Shaking.
Ah. There it is.
I clear my throat, trying to steady it. I thought I didn’t have pre-game nerves this time. I was feeling good. Confident. So why the hell am I suddenly vibrating?
“As for marriage,” she continues, glancing back at her clipboard, “that’s a possibility. But I’dneverbuy a Ferrari.” Those freckled lips pull into a perfect smile. That golden septum ring catches the light. And god, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“Alright it’s game time! Let’s go!” Coach calls, her voice cutting between us.
I want to reach for Darcy. I want to grab her by the collar and kiss her stupid. I want to tell her that since the day she barged into my life, everything’s changed, undeniably and irreversibly,for the better. I want to tell her I don’t care about Ferraris or the Sabertooths or all the kids she doesn’t want. I just want her.
I want to tell her I love her.
But whenQueen of the Nightstarts blaring through the arena speakers, and the entire team surges forward, I know it’s not the time.
Now isn’t about me.
It’s aboutus.About the team.
And dammit, I’m going to lead us tovictory.
I sprint as fast as I can in my skates, weaving my way to the front. Coach always likes me to step on the ice first. I never really understood why until now. I glance behind me briefly, looking at my team, giving them a sharp nod.
“Alright fuckers,” I grin. “Let’s do this.”
We flood onto the ice. I don’t let myself look at Darcy, even though I want to. I stay focused, chatting with the ref, rallying near the bench, keeping my head where it needs to be.
I just keep repeating it:
I deserve to be here.
I deserve to be here.
I deserve to be here.
By the time the lineup’s called and I glide into position for the face off, I’ve said it enough times that I believe it.
My fingers tighten around the multi-colored tape, a grin pulling at the corner of my lips as I square my shoulders. My eyes flick down, just for a second.
And that’s when I see it.
There, just below the grip, something catches my eyes: little black squiggles bleeding into the fiberglass.
I squint, tilting my head to get a better angle, which is when I realize:
These aren’t meaningless squiggles. They’re letters.Words.
Scrawled just beneath the handle tape, in unmistakably familiar handwriting are the words:
Mind the sun, Icarus.
A quiet laugh slips out of me, and I shake my head, glancing back up at Clay. They’re watching me, brows knitted, eyes blazing.
“What’s so funny?” they ask.
Before I can answer, the ref blows the whistle, and the puck drops.
My hands move before my brain even processes it, stick grappling messily for the puck. But Clay was distracted by my chuckling, their movements much messier than mine, and I’m able to wrestle it, darting toward the other end of the ice.
