Not obsessively. Just in that irritating way a memory hangs around the edges of your brain when you can’t quite lock it into place.
Blonde hair. Calm eyes.
She’d left before I could even ask her name.
The party had gotten loud fast. Someone turned the music up too high, someone else started passing around cheap vodka, and by the time I stumbled back to the dorms I was tipsy enough that the whole evening felt slightly unreal.
Now when I try to picture her properly, the details slip away.
And honestly? It’s for the best. I don’t have time to worry about dating right now.
The next few games haven’t exactly gone better for us.
Coach Calloway starts experimenting almost immediately.
New lines and new tactics. He’s trying to find the combination that makes us actually click.
We’re not bad. That’s the frustrating part. And when everything does line up properly, we’re good enough to tear teams apart.
But it never lasts long enough.
Somewhere in the middle of every game the rhythm slips away again.
Still, the rush never fades.
Every time the arena lights snap on and the crowd starts roaring, the same energy hits my chest like electricity. Fast shifts, the puck moving so quickly you barely have time to think.
Sometimes, without really meaning to, I glance toward the stands.
Just quickly.
A sweep of the rows behind the glass for my talisman from the first game.
The spectator that had shouted.
It’s stupid.
There are hundreds of people in the arena every night.
Still.
My eyes drift upward more often than I’d like to admit.
But I never see her again.
And eventually the memory fades into the background of everything else - the practices and games and the endless push to turn a good team into one that actually wins.
LEONORA
Markus insists on coming to a Giants game before he leaves.
It’s his last night in town and his schedule is already ridiculous - flight early tomorrow morning, training again the day after - but when I mention I’ve been going to watch the team, he raises an eyebrow like that alone is reason enough.
So now the three of us are back in Blackwood Arena. I swear Willow just tagged along to get extra time with my brother. She sits on my other side, wrapped in a scarf, eating popcorn and asking questions about how the game works. Markuslounges back in the seat beside me with the casual confidence of someone who started in this very team but now plays in arenas ten times this size.
The puck drops.
It takes him about five minutes to start frowning.
