Sighing, he takes off walking again while I trail after him like an eager puppy wanting to play ball with its owner.
“Go away,” he says over his shoulder.
“No, I want to watch you play.”
“Since when? You’re the one who hates hockey.”
“I don’t hate it either. I’m indifferent,” I say. “But now I’m invested. It’s not every day I get to seetheWyatt Graham on the ice.”
We reach the men’s locker room, where he stops to glare at me again. “What? You gonna follow me into the lockers too?”
I think it over. “If I wait out here, are you going to try to sneak out the back so I don’t witness you playing hockey?”
“It’s a risk.”
My gaze shifts back to the door, bringing a grin to Wyatt’s face.
“You’re not coming in there,” he warns.
“Why? Because I might see your dick?”
He simply sighs again, but I can see him trying not to laugh. “Oh my God. Just fuck off.”
At that, he ducks into the locker room, and because I do have some etiquette and wasn’t raised by wolves, I head to the rink instead. It seems to be some sort of free hour, because there’s nobody out on the ice save for a fair-haired man teaching his son how to skate. The boy can’t be older than four, and he’s literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in his puffy blue coat and tiny black skates.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad wishes he’d had a son he could share his hockey love with. Instead, he got me, a stubborn girl who only wanted to read books or watch football. To Dad’s credit, if heever did resent it, he never once showed it. In fact, he went above and beyond to bond with me. The man who doesn’t love reading readallthe books for my freshman literature class so he could discuss them with me and help me study.
My dad’s pretty great.
Rather than sit in the stands, I find a spot in front of the plexiglass and stand there. Hugging my arms against the chill, I watch my breath puff out in the cold air. I’ve spent my whole life in ice rinks, but I’ll never love it the way my father does.
Not long after, Wyatt enters the arena. He’s not in full padding, but he does wear a helmet, a black practice jersey, and hockey pants. And he’s enormous on skates, I realize. The blades add a couple inches to his already commanding height.
Eyeing me in irritation, he snaps his helmet into place, then pushes the low wooden door that opens onto the ice. A minute later, he’s joined by another man, this one in full pads. Goalie gear.
I walk along the plexi, trailing the two guys toward one end of the rink where a net is already set up. The newcomer drops a bucket of pucks on center ice before skating with a very reluctant Wyatt in my direction.
“Blake,” Wyatt says gruffly, his voice a tad muffled behind the glass. “This is Miguel. He plays for the local men’s league. Miguel, this is Blake. Family friend.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, smiling at Miguel.
“Likewise!” Unlike Wyatt, this guy actually smiles back, flashing his dimples before gliding toward the net and dropping into a slutty butterfly stretch.
“Can you please go to the library?” Wyatt grumbles at me.
“I could. Or…” I lift my phone and snap a picture of his unhappy face. “I can do this.”
Mumbling under his breath—something not very nice, I suspect—he skates to the blue line and spills a handful of pucks from the bucket onto the ice.
As unimpressed as I’ve always been with hockey (and hockeyplayers), I can’t take my eyes off Wyatt. Watching him skate, I can see why Garrett wanted so desperately for his son to follow in his footsteps. Wyatt is deceptively slow. He moves with a lazy grace, almost seductive as he allows the goalie to grow accustomed to the insolent tempo, to grow complacent…before suddenly kicking into another gear, catching Miguel off guard by firing a dizzyingly fast bullet at the net.
Score.
For the next ten minutes, Miguel doesn’t make a single save. Sure, could be he’s the worst goalie on the planet, but I’ve been watching hockey my entire life. Miguel has skills. He’s got a fast glove. It’s just that Wyatt’s glove shots are faster. Miguel is quick with the pads, but Wyatt is quicker to find a slot and squeeze that puck in.
The rink echoes with the familiar sounds I grew up with. The sharp thwack of Wyatt’s stick striking the puck, followed by the dullthunkof it hitting the goalie’s pads. It’s hypnotic.
No,he’shypnotic.
