I take a few laps in our end, loosening my legs, grab a puck, and take a shot on Volk. He kicks it away. I drift off to the side and run through some quick stretches.
I’m halfway through when Logan skates up beside me, stopping short of clipping my shoulder. “Hannah wants to know if you’re coming next Thursday.”
They’ve invited everyone not going home for the holidays over for Christmas dinner. Normally, I make a trip home to see my parents and sister, but this year I booked my parents on theAlaskan cruise they’ve been not-so-subtly hinting at since the summer. They deserve it, and I like spoiling them. And it’s my sister’s year to do Christmas with her in-laws. She invited me, but I decided to stay in Chicago.
“I’ll be there.” I drop into a side lunge. “Oh—hey, mind if I bring someone?”
Might as well extend the invite to Summer.
“You seeing someone?”
Based on his face, I’m guessing Fox hasn’t told him about my roommate situation.
“Nah. Just a friend.” The word still tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Sure. The more the merrier.” He skates off as warm-ups end.
We all file back into the locker room to wait for puck drop. I tell myself not to check my phone, but I do it anyway. There’s a new message waiting. I’m not sure I’ve ever opened one so fast.
Summer:
Sure
One word.
That’s it. And still, my chest does that weird too-big, too-small thing.
Summer:
Oh, and good luck
I’m grinning like a fool as I turn into my stall and brace a forearm on the top shelf, head dipped. I stare at the screen longer than strictly necessary, then tuck my phone away before anyone can give me shit.
I drop onto the bench, plant my elbows on my knees, and lock in.
Ten minutes later, I shake out my arms and head up the tunnel again. This time, I’m the first on the ice, in position outside the face-off circle.
We win possession off the draw, and seven minutes later, Knolls buries one in the back of their net. The guy’s not the team favorite, but there’s no denying he’s been an asset.
He came in as a trade last season, and there’s old shit between him and Logan. It’s tangled up in Hannah’s past with them both. So, naturally, we all pick sides.
In the second period, we’re still up by one, and we carry the lead deep into the third. Volk is locked in, hungry for a shutout. Everyone’s grinding, even though we’re beat from traveling this morning. Four minutes left on the clock, and it feels like we’ve got it.
We get a little too confident, though, and the other team makes us pay. Our second D-pair has a misread, opens a lane, and Volk gets beat five-hole by a shot that sneaks under his pad.
He stares up at the replay on the jumbotron, gives his head one short shake, then squirts water into his mouth and resets. That’s the thing about Volk—he gets pissed, but then he gets straight back to work.
We’ve got under two minutes to score. Or, at least, not let them do it again. Overtime will give us five more minutes to steal it, and the chance to finally break our losing streak is enough to sharpen everybody up.
The buzzer sounds, and we crowd around the bench. The TV timeout gives us just enough time to breathe and regroup.
“We’re taking this one,” I say, looking around at the guys. “One more shot is all we need.”
It takes three minutes and forty-seven seconds, but we get it. I hit Fox with a pass in the high slot, and he rips it blocker-side into the back of the net before their goalie even finishes his slide.
We swarm him with hugs and hollering.
“That’s fucking right!” Helm yells directly into my ear, probably killing off half my hearing.
