She circles the air in front of her forehead and points at me with a smirk. “You look like you’ve got some bruising forming.”
“I hate you,” I scoff, mindlessly reaching up to my sore face.
She giggles as the doors seal shut.
“Fuck,” I breathe out, feeling …everything.
The timing of the universe to have us come together during the most important moments in our lives is almost cruel. But it doesn’t take away any of the truth that I am falling so hard and fast for Shay. I don’t think I can stop it, even if I wanted to. Earning her love is gradually becoming just as important, if not more, as winning the Cup.
My mind is running rampant the entire way home, thoughts of her carving a permanent pathway in my brain.
Usually, I crash after a night practice like tonight, but I can’t seem to shut my mind off, no matter how hard I try. Falling asleep has never been my problem. Until now.
“Ugh,” I audibly groan, mindlessly reaching over and grabbing my charging phone off of the nightstand.
I don’t think I’m going to fall asleep anytime soon.
Swiping up on the screen, I open Instagram and gravitate toward the same things I always check—my notifications, my stories, and my tags.
My recent post—a carousel of images from away-game travel, mixed with professional photos from one of our team photographers—is performing great. The comments are full of praise, which immediately boosts my confidence. The imposter syndrome is real some days, but knowing that everyone else thinks I’m doing good is an instant fix.
In the last few hours alone, I’ve been tagged in over fifty posts. Some are random bot accounts, tagging as many people as they can. Some are hockey pages, dedicating everything to the playoffs right now. And some are fan accounts or good ol’ fans sharing about our recent win and our upcoming one.
After reading my fill of ego-boosting love, I go back to my notifications and refresh. My heart jumps into my throat when I see Shay’s name pop up. I fly up in bed, rolling over onto my elbows as I read it again and again to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Shay Rooney liked your post.
Oh my God, what a flirt. If she wanted to ask me out, she could have just called.
I click on her profile, finding a new post that I immediately tap. It’s pictures of her life as of late. There are photos of the city, of her cute dog that I now know is named Kyle, a gigantic stackof packaged sticky notes, and a few selfies—which I, of course, spend a little extra time studying.
Between playoffs and the whirlwind that is being in her orbit, I forgot about the sticky notes I saw in her hotel. I’ve heard of people doing positive notes before. I assume she’s probably doing a similar thing.
Everyone has their own shit they’re working through, and everyone has their own way of navigating it. No two people’s life experience or healing journey is exactly the same. If buying enough sticky notes to keep those businesses afloat helps her, then that’s great.
Wait, I think I might have a pack somewhere.
I’m flying out of bed before I can blink, strolling out of my bedroom and into my kitchen to the junk drawer that is a catch-all for things like that.
Ruffling through the egregious amount of pens, tools, and miscellaneous things, I spot them—a scuffed, poorly cared-for stack of orange sticky notes. I lift them out of the drawer like they’re made of gold, my smile lifting my cheeks.
Let’s give this a go. If she likes it, maybe I will too.
Grabbing a Sharpie before slamming the drawer closed, I walk to my kitchen island and lean over the top of it, rocking the marker back and forth between my fingers.
What the hell am I supposed to write?
Hers were a mix of affirmations and backhanded positivity. That kind of sums her up. I chuckle at the thought. She’d probably slap me with a smile on her face if she heard that. But that might prove my point even more.
Uncapping the marker, I take a breath, sighing. “Fuck it.”
If I hate it, I can just do a different one. No point in overthinking this all night.
I am good.
But not at this …
I peel it away, slap it on the counter, and glance back at the blank one.
