My phone buzzes.
Miles:
I love you
Go be a star
I stare at the text.
Summer Starling, country music’s next rising star:the introduction Kendra prepared me for earlier. The one they’re going to give right before I give what’s hopefully the performance of my life.
Me.
Summer Starling.
Astar.
It still doesn’t quite fit.
But maybe by the end of tonight, it will.
Kendra appears, one phone still pressed to her ear, gesturing wildly. She covers the receiver. “Car’s here in twenty. Are we ready?”
Am I?
I hold my own gaze in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
We’re tiedwith less than a minute left in Game 7 against Dallas.
The building is so loud it’s almost quiet, the noise becoming a steady ring in my ears. My lungs burn, and my thighs ache. My gloves are slick with sweat, and my hair is plastered to my head underneath my helmet.
Fuck. Please don’t let this go to overtime.
The puck’s pinned against the boards. Our sticks clack and scrape as we dig for it trapped between our skates. Their D-man shoves back. I shove harder.
I’m sure he’s talking shit, but I can’t hear a word of it. All I hear are my own chanting thoughts:win the battle, clear the zone, win the battle, clear the zone.
I wedge my stick under his and pop the puck loose. Their center jumps on it, pulling it to his backhand and scanning for a lane. When he tries to cut around me, I step into him and strip it off his blade.
Fox appears on my left as I push the puck through center. We make a clean entry into their zone, and I slide it through the seam to him, right on his tape.
He cuts inside the defender in one smooth move.
Their goalie squares up, dropping into his stance, glove high, blocker ready, trying to read whether Fox is going to shoot or pass.
He snaps it.
That unmistakable, metallicthwackof the puck hitting the back bar.
Red light.
Fox turns to me, eyes wide, grinning.
I slam into him first, both of us nearly going down. His arms wrap around my shoulders, yelling in my ear, “Holy shit!”
