Wilder’s flying across the ice, stick in hand, moving with speed that I’ve never seen before.
One moment, there’s nothing in front of him, and the next, he’s on a puck in the span that it takes me to blink, slapping it into the net with startlingly sharp, controlled precision. Like it’s completely effortless.
Like it’s second nature, stitched into who he is.
He hasn’t noticed me yet, and part of me hopes that he doesn’t. Because selfishly, I want to watch him like this without him being aware.
Right now, he’s not performing for a crowd, for fans, or his team, for anyone but himself, and it feels like a private moment that I’m intruding on, but I just can’t look away.
I can’t stop watching him glide across the ice, flicking his wrist and snapping puck after puck into the net.
His dark hair is damp and curling around his temples and ears, drenched in sweat. Apparently, he’s been here for a while because the tight, gray athletic shirt he’s wearing is soaked too. His cheeks are flushed red, and his chest is heaving as he runs another drill, skating as fast as he can before slamming to a stop, then sprinting back to the other line.
Completely focused.
Undeniably masterful at what he does.
Thisis the Wilder Hawthorne that the world knows. The professional hockey player that fans filled the stands for, chanted his name when he scored a goal in overtime that brought his team to the Stanley Cup Finals.
The former rookie of the year.
Obviously, I had to look him up after what I learned the other night at Jack’s.
I wanted to see for myself.
But none of the videos, the old game clips, any of it, comes close to watching him on the ice right now.
An unexpected pang of sadness hits me, causing my stomach to tighten when I think about how he had to give all of it up.
His career… playing hockey, something he was clearly meant to do.
I don’t know what the truth is. Therealtruth behind what the gossip sites said or what’s been passed along the rumor mill. Maybe he did beat that guy up for no reason at all. It’s not like I know him enough to judge his character.
I don’t really know anything about him.
But I do know what it’s like to not have a choice in the direction of your life.
And I can’t imagine having the thing I loved most taken away from me without it being my decision. And that happened to him.
It’s sad either way.
So I almost, kind of, understand why he’s so callous and shut off, but not quite. He could still not be such an asshole.
My phone chimes in my bag with a text message. And then another.
And… then another.
Lennon, obviously. She’s the only person who texts me ten times in a row because she never finishes a thought before pressing Send.
Oh God.
Wilder freezes when he hears it. The muscles in his back turn rigid before he slowly turns, eyes catching mine from across the ice.
My heart is pounding so loudly that I’m sure he can hear it over the sound of my stupid phone.
At first, he does nothing but stare at me, making me feel like I’m a peeping freaking Tom. And then, he moves. Slowly, he skates toward me, and I start trying to think of what the hell I’m even supposed to say.
Oh, so sorry for creeping on you and watching you skate.
