She’s wearing her hair up.
“Hey,” she whispers.
“You’re here,” is all my fat mouth says, dumbfounded.
Her pupils—large underneath the harsh fluorescents—eclipse the skies of her brown irises, and admiration nestles into both the prolonged stares and flightier glances. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I just wanted to see how you were doing. I know your da?—”
“We don’t have to talk about him.” I cut her off abruptly, my tone a little colder than intended. I don’t want to desecrate my pregame rituals with the likes of him.
I take my helmet off so I can face Staten without a massive partition between us.
She simply nods, refraining from trying to read the map of emotions on my face. With her girlfriend duties superseding her part-time job as Knox detective, she slips one of my gloves off so she can intertwine our fingers—an honest mess of unprofessional hands.
“You’re going to do amazing today,” she assures me, and I’m so hyperaware of my surroundings that I can feel the way her pulse rebels just from the contact of our fingers alone.
Without thinking, I pull her into my padded chest, burying my nose into her hair to chase after that lavender kick-starter that’s surely going to bleed all the cynicism from my body. And sure enough, once I get that familiar whiff, it’s lights out for my father and his unfair criticisms. I don’t know how Staten did it, but she’s got me rolling over and showing my underbelly like I’m a spoiled house dog.
When we break away—which is getting harder to do each time—it dawns on me that not only is she wearing a Mustangs jersey to show her school spirit, but she’s wearingmyMustangs jersey to show where her devotion lies.
Upon my revelation, she squeals and spins around, showing off the block number “6” that’s heat-pressed to her back.
Mine. She’s all mine, and this time, none of it is a part of our plan. None of it is self-planted just to make headlines. It’s real, and it’s the best thing in my life right now.
Hockey stick discarded (along with the rest of my equipment), I use my now-free hands to pull her in by the waist, feeling the polyester between my fingers. It hides her stunning figure, but I have the authorization to slip underneath and runthe length of her curves. If my mind wasn’t all over the place before, it is now.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” I tell her, the timbre of my voice low, as if a purring fire of lust has tethered itself to the bottom of my throat.
Surely a little hands-on action doesn’t constitute a misdemeanor, right? Ugh, I’m such a loser. For her, specifically. Her ability to turn me on without so much as lifting a finger is as impressive as it is deadly.
She giggles. “You like it?”
“Ace, I’m lucky if you don’t distract me the entire game.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and some unspoken declaration hangs in the air like an accusation. She blinks a few times, her lashes beating against the swells of her eyelids. “I just wanted everyone to know I’m yours,” she mumbles, her voice reed thin as blood rushes to her cheeks.
My thoughts are shaking loose like snowflakes falling from powdered sugar awnings in the bulky passage of winter. “You do?”
“Of course, Knox. Just because your dad-adjacent douche canoe isn’t proud of you doesn’t mean the rest of the world isn’t. I know how hard you’ve worked this semester. You deserve someone who’ll always be in your corner, no matter what happens.”
Don’t cry, dude. Crying isnota good look before a game.
I rest my forehead against hers, and every vital action in my body seems to finally slow down for the time being—a full intake of air, a satisfactory resting heart rate, a reduction of sweat and epinephrine. “Thank you. For being here. For being my lucky charm.”
“Always,” she responds, rising to her tiptoes so I don’t have to bend down to apologize for my D-1 height.
I’m about to kiss her—silently patting myself on the backfor popping a piece of gum in the locker room—but an enthusiastic uproar from my teammates has me red all over.
Staten hides her face. “Do you think we should tell your friends? You know, about us being official now?”
When I glance over at my teammates, they’re all contributing to the noise pollution with supportive hoots and hollers. Crew, in particular, exchanges a look with me that says something along the lines of,Hold onto her. She’s a keeper.
A grin splays over my lips as bottled and shaken butterflies wreak havoc in my belly. “I think they already know.”
STATEN
I never thought I’d attend another hockey game—much less while wearing the jersey of my new boyfriend—but fate has a funny way of playing with you.
I wish I could do something to mitigate the situation with Knox and his dad, but it’s really none of my business, and I wouldn’t want to make matters worse by coming between them. I just hate seeing Knox so hard on himself.
