 10 in NY colors—similar to the Copperheads colors, only bolder—with the black viper on his chest, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t yell. Didn’t cheer. I stood at the glass, heart hammering, and watched the man I loved take his place among the best.
