“How’s the wrist?” Jordan asks me, and I look at my left hand with the splint on it.
“It’s better. It’ll be fine by game time.” I’d strained it again in the last game, but the doctors were confident it wasn’t serious. The splint was just a precaution.
He smiles at me and we start toward Avery, who is also yanking his travel bag out of the back of his car. “You wanna go through the main concourse?”
We fly private and so we’re at a smaller airport a few miles from Sea-Tac. The fans in recent years have figured this out and a dedicated bunch often show up to greet us when we land or see us off, especially during playoffs. We have the option of going through a different gate, one that avoids the main concourse where the fans congregate, if we’re not in the mood for autographs and pictures. I usually don’t mind it, but this afternoon, I’m not in the mood.
I shake my head no. Jordan’s smile deepens and he shrugs. “Tough luck, we’re doing it anyway.”
“What?” I blink. Avery falls in step beside us as Jordan puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me to the main entrance.
“He’s doing the fan thing, right, Avery?” Jordan says.
“Yeah. Captain’s orders,” Avery replies, and I glare at him. Something is going on; I just don’t know what.
I’m about to ask when I realize there’s no point. These two shitheads won’t tell me anyway. Jordan and Avery make small talk as we make our way toward the concourse. I keep my eyes on the tile floor in front of me and listen halfheartedly. Every airport staff member we pass wishes us a good game and I smile and nod at all of them. Then I hesitate, because once we pass through another set of glass doors we’ll be in an open hallway with fans lined up on either side of the rope the staff put out. I could walk to the right, out another door takes you to security but avoids the open concourse, and get on the plane without anyone noticing. Jordan must know I’m about to bolt, because I feel his hand between my shoulders and he gives me a small push toward the other door.
“Come on, Deveau. There’s some fans who want to see you.” He gives me his best lopsided grin. “And one I think you’ll want to see.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, but I find myself following along anyway without getting an answer. Jordan is first through the doors and I hear the fans cheer. I walk out behind him to more clapping and yelling. There are about forty people all huddled together behind the rope stanchions the airport has set up. Everyone is wearing something with a Winterhawks logo. There are baseball hats, T-shirts, tank tops and a ton of jerseys. I see a lot of Westwood jerseys and some Garrison and some Choochinsky and a few of mine. I stop at the first cluster, take a pen from a girl who is squealing, and sign the back of her Deveau jersey.
As I continue down the line, a forced smile that I hope looks natural on my face, I scan the homemade signs some people have brought. Most of them are wishing us luck; some are putting down the Thunder. I particularly like the one that saysThunder Are Vomit. One being held up at the end of the line catches my eye. It’s white cardboard with glittery blue letters and it saysForgive Me, Frenchie.
I freeze midsignature on someone’s jersey. The guy glances over his shoulder. “Are you done?”
“No. Sorry. Hold on.” I finish the signature and pose for a photo with his girlfriend and then march down the line, ignoring everyone in between me and that sign bobbing about the crowd.
Someone calls out my name, wanting me to stop, and I do, begrudgingly, and sign a T-shirt with my number on it. Then Avery, who has been hovering just inside the doors, steps out and the crowd sees him and goes wild. I’m invisible and I’m thrilled. I march toward the sign.
She’s standing there, at the end of the line, all by herself with soft gray eyes and a nervous look on her pretty features. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a soft smile before biting her lower lip as her cheeks turn pink. I let my eyes sweep over her—she’s wearing jeans and a Winterhawks jersey with my name and number. Her hair is in a long, low braid over her shoulder and I see her freckles are not covered up. Fuck, she’s perfect.
“Hi,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Nice jersey,” I say, and she turns a deeper shade of pink.
She laughs and it makes me feel incredible, so I grin back. “What can I say, I’m a fan.”
I feign my best exaggerated and shocked expression. “Shayne Middle Name Unknown Beckford is a hockey fan! Everyone hunker down with canned goods. The apocalypse is coming.”
She laughs again. “I’m not a hockey fan. I’m a Sebastian Gabriel Maxim Louis Deveau fan. Big difference.”
I like that. A lot.
Her expression grows serious, the smile slipping from her face as she tilts her head up and looks at me with worried eyes. “I don’t want to bother you before a game, but I had to tell you before you left,” she explains.
“Tell me what?” I ask, feeling my usual playful attitude start to stir for the first time since our fight. “That sign is a demand, not an explanation.”
She grins at that. “Yeah, well, you know me.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you do,” she confirms with a nod, and I notice the guy beside her has stopped looking at Avery down the line and is looking at us, so I take a couple steps away from the crowd and she follows me, the rope still between us. She takes a deep breath and then says, “You know me better than I thought. And I know you too. I know you’re loyal and supportive and caring and that you’re not like any other hockey player I’ve had the displeasure of knowing.”
She pauses and I fight a smile, because I don’t want to give in to her yet—even though I know it’s inevitable. The minute I saw that sign something in me that had broken felt whole again and I’m pretty sure it was my heart. “You’re finally using your brain, Shay. I’m impressed.”
“I’m not using my brain at all, actually. I’m trusting my heart.” She laughs. “My brain is an evil pessimist but my heart is a hopeful romantic. And my heart says you’re the one for me. And I’m the only one for you.”
I can’t resist touching her, so I reach over the rope and pull her into me. It’s supposed to be a friendly hug, but it triggers hormones that race through my body that are much more than friendship. She pulls her hands from her pockets and wraps them around my back briefly before letting go.
