She opens the door for me, and I stroll into the box, which has a few people I don’t know talking at a high table. But they kindly smile before resuming their conversation, and I find a spot along the wall facing the ice, setting my stuff down on the narrow table and sliding into the tall seat.
A forceful and loud exhale whistles between my lips. “Okay.”
The rink is empty, but to be fair, I’m here before warm-ups, but not by much. A minute later, the announcer welcomes the Mavericks, and I hold my breath as my friends and teammates burst onto the ice.
My hands clench, nails digging in, as sticks slap the ground and pucks bounce into the boards and glass. I’ve been listening to these exact sounds at the Nighthawks practices and games. It’s the same damn thing, but I’m having a much harder time sitting through this than I have for any of the Nighthawks ones.
But that’s because I know I shouldn’t be in this box, watching the game. I should be there, between the pipes, wearing the purple jersey, tearing up the ice in the crease. I should be cracking jokes with my girls, getting excited for the clock to run out and the game to begin.
Someone sits beside me, and a few others join to their left, but I pay them no attention as they mingle.
I know the goalie who replaced me. I actually played with her for a couple of years when we were younger. She’s great. A hard worker, quick learner, witty. The Mavericks are lucky to have her, and I wish her the best. But I also wish me the best, and knowing I’ll never get to skate out with my team, be on that ice in these moments … it guts me completely.
I don’t how I’ll ever accept that fully, and maybe I won’t. Maybe this hollow feeling in my chest will always be there, haunting me.
“Doing okay?” someone whispers beside me, and my body locks up.
Who the hell does this person think they are? Am I obviously struggling? Shit, I’d better fix my face before it ends up on the front of every hockey post tonight or tomorrow. I can practically see it now.
Shay Rooney, bitter at Mavericks game.
Shay’s rooting for old team’s opponent.
They love to twist the truth into agoodstory. I won’t give them another one.
“Shay?” the same deep voice whispers again.
I snap out of my stupor, turning my head to find someone I certainly didn’t expect to see here.
Matt’s sitting next to me, elbows bent and hands clasped under his chin. His profile strikes me, sharp, stoic, and beautiful. The backward baseball cap with his name embroidered alongthe edge. The sweatshirt pulled taut across his shoulders. It’s honestly disarming how attractive he is.
Shay, nope, we are not doing that.
A few guys are bickering on the other side of him, and I quickly recognize them, amazed that I went this long since their arrival without realizing who was sitting next to me. Matt, Cam, Alec, Reed, Brett, and Jensen fill the chairs to my left.
I can tell Matt’s trying to play it cool, like he’s not giving me his full attention. His eyes are on the ice below, his body forward, but I can feel his gaze on me completely.
Something gently bumps my knee under the table—his leg.
Say something, you idiot.
Whispering, I say, “I’m fine.”
His eyes shift to the side, his face saying everything his mouth isn’t. He doesn’t believe me one bit. “Really?”
“Yeah.Totally,” I murmur.
He shifts his fist to his left cheek, his mouth angled toward me. “You’re a terrible liar.”
A quip forms on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t manage to get a word out, other than the truth. “I’ll be fine.”
Then he says the most perfect words. “I’m right here.”
Which is sweet and thoughtful and kind. And stupid because I’m his coach and he’s my player and that’s it. Nodding gently, I watch the players leave the ice, and the Zamboni comes out to resurface it for the game.
I should tell him to talk with his friends, to ignore me. But I can’t. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s my rock here right now. My safety net to lean on.
“Thank you,” I whisper, bumping his leg back softly.
