Petrov fires wide and Hendrix loses his mind. "WHAT THE PUUUUCK?"
"I know, I know!" Petrov yells back at the bird.
Wall tries a slap shot that goes nowhere near the net. "WHAT THE PUUUUCK?"
"Nobody asked you, Hendrix!"
The rink door opens and Coach Martin walks in, arms full of what looks like printed programs. He's trying to look stern and professional, but I can see the excitement in his eyes. Management told him to stay out of this, but here he is anyway, because that's who Coach is.
"Brought these!" He sets the stack down on the bench. "Mama Paws sent over fresh fliers."
I skate over, picking one up. It's actually really well done—professional layout, color photos of dogs and cats with their names and brief descriptions. There's even a QR code that links to the donation page.
"This is perfect, Coach, thanks."
"Don't thank me. Thank Mama Paws. That woman's a force of nature."
Movement in the stands catches my eye and I look up to see Devon sitting about three rows up, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear, looking every bit the coordinator he's become. He's gesturing with his free hand, clearly in the middle of some important logistical discussion.
He's wearing a Wolves hoodie. My Wolves hoodie, actually, the one I "accidentally" left at his place last week. It's too big on him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he looks positively adorable.
Washington skates up to the boards directly below Devon and yells, "Hey! Parking situation?"
Devon pulls the phone away from his ear, covering the mouthpiece. "Arena's donating the main lot, overflow lot, and we got street parking permits for three blocks!"
"Perfect!" Washington gives him a thumbs up and skates away.
Devon goes back to his call, typing something rapidly on his laptop, and I just watch him, admiring the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, and how he chews on his lower lip when he's thinking. He somehow manages to look both stressed and completely in control at the same time.
When did his bossiness become one of my favorite things?
When did I start looking for him in every room I enter, feeling more settled when I know where he is?
"You're staring."
I snap back to reality. Wall's right next to me, leaning on his stick, grinning behind his mask.
"I'm not staring."
"You are. You're staring at your boyfriend like a lovesick puppy. It's making me nauseous."
I flip him off but don't bother denying it. "Jealous?"
"Of what? Your complete inability to be subtle?" He skates away laughing. "Maybe!"
Practice winds down and we're all heading toward the locker room, sweaty and satisfied, when someone's phone goes off.
Then another.
Then everyone's phones start buzzing simultaneously, a chorus of notifications that makes us all stop and check.
I pull mine out and—
SEVERE WEATHER ALERT.
"Guys." Wall's staring at his screen, face serious. "We have a problem."
The locker room goes quiet as we all read the same alert.
