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Everything.
It’s at least fifteen years old, faded enough that the green doesn’t match our current uniforms, and I’m pretty sure that’s Coach’s old COLLINS jersey.
I skate past again.
“Bishop.” A puck smacks my blade.
I look down, then across at Jax.
“You planning on joining us tonight?”
“I am joining you.”
“You’re sightseeing.”
“Fuck off.”
His gaze follows mine toward the seats. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Ah.”
I fire the puck at him. He catches it against his stick.
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” My assistant captain smiles as he skates away.
I roll my shoulders and turn back toward center ice.
Ignite is louder tonight than it was yesterday. Especially for a preseason game. Not a sellout, but Chicago-St. Louis always brings people out, and enough Archers’ colors are scattered through the lower bowl to make the rivalry obvious.
Cold air burns clean in my lungs. Fresh ice cuts hard and fast beneath my blades. Blades carve into the ice around me, pucks cracking against sticks and glass, sharp beneath the music and crowd noise.
This part is easy.
The noise.
The lights.
Thousands of people disappearing the second the puck drops. Across center ice, Beckett circles toward me.
He catches me looking toward the stands and taps his stick against mine as he passes.
“Quit staring at my sister.”
I grin and stare up behind him. “You jealous, D?”
He gives me the finger behind his glove. “You wish.”
I glance toward the seats one last time.
Coach is beside Mrs. B, wearing the expression of a man trying very hard not to evaluate every player on both teams.
Laney is between them. The Beckett family came to Chicago to watch both of us, just like they have a hundred times before.
Youth tournaments.
High school.
