Good luck messages aren’t unusual—I get them from family, friends, even fans. But Cheyenne’s makes my stomach do a weird flippy thing that I don’t entirely hate.
My thumbs hover over my phone keyboard, trying to think of something witty to say back, when suddenly Paul is standing at my side, looking like he’s about to face a firing squad rather than play a hockey game.
“Hey, Williamston,” he says, his voice higher than usual. “You got a minute? I mean, not now obviously. But after the game?”
I set my phone down, Cheyenne’s text still unanswered. “Sure, man. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says too quickly. “Just wanted to talk about something. After the game’s fine.”
His nervous energy is distracting me from my own weird jitters. I’ve always prided myself on being a good teammate, on having the guys’ backs. “You sure? You look like you’re about to throw up, and I’d rather you didn’t do that on the ice.”
“I’m good,” Paul insists, though his face says otherwise. “Just ... after the game, okay?”
“Alright,” I agree, turning back to my stick. “I’ll find you.”
He nods gratefully and disappears, probably to pace anxiously elsewhere.
Rookies. Always so dramatic.
Coach Wilson enters the room, and the noise level instantly drops. He gives the usual pre-game speech—nothing fancy, just reminders about what we’ve practiced all week. I nod, but my mind keeps drifting to the stands, wondering if Cheyenne and Genna have arrived yet. Wondering if Cheyenne is wearing team colors or her usual neutral tones. Wondering why I’m suddenly so interested in what Cheyenne wears.
“Williamston,” Coach barks, snapping me back to attention. “You with us tonight?”
“Always, Coach,” I respond automatically, straightening up.
“Good. I need you sharp out there.”
I nod, forcing myself to focus. Hockey first. Whatever this weird Cheyenne situation is, it can wait until after the final buzzer.
By the time we line up in the tunnel, my pre-game jitters have mostly settled into the familiar pre-game focus. The roar of the crowd builds anticipation.
This is my element.
The lights dim in the arena, the announcement system booming with introductions. And then we’re released onto the ice, skating out through artificial smoke and blinding lights.
I do my usual circuit—three quick crossovers, a tight turn, a stretch to touch my toes—before taking my place for the national anthem. As the first notes play, my eyes scan the crowd, seeking out section 114, row F.
And there she is.
Cheyenne stands beside my sister, her hand over her heart for the anthem. She’s wearing a blue team jersey—my jersey, I realize with a jolt—and her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. Even from this distance, I can see her lips moving along with the words.
My heart pounds against my chest, so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t echo through my pads.
This is ridiculous. I’ve known Cheyenne forever. I’ve seen her in a team jersey before. I’ve seen her at dozens of games over the years. Why is my mouth suddenly dry? Why does the sight of her in the stands make my pulse race more than the thought of the game ahead?
The anthem ends, the crowd erupts, and we scatter to our positions for the opening faceoff. As the puck drops, theinstincts kick in. I intercept a pass, send it up the ice to Cameron, then drive to the net.
The puck comes back to me, a perfect pass that lands right on my tape. I don’t think, I just react—a deke, a shot.
The red light is now flashing behind the goal.
The crowd erupts, and my teammates congratulate me. As I skate back to the bench, my eyes instinctively find section 114 again. Cheyenne is on her feet, jumping up and down, her face alight with excitement.
Our eyes meet for just a moment, and she gives me a thumbs-up.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face as I fist-bump the guys on the bench.
Scoring always feels good, but somehow, knowing Cheyenne saw it makes it even better.
