I’ve learned it’s hit or miss if they’re here because of the game or the ’gram. While it doesn’t change how I interact with them, sometimes, if it’s the latter, it can make things weird. Instead, I just tune out as much of their behavior as I possibly can. I let myself sink into a calmness deep in my very center.
Music blasts over the speakers, and there are pucks being slapped everywhere, making the arena a cacophony of noise. But over all of that, there is a particularly loud banging on the glass behind me. It’s the incessant, attention-seeking kind that our ushers and security staff are quick to redirect. It’s destroying my inner peace, and I begin looking around the ice to see if anyone else has noticed the disruption. Gus and Obie are directly in front of me, looking over my shoulder at whoever is being a public menace. They’re laughing, and Gus hollers for the person to be louder. Charlie shakes his head.
“Oi, twenty-eight! Get off your arse!”
It shouldn’t surprise me that it’s her. I rise to my skates, turning on the ice until I’m looking at her through the glass. It’s impossible to keep the goofy fucking smile off my face when I lift my mask to take her in.
Bea beams up at me, with crimson lips and a loose braid over her shoulder. There’s a black ribbon tied at the end, and I home in on it, thinking of all the ways I’m going to use it later, in the dark of my bedroom. Her lean legs are wrapped in fitted black jeans, and the rest of her is drowning in a Midnight hoodie.My Midnight hoodie.
“Thieves get punished,” I manage to yell through the Plexi, indicating the hoodie I’ve been looking for over the past two days. It’s one of my favorites from my first season, worn and comfortable. Bea’s pupils flare, briefly trying to overtake the warm brown, and her smile morphs into something sultrier.
“Can’t wait, Nikita.” Even with the noise and the thick glass, Bea’s purred taunt slides down my spine. My cock immediately likes her jovial tone and the possibility waiting after the game, but playing with a boner is a form of torture I don’t relish. I will it to stop reacting. Bea must notice my impending discomfort because she doesn’t say anything else. Blowing a kiss andwaving, she doesn’t actually ease anything as I watch her perfect ass climb out of the lower bowl, one stair at a time.
“I don’t know if she just helped us win, or ensured we’re fucked,” Obie teases from behind me.
“Shots on me. Now!” I slam my mask down and skate for my net.
Five minutes leftin the third, and the scores are still at zero. Considering how much of the game has been played away from my net, I’d say the guys have had a lot of opportunities to put us ahead, but some games are like this. Our third line is on the ice, playing good defense as the Las Vegas wingers attempt to move the game over the red line. A wild pass sends the puck into the stands, pausing game play, and I take a moment to relax out of my crouch. I glance at Robbie, but he just offers a hand, letting me know to keep doing what I am.
I scrape the edge of my blades into the posts, building up a tiny mountain of ice to keep the blood flowing and my legs loose. Being a goalie is a lot of hurry up and wait. It’s being constantly on, but onlyengagedfor short, violent bursts of time. In a highly competitive game, fatigue can build in my muscles by this point from sheer force of exertion. But in a game like this, I feel tight because I haven’t had to do as much work. The shots-on-goal stats are lopsided in The Midnight’s favor, even if we haven’t scored.
It’s given me too much time to think—a potentially dangerous activity on the ice. At least if it isn’t about the game. It’s not a good idea to let myself get distracted. Especially notby visions of creamy skin in moonlight. Hot breath against my lips. Hushed cries of passion. Whiskey eyes and curls wrapped around my fingers.
Nope, I donotneed to let myself become distracted bythat.
I chance a look into the stands in the direction of the suites as the game resumes. I can’t see her, but I know she’s up there, sitting with Violet and Andy. A whistle blows, and any further searching for Bea comes to a halt when the guys settle up for a face-off. Both teams changed lines during the stoppage, subbing in their first lines. I focus just beyond the edge of the puck, letting everything surrounding it blur as it is passed across the ice. Each slap of the rubber against the wooden blades brings the action closer to me.
I sense Obie dropping back, toward the crease, to provide coverage as the Vegas players forecheck into the zone. My eyes move without conscious thought, following the puck’s zigzag between skates and players. My knees bend, lowering me to block out as much of the net as possible. I grip my stick with confidence, holding tight but letting the heel barely brush the ice below. The catcher in my other hand is open, wide and ready, relaxed a little closer to my side. There’s no need to reach; the whole point of my job is to have the pucks come to me in a way. And it will. I can feel it. A shot is coming.
A sharp crack, louder than the sounds of steel slicing ice, of bodies smashing into each other, of even my own breath, breaks the air of the arena. It has a finality in its echo, makes time stretch thin, and my vision tunnels. Round and round the black puck spirals toward me. It looks like it defies the laws of physics as it travels unimpeded between players, its aim unfailingly true. There’s no time for reaction. Nothing to be done but brace for the collision, one I’ve absorbed thousands of times before.
The puck hits me square in the chest, directly over my heart, the impact leaving an unusual sting in its wake. Every nerveradiates outward from the site. I want to chase it, follow where the energy goes even as I begin to feel lightheaded and the edges of my vision dim. I skate forward. Once.
Someone calls my name, I think.
I skate again, the world tilting on its axis as I slump to the side.
Tumbling.
No sound.
Collapsing in space.
Then, nothing.
Darkness.
CHAPTER 15
BEA
“Did you successfully harass your boyfriend?” Violet teases at the top of the stairs of the lower bowl. She’s blowing a kiss toward the ice, and I know Crosby is standing there besotted with his fiancée.
“Nicky isn’t my boyfriend.”
I fall into step with my best friend, the pair of us now migrating to the box Cal has access to as The Midnight head coach. While Violet and I have always been comfortable watching from the general seats of the arena, we’ve opted for the seclusion of the elevated box tonight. Andy is joining us, and since talk usually turns to work—which is now bordering on personal for me—I prefer to be somewhere we’re less likely to be overheard.
“I mean, what are you guys, then?” Violet asks. We weave through the arena, cutting down the back stairs and hallways until we reach the suite. All the while, she waits patiently as I consider the question. After clearing our ID with the floor usher, I pull open the door.
