Page 30 of Playing for Keeps

I stirred my drink and let the cream melt. “So it’s how people connect?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Families plan their weekends around it and kids dream about it. For a lot of people, it’s where they made their best memories, like skating with their dad or winning a big game in high school. Even if you never touch the ice, you still live with it. It’s kind of stitched into the country.”

“And you?” I asked. “Is it that way for you, too?”

His fingers tightened once around his coffee cup before he answered. “For me it started out as a way to cope. But it turned into more than that. It’s the one place I always knew who I was. Things make sense on the ice. There’s a puck, a net and a job to do. If you mess up, you fix it. It’s as simple as that.”

His tone made me not want to ask more questions. I just nodded slowly. “I think I understand. It still sounds like madness to me, though.”

“Madness,” he agreed, leaning forward again, “but the kind Canadians love.”

I raised my fork, pointing it at him. “You’re making it sound like a religion.”

“It kind of is,” he said, grinning. “Families are born into it. You either love the game, or you have to love it because everyone around you won’t shut up about it.”

I laughed, then tilted my head. “And you? Do you often have to stick up for yourself?”

The look he gave me then was both wry and dodging. “Depends on the day.”

Then the grin returned, and he leaned in a little closer. “It would be easier to show you. Tomorrow night. We’ve got a home game. Grace is coming. I’ll get you a seat.”

“Straight to baptism by ice?” I asked.

“You’ll love it,” he said confidently.

I glanced at the cake, then back at him. “All right. Prove it.”

The arena was alive. That’s the only word for it. It seeped into your bones, a roar rising from the soles of your feet. Lights were blazing, fans in jerseys yelled themselves hoarse, and the air was thick with popcorn and the faint smell of ice.

Grace waved when I found my seat. “Emma! I’m so glad you could make it.” She looked cosy and right at home. Next to her was a woman who radiated sharp edges and confidence.

“This is my friend Bridget,” Grace said. “Old roommate.”

Bridget’s smile was precise, her handshake firm. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said, putting on a polite smile.

Then the players hit the ice, and there he was: Max. He was easy to spot, even in armour, and with a helmet on. Fast, solid, and able to read the play like it was already written. The crowd thundered one word over and over: Finn, Finn, Finn. Or at least, it was the only word I paid attention to. I couldn’t help but smile. It was intoxicating to see him like that, completely in his element.

The game moved forward quickly. The puck flew, bodies crashed, and the crowd gasped and cheered. Max was everywhere, blocking, guarding, anticipating. He took a hit, shook it off, and kept moving. His name rang out from the stands again.

“See?” Grace shouted over the noise. “He’s a machine.”

Bridget smirked. “A machine with a reputation.” Her gaze lingered on him a second longer than necessary before she looked away.

I ignored her, keeping my eyes on the ice.

And then Max’s team scored. The crowd went wild, and before I knew it, I was on my feet, clapping and cheering like everyone else.

When I sat back down, Bridget leaned in closer, her voice just loud enough for me to hear. “He doesn’t do serious, you know. Famous for his flings. Trust me, I would know.”

I kept my gaze on Max, who was crouched down and locked in. “Funny,” I said, light, “he seems very serious about this.”

Grace choked on a laugh.

The game raged on. Bridget tried again, grumbling something about “his type.” I didn’t pay any attention to it, just let it become background noise. It couldn’t touch the rhythm of the ice, the roar of the crowd, or the sight of Max alive and unguarded out there.

By the end of the game, my throat hurt from cheering. His team had won. The fans roared his name again, and Max raised his stick with a big, happy grin.