You think my mask coming off is going to stop me from proving to you how good we are together? I’m never going to stop. Even if I have to keep trying for the rest of our damn lives.
Serena: You’re being dramatic, don’t you think? You have no clue that we’d be good for one another. Clearly, we pull the crazy out in each other
That’s the best kind of love there is
Serena: Love, huh? Big word
I’m aware
Before she can talk herself out of this conversation and ignore me entirely, I send another text.
Read the note if you want. But there’s something else in there too.
Come to my game tomorrow. Bring Kerrigan if you want backup. There are two tickets.
Her typing bubble appears and disappears; as usual, she’s indecisive about what she wants to say. But finally, her message comesthrough.
Serena: I’ll think about it
The cool air swirling in the rink is doing little to calm the heat coursing through my body, my overwhelming nerves getting the best of me. There are only two minutes left in warm-ups, and she’s not in her seat, both ones I saved for her empty.
“No-show? Maybe she’s done putting up with you.” Casper smacks my ass with his stick as he skates by, looking at me with a shit-eating grin.
Gripping my stick, I swing and return the favor.
Cas moans, throwing his head back, his light brown–borderline dirty-blonde–strands shifting with his helmet.
His voice is playfully high-pitched. “Do it again, Daddy.”
“Jesus Christ.” I laugh, feeling the anxiety ease ever so slightly. “She’ll be here.”
Kol’s eyes flick over to mine with an amusing smile on his lips. “And if she doesn’t come?”
I don’t believe the confidence in my words; I doubt they do too. The clock runs out, and people start heading to the locker room, but I hang by, getting a few extra shots in while waiting for Serena to show up.
But a few rips later, the official blows their whistle, politely telling the rest of the players on each team to hurry the fuck up.
With one last glance at Serena’s seats, positioned upbehind the players’ bench, I find them empty and head toward the locker room for the short break before game time.
We have a big game tonight. We’re playing the Hawks, and the last time we faced off, they injured one of our goalies, knocking him out of the lineup for two weeks with an upper body injury.
We didn’t play any part in it. Oftentimes, our defensemen are shoving and pushing our opponents while they’re close to the goalie’s crease, trying to throw them off and mess up their game, knocking them out of position in any way possible.
But this Hawks fucker, number eighty-four, was isolated on a breakaway and skated right into him, damn near tackling him into the net. He had ample time to stop himself, but he went in too hot, and when he finally tried to slow, it was too late.
Eighty-Four is starting tonight, and I know he’ll be playing with a target on his back the entire game. Every hit will be harder. Every poke, sharper. Every elbow, deeper. We won’t be pulling any punches tonight.
Twenty minutes later, we’re lining up for announcements. The rest of the nonstarters are ready to jump onto the ice as the announcer gains control of the rowdy crowd.
“Welcome to the ice, your SAINT PAUL SINNERS!” he shouts into the mic, and the audience follows suit as the nonstarters skate out, loop around our end, and head to the bench.
Booming from the speakers, he announces our goalie. “In the net, number thirty-five,Jordan Worthingtonnnn!”
Wojo skates out and finds his spot on the blue line, followed by our two Russian defensemen after their names and numbers are called, one by one.
Cas is next to be announced, skating out and joining the other guys. Now it’s my turn.
The overhead lights are dimmed, the arena lit by a colorful show of reds and pinks. The crowd must’ve been given something that glows because thousands of bright red speckles decorate the audience.
