Page 62 of Puck Me Back to Life

Interesting.

Dante keeps talking. I keep answering. The city lights blur past the windows. Every now and then I catch Ash looking at me in the rearview mirror. The first few times I assume I'm imagining it.

Then it happens again.

And again.

Eventually I stop looking altogether.

Because every time our eyes meet, something uncomfortable happens in my stomach. And I'm starting to suspect I know exactly why.

The bar is exactly what I expected from Dante. Dark. Loud. Covered wall-to-wall in hockey memorabilia. Signed jerseys hang behind the bar. Old sticks are mounted above booths. Framed photographs cover nearly every available surface. Several televisions line the walls, each showing a different game, highlight reel, or sports panel arguing about something that will be forgotten by tomorrow morning.

The second I step through the door, my stomach tightens.

A few people glance up.

Nobody reacts.

Nobody points.

Nobody stares.

Still, my eyes move automatically.

Scanning.

Searching.

Looking for recognition.

Looking for the moment somebody's expression changes.

Looking for the moment someone remembers who I am.

The habit is so ingrained now that I barely notice myself doing it anymore.

“Relax,” Ash murmurs.

The word is quiet enough that only I hear it. A warm hand settles briefly against the small of my back.

The touch freezes me for half a second because it feels protective. Like I'm his.

Ash leans slightly closer. “I won't let anybody bother you.”

The statement is delivered with the same certainty he uses when discussing hockey strategy. As though fighting strangers in bars is a completely reasonable contingency plan. Before I can respond, the touch disappears.

The moment ends.

Ash keeps walking. I find myself watching him for a second longer than necessary. Something feels different tonight. Less playful. The realization follows me all the way to the booth.

Dante, meanwhile, seems completely oblivious. “Jimmy!”

He waves enthusiastically toward the bartender.

A heavily tattooed man behind the bar raises a hand. “You're alive.”

“Barely.”