I brush it off and take another lap, working on edge work near the blue line.
Then I drop to the ice, running through my usual stretches. Idon’tthink about the lack of a good luck text from Summer.
Okay, that’s a lie. It’sallI’ve been thinking about since warm-ups started.
It’s the last thing I check before game time. Without it, I’m off. Which is why I can’t get back to the locker room fast enough between warm-ups and puck drop.
There’s got to be a message waiting if we’re going to keep this streak alive.
I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous.
It wouldn’t be the strangest superstition I’ve played into. Hell, I step onto the ice right foot first every game and tap my stick exactly four times. But this is the first one that relies on someone else. And I’m starting to see the problem with that.
Still, I check my phone the second we’re back in the locker room.
Summer:
Good luck tonight!
Fox kicks my skate, and when I look up, he’s smiling like a maniac. “Whatcha looking at, bud?”
I glare at him before tucking my phone back into my cubby.
He plops down next to me even though his stall is across the room. “That Summer?”
“Didn’t we already go over this?” I glare at him.
“Okay, Okay.” He raises his hands. “Maybe you should invite her to a game…”
I want her here. But I haven’t brought it up again since Christmas—she’s busy, and I don’t want her to feel obligated.Don’t want her thinking I don’t get it, that I don’t support her career.
That’s what happened with Vanessa. Just on a larger scale.
It wasn’t a game I asked her to follow me to. It was a whole other country. I asked her to uproot her entire life without thinking about what I was taking from her. By the time I noticed, she was already gone.
“King,” Fox says, all traces of humor gone from his voice.
I blink back into focus, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. Spaced out.” I’m doing a lot of that today.
“Boys!” Coach’s voice fills the room. “Let’s get out there and make it twelve straight. Play our game. Stick to the system. Let’s go!”
We’re seven minutes in when the ref signals the first TV timeout. I skate to the bench, and Fox slides up next to me.
“So,” he says, casual as anything, “nice night for hockey, huh?”
I grab my water bottle. “What?”
“Just saying. Good crowd tonight.” He tips his head toward the stands, that fucking smirk on his face. “Realgoodcrowd.”
I follow his gaze.
My seats aren’t empty.
Summer.
She’s here. Laughing at something Mia’s saying, auburn hair catching the arena lights as she pulls off my Saints beanie.
And that’s not the only thing of mine she’s wearing.
