Because I know that move was for me.
All kinds of danger alerts should be going off in my head.
But I’ve short circuited them. I don’t want to think about how I’m playing with fire here.
Instead, I lift my camera and focus on Aiden, who continues to skate around the net a few times. The he moves on to practicing his stick handling, and his puck control is insane. His hands move so quick, back and forth, in complete control of the puck. I take some great pictures of him, then shift my attention to Beckham, getting some shots of him, too.
There’s nothing like taking hockey pictures. Every time I do it, I’m reminded of how much I love it.
I steal another glance at Aiden, only to find he’s already staring at me. A shiver races down my spine, and Aiden flashes me a smile before he turns his attention back to the ice.
But my gaze remains trained on him.
I’m in so much trouble.
And worst of all? It’s trouble I’m making no effort to avoid.
* * *
I’ve never had feelings like this when watching a hockey game.
I’m sitting next to my mom in Dad’s usual set of seats, several rows back behind the bench. I’ve been to countless hockey games, often watching my brothers play and supporting my dad wherever he coached. Usually, I have no problems conversing with Mom during a game, but tonight it’s been hard for me to focus on what she’s saying. So much so that she asked why I’m distracted, and I just played it off that I was tired.
But that was a lie.
The truth is, I can’t think about anything other than watching Aiden.
It’s hard to concentrate when I’m tracking Aiden’s movements on the ice. He’s just jumped over the boards, ready for another shift. Every time I watch him play, one thing echoes in my mind.
He’s so incredibly talented.
Aiden is the best defenseman on the team, and while I knew that before tonight’s game, I’m paying attention now to all the little things that make him one of the league’s most elite players in that position.
He’s good at handling the puck. Dad has mentioned this before, but now I’m making a point to see it. Aiden is also fast—one of the fastest skaters on the team. He’s a dangerous passer, and he’s able to help on the offensive side of the game because of it. In fact, one of his passes led to a goal tonight.
As the PA announcer tells us there’s one minute left in the game, I retrieve my phone and send Aiden a text message:
Fantastic game tonight. Your puck handling is *chef’s kiss* superb.
“Do you need to leave right away? Want to get something to eat?” Mom asks as soon as the final horn sounds. “Dad and I would love to take you out, sweetheart.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going to go home. I’ll need some time to wind down before going to bed.”
Buzz!
My phone goes off while the Manatees players are still congratulating each other on the ice, so I know it’s not Aiden. Not that he’ll reply tonight anyway. We’re just friends. He can reply anytime he wants.
I unlock my phone and see that it’s from Phoebe, who is just now responding to my initial text last night:
Sorry. So busy! Do you still need me to answer this?
My stomach tightens as I read between the lines of her text. Phoebe might have been my best friend, but that is all in the past.
Because now she doesn’t have the time—or inclination—to continue our friendship.
And I suspect if I don’t reply to this text, I’ll never hear from her again.
“Scarlett?” I snap my head up, finding my mom has already risen from her seat. “Are you okay?”
