Are you coming to the house tonight after the game?
Solnyshka
Yes.
Good. I stopped by HR after morning skate to have a note about our dating status added to our files.
Solnyshka
I’m in Ava’s calendar for tomorrow morning to discuss how she’d like me to proceed with the film crew. It’s likely a conflict of interest to continue having me represent you.
Solnyshka
The rest of the department is very capable of looking after your interests.
The only interests I have are you and Nat. I don’t want anyone looking after those but me.
Solnyshka
Awfully possessive for only a week, Nikita.
If you think I’ve only felt like this for a week, you haven’t been paying attention, solnyshka.
Bea laughs at my text, and I finally look up in the walk-in tunnel. Amelia snaps some photos from my left, gathering her usual social media content, but I keep my eyes focused forward. It’s about three hours before our game against Vegas, and I’m eager. There’s less than a month before the All-Star break in the season, and The Midnight wants to finish this stretch at the top of our division. We’re getting closer to having a steady run. We’ve gone back and forth with New York since mid-December, but all of us would feel better going into the break if we gained a few points in the standings before then.
“I don’t think I’ve ever caught you smiling, Baladin,” Amelia calls. She’s looking at the screen on her camera. I slow at her words, realizing Iwassmiling. Texting with Bea—makingplanswith Bea—makes me smile.
“I’d tell you not to get used to it, but I try to set a good example for my kid by not lying.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I pass, her echoing laugh following me the rest of the way to the door that leads to the room where we’ll meet for a team meal. It’s a rather quippy response for me, but I’ve felt lighter than I ever have in my life this past week.
Every chance I’ve had, I’m either talking to or touching Bea, like a horny teenager. I haven’t told Natalia that Bea is more than just a friend, for no reason other than having no idea how to approach it. I’ve never brought a woman around her before—at least not one I was interested in romantically. Sneaking Bea out before morning has felt odd, given how much they get along, but Bea and I agreed to wait until we had things cleared at work first.
I don’t see color when I think about having Bea in my life. The world isn’t suddenly brighter, more brilliant in hues previously only reserved for dreams. Instead, I see black and white. The flash of a billowing gown and sharp pressed suit in the late-spring sunshine. Frames on the mantel filled with crooked smiles and quiet joy, of the time moving forward and reflected back. The immutable permanence of something that can only be described in the simplest of terms. I see her as an essential part of who I am and who I want to be.
I seeforever.
“Stop smiling so much. It’s really freaking me out,” Hutchy says warily from his seat at the table where my friends are gathered. I relax my face, completely unaware that I’m smiling again, and school my features by looking at the plate of food I just filled from the buffet.
“Stop trying to steal the man’s joy,” Gus defends, elbowing our winger. I set my plate next to Charlie’s and drop into the chair. “I like seeing you happy, Nicky. Don’t find it creepy at all.”
“Thanks?” I can’t help but raise my voice in question. Gus returns to his chicken parmesan, and I turn to Charlie. “Was I really that miserable of a bastard?”
“You were just quieter. Like me,” he says with a shrug. “Remember last season when Crosby and Violet started dating? We all gave him a bunch of shit, even though we loved seeing them together.”
Charlie is right, so I let it pass, digging into my penne pasta and salmon filet, trying to focus on the game tonight. It’s easy to find the mental thread I have used for years in these situations. I visualize the ice, the incoming forwards passing the puck. I sense my defenders closing in on either side, bodies battling for space: to shoot, to block. My eyes fall closed as I think about the different ways I can lift my glove, shift my blocker, and extend my stick. I feel an imaginary burn in my legs as the image of me in my head drops into a butterfly block.
The air shifts in the space on my other side, and I open my eyes to see Robbie taking the open seat. My goalie coach is in a sharp onyx suit and an electric-purple tie that matches the color of our logos. It’s rare to see Robbie on game night. It’s downright unusual to see him on game night in a suit. He’s an essential member of the staff, but doesn’t work at the games. I tilt my head at him as he tucks a thick napkin into the collar of his white button-down and turns to a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
“My wife will kill me if I get sauce on this damn shirt,” he grumbles as he twirls saucy noodles around his fork. He shovels the bite into his mouth, leaning as far over the table and plate as possible. Chewing efficiently and dabbing the corners of his mouth with the napkin before he loads up his next bite, he spares me a glance. “It’s not likeI’mgoing to be on TV.”
“You’re behind the bench tonight?” The pieces click into place. While Robbie works on staff, Jan Ahlqvist, lead goalie coach, is usually with us for games. I have a great working relationship with Jan, but I’ve always thought Robbie deserved more opportunities to share the role. It will be great to have him around tonight.
“Yeah, well, make me look good out there, okay?” Robbie continues to eat, and I wonder if it’s his nerves propelling him to finish, like the meal’s about to be taken away from him. I can’t imagine playing and coaching are that different, but I don’tknow what it’s like to be in Robbie’s shoes tonight. I only ever saw him on the ice, in his crease, cool and calculating. One of the best goalies in the modern game. But as he meticulously ensures no sauce touches his suit—much less the napkin spread over it—I find the idea that this is what he was really like, wildly endearing.
Warm-ups have always beena part of playing hockey I enjoy. I slide into a spot against the boards I favor and begin stretching, while watching my teammates run through their drills. I steal glances at Vegas’ players and their restrained shots on their own empty net, my counterpart across the ice from me doing his own pre-game rituals.
Over my time in the league, warm-ups have grown their own unique audience. Die-hard fans getting to their seats early, not wanting to miss out on any moment in the arena. New fans watching in awe from behind the glass. And the fangirls. We haven’t figured out what else to call them since “puck bunnies” feels gross, but they arrive with the same energy as concert attendees desperate for a glimpse of their favorite rockstar. They have signs in one hand and a phone in the other. They roam along the curve of the glass, clambering at times to get a shot they want or to jockey for a better position.
