He didn't wind up for a slapshot or try anything fancy, just jammed his stick at the puck, a quick, ugly jab that sent it skittering between the goalie's pads and into the net.
The arena exploded.
Red's teammates crashed into him, a pile of burgundy jerseys and raised sticks. The goal horn blared. The crowd was on its feet, screaming, and somewhere in the middle of it was Red.
I stayed in my seat. My hands still ached.
On the ice, Red was skating back to the bench. He looked up at the stands, scanning, and his grin widened when he found me.
He tapped his stick against the boards twice.
Then he lifted it an inch in my direction. The gesture was small, private, meant only for me, in the middle of ten thousand people who didn't know we existed to each other.
"You should go talk to him," Natalia said.
"It's the middle of a game."
"After."
I didn't answer. The third period started, and Red played through the pain he was pretending not to feel. He set up two more scoring chances. He blocked a shot that made my ribs ache in sympathy. He was everywhere at once.
The Ristras scored again, and then the Falcons answered. By the final buzzer, the score was 3-1.
The team mobbed each other on the ice. Red was in the middle of it, helmet off, hair dark with sweat, that grin still plastered across his face. Someone dumped water on his head. Someone else lifted him off his feet in a bear hug, and I thought about his hip, about how much that had to hurt.
I stood up.
"Where are you going?" Natalia asked.
"The parking lot."
"Joel." She grabbed my wrist. "What are you doing?"
I looked down at her hand, then at her face. "I don't know, but don't wait for me."
Red’s truck was in the player lot. The rust on the wheel wells looked worse under the parking lot lights. The bed was empty except for a bungee cord and an old blanket.
I leaned against the tailgate and waited.
I showered fast, dressed faster, and said my goodbyes before anyone could rope me into grabbing food. The cold hit me the moment I stepped outside, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I limped toward the player lot, already thinking about the heating pad I was going to fall asleep on.
I was halfway to my truck when I saw him.
Joel was leaning against it, arms crossed and shoulders hunched against the cold, wearing that same dark jacket I'd spotted in the stands during the second period. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps and tracked me like I was the only thing worth watching.
My stomach dropped so fast I almost stumbled.
I scanned the lot. Lucero's SUV was still there, and the equipment manager's sedan, and the light was on in the trainer's office window. The door to the arena was maybe fifty feet behind me. Anyone could walk out at any moment and find Joel Coffey, openly gay Olympic hopeful, leaning against my truck like he belonged there and looking at me like that.
My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets and walked toward him, because standing in the middle of the lot staring was even more suspicious than just getting to my truck.
"What are you doing here?" I growled. "You can't just be out here."
Joel's expression didn't change. "I need a ride."
"You need a—" I glanced past him. "Where's your friend?"
"She left."
