There’s a table full of pucks, jerseys, hockey sticks, and pictures. When I glance at her in surprise, she says, “I know, it might be a little much, but this group is a huge donor and massive fans. Is it okay?”
“It’s fine,” I say. Just means I get to spend a little more time with her. If only I could pull my head out of my ass longenough to actually strike up a conversation, something with more substance than Posey’s bologna sandwiches.
But hell, this girl has me all twisted up inside. One look and my palms started sweating, I felt tongue-tied, and my heart raced faster than when I was chasing down a puck against an opponent.
With one look, she brought me back to life.
“You can sit here,” Blakely says, patting a stool in front of the memorabilia. She uncaps a Sharpie and hands it to me before placing a small stack of photos in front of me.
That dreaded fucking picture.
I hate this picture.
Not because I look bad in it or any narcissistic thoughts like that.
I hate it because I know the exact game when this photo was taken.
I know it so well because it was a game-winning shot on the night Holden died.
Unfortunately for me, the team uses this picture for every promotion under the sun. For them, it’s a moment in Agitators’ history that comes with great celebration. For me, it’s a reminder of the dark, life-altering night that I lost my brother . . .
“Are you okay?” Blakely asks, startling me from my thoughts.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath.Don’t go there, Halsey. Don’t fucking go there.
“You sure?”
“Yup.” I sit taller, pushing away the darkness clouding my mind, flooding my spirit. But unlike every other time, I push it away. I can’t sit in it. I can’t wallow in the pain and let it consume me. Not in front of her.
So I sign the first picture.
“Okay, because if this is too much, I can pare down—”
“No, you’re good,” I say, trying to use a lighter tone. When I see she’s still concerned, I try to change the subject. “Have you worked here long?”
“Not too long, but long enough to become immensely involved in the outcomes of the games.” She helps me with the photos, pulling them away after I sign them. “The other night, when you scored that goal with only forty-five seconds to spare, I nearly ripped my pencil skirt from cheering so much. Between you and me and the skirt, there was a slight tear near the zipper.”
And just like that, I don’t have to be the one to pull my mind from that dark cloud. I don’t have to push it away all on my own.
She did it effortlessly with her real, unfiltered response.
“How did you manage that?” I ask.
She cutely shrugs. “Apparently, I like to do lunges while celebrating. Let’s just say the skirt has been retired. I told myself I’d hold off on wearing form-fitting clothes on game days, but here I am, in a dress bound to rip if you score again.” She points at me. “So if you see me waddling away with a towel wrapped around my waist after the game, you’ll know the celebratory lunges struck again.”
A light chuckle falls past my lips, the sound so fucking foreign to me.
“Gives me more reason to wait until the last second to score.”
“Please don’t.” She clutches her heart. “I can’t take that kind of anxiety and excitement all at the same time . . . neither can my clothes.”
She’s so easy to talk to.
“Might need to ask for hazard pay for more clothing.”
“Now there’s an idea.” She takes the photos and stacks them together before handing me a jersey. “Here, let me stretch it out for you. I’ve learned these are a pain to sign.”
“I always sign on the number for that very reason,” I say while I scroll my name across the raised number on the back of the jersey.
