I motion for them to head to the tunnel when I catch the silhouette of a man entering it. Is it Lake? But he’s not even here today.
The figure steps out to the ice—it’s Daniel.
“Thanks, Remy,” he calls to me. “I’ll escort them back to the exit. If you can just wait for me behind the players’ bench, that’d be great.”
I blink. Why would he want me to do that? Is he going to can me? Give me a talking to? I don’t know that I want to face another hard thing today when I’m already planning on facing the hardest thing of all in, say, an hour when I head to Lake’s home.
Nerves tap dance across my skin, but I try to ignore them as I say, “Of course.”
Like I’ve been chastened, I return to the ice alone, walkingcarefully across it to the gate that leads to the stands. I climb up into the seats, picking a row behind the players’ bench.
And I wait.
I don’t dare look at my phone. I don’t want to be distracted when Daniel returns to talk to me. I just sit, the chill enveloping me. I fold my arms across my chest and look around the arena at the suites on the upper levels, the press box, the food concourse, the ice itself.
Wait. Is that Miller over by the home team’s tunnel?
He’s wearing his jersey and jeans. I lift a hand to wave, but he’s turned the other way, his back to me.
Okay, weird.
Is he going to be here for my chat with Daniel? I squint at the other tunnel. Riggs looms in it, his back to me as well.
My gaze swings around the arena, and I spot Ivan and Corbin guarding other entrances.
What is going on? My pulse speeds up, not with worry, but with questions. Why are they here?
The cut of blades through ice slices through the silence as someone flies onto the rink in jeans and a jersey. It’s Lake speeding onto the rink in skates, stick in one hand, a sack of some sort tossed over his shoulder.
My mouth falls open and my skin warms. He’s here.
“Lake!” I call out. Maybe I’ll tell him now. Maybe I’ll tell him here. No time like the present.
He’s quiet though. He stops at center ice, nods to me, then dips his hand into the sack. One by one, he takes out several stuffed foxes.
My breath catches.
I roll my lips together.
He lifts his stick, takes aim at the first one, and launches it right to me.
I’m not athletic, not at all. But I manage to grab it in theair, and study it. The fox is holding a card with one word written on it.
Go.
I clutch it tight to my chest, hope sparking inside of me.
He lines up for another shot. Swings his stick. Sends it to me.
On.
I smother a smile but then stop hiding it. I can be happy. I can let him see I’m giddy. I can encourage him.
“More!” I shout, hope spiraling high.
He seems to fight off a smile too, as he sends the next one my way.
A.
