Picking at the hem of the NHL jersey, I walk toward the stadium, focusing on the music blasting from my headphones as I lower the cap over my face and navigate through the throng ofpeople. No one here gives a crap about me—I know this. But itfeelslike there are eyes on me, and hiding behind clothes adds a layer of security that my anxious little brain so desperately needs.
The lobby is flooded with a sea of purple and orange as people muscle their way inside. Above the bounding music, my ears ring with the combined echo of footsteps, chatter, and the two children wailing in the corner. If I increase the volume of my music any further, my ears will start to bleed.
The noise, the bump of shoulders, the smell, the jeers, the chilled air, the thick fabric trapping my body; all of it makes me want to join the two kids and scream at the top of my lungs—and probably hurl as well. It’s like a thousand needles have entered my nervous system, and nails are scraping along a chalkboard somewhere at the back of my mind.
A group of frat dudes holler at each other, waving their drinks in the air while sporting the full Serpents’ colors. A little kid shoulder-checks me as he passes, face covered in yellow-and-orange face paint for the New York Phoenixes. Even though we’re dressed in the colors of the same team, the little shit scowls at my jersey as if I’m not worthy of wearing it.
The music does little to drown out the world that’s sticking to my skin like glue. My fingers tap an erratic rhythm against my thigh as Ibreathe hard into the scarf that’s quickly becoming too much to bear and is fogging up my fucking glasses.
I keep my head down, wading through the crowd, humming below a whisper in an attempt to distract myself.
The only reason I don’t tuck tail and run is because I want to see Leo in the flesh.Needto. I deserve to finally breathe the same air as him for more than a couple of seconds. It’s my due.
It must be my lucky day because I manage to get a seat between several groups of Phoenixes supporters, and for a second, it’s like I can finally breathe. My eyelids fall shut, and Igo through breathing exercises to calm my nerves. In for four. Out for seven.
Once the violent buzzing beneath my skin finally disperses, I make an effort to loosen my limbs: rolling my shoulders, tipping my head side to side, and stretching my back. Finally, I feel stable enough that I won’t have a breakdown.
If I came here with Joyce, I’d be able to tolerate all of this better. But doing it alone feels like a suicide mission. At least I’m wearing my good socks, and none of my clothes are tight, itchy, or restrictive.
Praise be my foresight for dressing in nonstimulating clothes.
Removing my headphones, I replace them with Loops and finally survey my surroundings. The place is packed to the brim for the highly anticipated game. There’s no way any of the guys will notice me. I’m not too close to the ice, and not too far away. Players don’t look at their opponents’ supporters, right? Because I’m currently the enemy. In case they do look, I have to hope the hat throws them off my scent. That’s the idea, at least.
Pulling up my phone, I internally cringe at Mom’s confirmation message that we’re finally having dinner with Jacob’s family at the end of the week, then click into Leo’s latest text.
Leo: You’re going to regret that.
I grimace when the music and lighting changes, and then people start skating around the ice while holding up flags before leaving again. The refs come flying in next. People suddenly leap to their feet, cheering their heads off, and it takes me a second to realize why. Goosebumps explode along my skin as the players skate onto the ice, with the goalie leading the way. The intensityof the atmosphere and the spotlights have my hair standing on end.
Anxiety burns into exhilaration. Tension morphs into anticipation. It multiplies whenheprowls out, dripping with shades of gloom that come with the first day of winter. Every player before him seems to stare down their opponents, take in the crowd, or lose themselves in the slide of their blades along the ice. But Leo’s different.
No, he scans the sea of people like his true foe hides in the stands.
For a moment, everything stops.
His eyes land on me.
The world stills. Tilts. Teeters on the precipice.
My blood stops pumping. The final second before the bomb goes off. The air plummets ten degrees, and it’s like the crowd goes so silent that nothing can be heard except blades slicing across the ice. Violent shivers ripple down my spine as if he’s consuming me whole, mind, body, and soul. But... maybe I’m imagining it?
My eyesight’s shit. I can’t be sure if he’s looking at me or in my general direction. I swear the golden brown of his eyes morphs into vicious black as he consumes every inch of me, leaving a sour taste behind. Leo recognizes me, and he hates it; his lips are curled in a sneer, brows flattened into a straight line.
The expression disappears just as fast, but there’s something so... hostile that remains. I mentally shake my head. Maybe it wasn’t recognition, just a way to intimidate the other team.
There’s an edge to the way he holds himself from then on, like a chip on his shoulder he can’t get rid of. Usually he has the grace of a sharpened blade, but tonight he’s more like a wolf moments away from going for the jugular. I swear I hear him silently seething.
Whether it’s wishful thinking or a trick of my imagination, his eyes keep flitting over the crowd throughout the national anthem, and each time, my hopeful little heart is convinced those golden eyes end up on me.
The game starts, and within seconds, he’s body-slamming one of the Phoenixes players into the plexiglass even though the guy doesn’t have possession of the puck. I think. I’m honestly not really paying attention to the game. I can barely see the puck—I wouldn’t be able to even if it were flying right in front of me. My brain struggles to process stuff like depth perception—another reason why I suck at sports.
Is bodychecking someone unprovoked allowed? Probably? I spent eight hours researching and watching games, but I’m still confused as shit—unsurprising, since I spent ten weeks playing soccer when I was fifteen and never figured out the rules beyondkick the ball within the lines.
It’s harder than trying to understand the rules of a card game. It’s not like all the hockey romances I’ve been reading have taught me much beyond hitting the puck into the net.
I mean, surely it’s not allowed... unprovoked? I... fuck it. I’m entertained enough just watching him move across the ice.
Maybe also a little hot and bothered by the brutality. So, sue me.
