I miss the singing. And the scripts. I always wanted to write my own script, though, rather than play a character someone else created.
Maybe you should do that while you’re home. Write your own.
Maybe I should.
And you know you can sing in the Big Easy.
I guess. Oliver’s made it work for him, right?
Her comment gets me thinking. I wonder if I can help out somehow. Because the bottom line is that I want Winter to be happy. If that means Broadway, then I’ll support her. But her eyes were so vacant when she first showed up on my doorstep. She’s only been in town a short while, and she already looks happier and healthier than she did.
I’m fucking grinning like a sap at my phone when Liam takes the seat next to me on the team bus. I look over at him. His expression is grim.
And, immediately, I guess why.
He confirms my suspicion when he says, “We have to look at a lineup as soon as we get home. They have a person of interest.”
I swallow. “Wow. Here we go again.”
* * *
I’m fired up for our game.
I’m too fired up.
I have so much damn energy pumping through my veins, and I just want to unleash my wrath on the ice.
Liam’s clearly on the same page. His jaw is stone, his eyes are daggers, and he’s ready to kick some ass.
As soon as the puck is dropped, he and I are of one mind.
Suffocate the opponent.
Own the puck.
Score early and often.
And we do. We’re up three to nothing at the end of the first period.
In the second, I get sent to the penalty box for fighting. I’m pissed because the guy was asking for it, but I normally know better. He’s New York’s enforcer, and he instigates as much as he actually scores.
I sit inside the penalty box, angrily waiting for my chance to get back out there.
As soon as the buzzer sounds, I pound my blades across the ice. I don’t even stop to slow down before I hurl my body into the crowd of three players fighting for the puck.
I emerge from the tangle of limbs as the victor. Turning toward the goal, I skate with the puck as hard as I can, holding off the last defenseman until only the goalie is between me and the net. I pull back my stick and let fly.
The goalie scrambles to block my shot, but the puck skims past him.
“Score by Storm!” the announcer calls out over the loudspeaker.
We pummel New York six to one. I score three goals and assist on another.
“Fuck, yeah!” Murph pounds my back as we leave the ice. “We’re in first place!”
“You’re back, Hunt!” Coach Jones grips my shoulder enthusiastically. “Whatever you’re doing, keep going!”
My body is going to fucking hurt tonight. But it was worth it. I’m on fire again.
