I’m almost grateful that this is happening over the phone. If he said that to me face-to-face, I bet my grandma’s prosthetic hip that I would be stunned stupid.
My gut turns as I wait for a response that never comes. The players speed back onto the ice, and I’m hit by a sudden wave of emotional exhaustion.
Leo’s back in my sights, reenergizing my empty well with each minute he’s on the ice. The cacophony of loud, grating, piercing sounds has me sinking deeper into my seat, wishing I could step outside for two minutes of peace and quiet.
My hopelessly romantic heart staggers each time Leo looks my way. I’m half tempted to run down the stairs and press myself against the plexiglass to get a closer look at my man.
Both teams have changed their tune after the break. The Phoenixes’ new focus appears to be taking Leo down, while the Serpents’ game plan quickly changes fromteamwork makes the dream worktoeveryone pass to fucking Duval.
Their plans are halted every time he gets swapped out.
I don’t hear from Leo during the second intermission, but I roll my eyes when I see a comment from Jack about how Leo’s too good for me. For the hell of it, I reply with a swift “fuckoff” before responding to the emails about my upcoming book release.
The game starts back up for the final period, and the Phoenixes continue with their attempts to gang up on Leo, but his teammates have picked up the slack, guarding him like he’s their crown prince.
Still, none of the Phoenixes’ players are free from Leo’s rampage of body-slamming and getting into fights. I didn’t think it was possible, but my man has more energy and aggression than he did before. He’s back with a vengeance.
The blood dripping down his face does something ungodly to my stomach. I snap a picture so I can swoon about it some more once I get home.
I’m cheering the Serpents on, and it’s making me stand out worse than a sore thumb amongst the moping Phoenixes fans. They look like they want to brawl because their—our?—beloved team has only scored a single goal this entire game.
The Serpents have scored five goals—two of which were courtesy of Mr. Duval himself.MyLeo.
Leo clocks Jack’s shoulder, then elbows him in the face. My jaw drops, and the heavens fucking open because I’ve never seen something so beautiful. I want him to do it again.
I’ll be sure to rewatch a video of it later.
Leo then dodges another guy and does some trick with the puck that has everyone on their feet and screaming. I’m not sure what it’s called, or how to describe it beyond catching the puck in midair and doing some swirly thing with his hockey stick. Whatever it is, it’s impressive enough that I’m up, too, shouting for... I guess the other side? My side?
The puck hits the net.
Again.
Make that six–one.
The crowd goes fuckingwild.
Hell,Igo wild.
Leo waves the hockey stick in the air, and because I’m stupid, I tell myself that he waves it my way. I scream his name for the hell of it, and Iswearhis brown eyes lock onto me.
I think.
God, I wish I had better vision—I shouldn’t have put off getting my eyes checked for so long.
All I know is that the overhead TV captures the victorious gleam in his eyes as if he’s a man who just won a war. But all I can think is that what I’ve done over these past few months isn’t enough. I’m done watching him from afar, breathing in his secondhand scent.
I need more.
I need to approach him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leo
I’m being watched.
It’s been a recurring notion over the past few months, and I’ve developed this fun game I like to play called Spot the Stalker.
