The truth is, I’d take more in a heartbeat.
But instead, I’m sitting here like an asshole, pretending I don’t care that I’m waiting for her to throw me a fucking bone.
Fuck.
Back in the locker room, the Storm get ready for the game. I run my hand along the curve of my chest protector, checking buckles out of habit while the others trail in from warm-up. Steam and sweat hit the air, and I realize I’ve almost—almost—missed the smell of the locker room. Eli’s jersey is already soaked, Chase is flushed and chirping Viktor already, and Jake’s loudly judging Logan’s stick tape.
“Hey, Hutch,” a voice pipes up behind me. “You always label your gear?”
I glance over my shoulder. It’s Luka, our newest rookie center—nineteen, baby-faced, and still not quite grown into his legs. Good instincts on the ice, though. Reminds me of myself back when I still thought a mouthguard was optional and my hair looked better long.
“What?” I grunt.
He points to the inside of my blocker. “Initials,” he says. “Here, and there too. On your pants and chest pad.”
“Yeah.” I turn back, adjusting them in my stall. “It’s a thing I do.”
“Weird goalie voodoo,” Chase chimes in, stretching his arms overhead. “Probably makes sacrifices and bathes them in elk blood.”
“He sacrifices his social life,” Jake mutters. “Same result.”
I ignore them, but Luka’s still staring.
“What do they mean?”
There’s a pause, just long enough for me to consider whether to answer, because I’ve never had to before. I blow out a breath.
“They’re for people.”
Chase looks up, brows drawn. Jake and Eli go quiet and glance at each other, and Logan just tips his head curiously, as though he wasn’t anticipating a real answer.
I gesture to the letters on my chest plate. “These are my parents. Died when I was seven in a car accident. I don’t remember much, but they were the first people who put me in skates.”
It gets quiet, and a few more of the guys look over.
I tap another set, near the edge of the pad. “A.H. That’s Adele. My grandma. She’s gone now, too.”
“And H.H. must be for Harry,” Eli says, nodding at the other edge.
Jake lets out a low whistle. “The man, the legend, the green thumb.”
“Yep,” I say, allowing a smile. “Still kickin’.”
“Who’s D.W.?” Chase asks, pointing toward the stitched letters near my right bicep strap.
“Coach Dan,” I say. “First guy who believed I had a shot. Taught me to fight for it.”
I see Logan squinting at my left leg pad. “B and T?
“Billet family.”
Jake glances at my catcher’s glove, resting on the shelf above my stall. “And what about that one?”
I don’t look, focusing on my pads.
“It’s blank.”
“Blank?” Logan echoes, eyebrows raised like I just told him I eat pucks for breakfast. “Why?”
