“Jeez.” He holds his hands up. “Alright, alright.”
He turns to look at me. “Sorry, sweet cheeks, looks like you’re out of luck. I’ve been warned away. I’m sorry you’re going to be without all of this.” He gestures to his body.
I giggle. “That’s okay. I think I’ll live.”
“Ouch!” He puts his hand on his chest. “You wound me.”
Shaking my head, the smile stays in place, even while Damien shoots looks my way. Heated looks. Ones of anger, maybe annoyance? I think?
The game starts and from the moment they’re out on the ice, I’m glued to my seat.
Watching the way they move on the ice is fascinating. Their skills are impeccable. I'm hardly able to stop when I’m skating, but seeing these guys do it so seamlessly is impressive.
I’m torn between watching the guys fight for the puck and watching Damien. The playful look he had during warm-ups is gone. I can’t see his face, but I can tell by the way his body moves that he’s in the zone.
Every time he blocks a shot, I jump to my feet and cheer. At first I feel stupid, but most of the people around me do it too, so I let myself indulge in the excitement.
When the other team gets a shot in, I feel my shoulders deflate. I can tell Damien is pissed, but he keeps going.
Then our team scores a goal and the whole stadium loses their shit. I’m right along with them, cupping my hand around my mouth and cheering.
Being here is thrilling. I should come to games more often, because this is fun. Never knowing who’s gonna get the puck, watching how skilled the players are, it’s exhilarating.
With each intermission, the guys leave the ice, most likely heading to the locker room. Every time they do, Damien looks my way, but I can’t read the expression on his face.
Is he mad that I’m here? Annoyed to have his stepsister cheering for him?
Either way, I don’t let his mood affect me.
Our team wins the game, and I can’t help but feel the joy the team does as they celebrate in the middle of the ice, huddled together, hugging it out.
They make their way off the ice and I text Elliot asking what I should do now. Wait inside, meet him somewhere, or should I just take an Uber home?
He texts me back letting me know he’s going to be awhile and if I don’t want to wait, I can take an Uber back.
It’s only nine o’clock, and I decide that I don’t want to go home just yet. I’m too buzzed with the good vibe the win brought me, and the last thing I need right now is my mother bringing it down.
I can’t wait until she leaves for her next work trip. Only a few more days and I can breathe again.
Remembering that I saw a movie theater down the street, I decide to catch a late night screening of the new horror movie that came out.
I order all the junk I can stomach and love every moment of the movie.
I’m on an addictive high as I head home, the windows are rolled down letting the cool night breeze flow in as the Uber takes me home.
When we pull up to the gate, I pray my mother is sleeping. Quietly, I head inside and go straight to my room.
Dropping my bags on the floor near my desk, I take my jacket and jersey off, and hang them both up. I’m about to grab some clothes for a shower when I notice something sitting on my bed.
Confused, I tentatively walk over to see what it is.
It’s a jersey like the one I was wearing tonight. Except, it’s for a different number and player name.
Number One, Clark.
I suck in a soft breath, taken by surprise. My fingers brush over the embroidered letters.
Why is this here? Who left it?
