"You okay?" Cam asks.
"Fine." But it’s a total lie.
Bernard's first shift is forty-five seconds long. He skates hard, cycles the puck, takes a clean hit along the wall, and comes off for a line change. I don't breathe until he's on the bench.
Essence squeezes my arm again. "You learn to trust the pads."
"I've seen what the pads don't cover."
She laughs. "Fair. But your man is tough."
My man. I watch Bernard on the bench, drinking water, listening to Coach, and I think: my man. The words fit in a way I didn't expect.
Jason wins a faceoff in the second period, and I surprise myself by cheering. Not the obligatory clap of a sister who was dragged along — a real, involuntary shout that makes Cam look at me with raised eyebrows.
I've spent twenty-three years resenting my brother's sport for consuming every resource my family had. But watching Jason now, seeing his speed, his instinct, the way he reads the ice, I realize he's good at this. And being proud of him doesn't diminish me the way I always thought it would. There's room for both.
Then Bernard hops over the boards for a fresh shift, and I forget about my brother entirely.
My boyfriend scores a freaking goal, and suddenly I’m screaming like a deranged fan, both fists in the air. I find myself wishing I was out there in the pile of guys congratulating him, but then he's skating toward our section and looking up. For me, I realize.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and I feel a swell of pride, connection, and contentment. I point at him and press my hand to my heart to convey what I’m feeling.
He presses his glove to his.
The arena roars around us, but I don’t notice. I’m basking in the wonder of choosing this place, this man, this life. This isn’t something secondhand or the scraps of someone else’s success. This is mine.
The Fury wins 4-2, and the crowd erupts. Cam grabs my hand, and he pulls me toward the corridor where the families wait for players to emerge from the locker room.
Other partners cluster in groups. Some with kids, some dressed up, all carrying the particular energy of folks who love men who do violent things for a living and then come home tender.
After an eternity, the locker room door opens, and the players filter out in postgame suits with wet hair and flushed faces. Spinner emerges first, scanning the hallway until he spots our group. “PAWs. Who's buying drinks?"
"Not me," Cam says. "I bought last time."
"That was November."
"And I'm still recovering." He shakes his head before finding his husband and pulling Banksy in for a kiss.
Jason comes out next, suit jacket over one arm, and gives me a nod that contains approximately forty percent less hostility than it would have a week ago. Progress.
Then Bernard walks through the door, and every coherent thought in my head evaporates.
He's in a charcoal suit with no tie, top button undone, hair still damp and curling at his temples. His black eye has faded to a greenish yellow that somehow makes him look more attractive, not less. He scans the hallway the way he scanned the airport baggage claim two months ago, except this time, when his eyes find me, he doesn't have to pretend he's not looking.
"There's my girl,” he says, and his arms open, and I walk into them and press my face against his chest and breathe in soap and ice and Bernard.
"Great game," I murmur into his shirt.
"Great jersey." His hand finds the nameplate on my back and traces it through the fabric. "Looks good on you."
Somewhere behind us, Spinner is organizing a group outing. A bar, apparently, where the whole team can celebrate the win. Cam and Essence are in. The Stag brothers are discussing logistics and babysitters. Jason is on his phone, presumably coordinating something that involves protein.
Bernard looks down at me. "You want to go out?"
I look up at him. "I want to go home."
His eyes darken. His hand tightens on my back. "Yeah?"
