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Then I’m moving down the hall, feeling the cool kiss of the arena’s icy air on my cheeks.
Colder as I approach the opening to the rink, clinging to my skin, soaking in through my jersey. Cool and damp and with the faint undertones of the propane they use to fuel the Zamboni that was just out here, smoothing the ice for me, making sure the surface is clear of snow and divots.
I hear the crunch of Frankie’s skates, the crack of his stick, the plink as a puck hits a post.
Another thud, this time the harder, more solid sound of it hitting the boards. And again, this time a higher pitch clang as it ricochets off the glass.
Fast, even for my awesome goalie coach, and I realize why when I clear the opening, when I see my former teammate, Rome, out on the ice, along with Josh and Will and Lucas. The three Musketeers and our wayward charge, lately traded across the bay to the Oakland Eagles.
Life throwing him a curveball, forcing him to start over and hating the process every step of the way.
Losing his family (though we’ll never let him go).
But…
I feel what he’s feeling.
Or felt, anyway.
Because now he’s thriving, making a name for himself as their newest captain (and love interest of the intrepid and more than a little scary owner of the Eagles’ daughter).
He’s also the first one to spot me, skating over, snagging a sip from a water bottle tucked onto the shelf of the bench, his eyes locking with mine. “You’re a mess,” he says softly.
“Well, it’s so lovely to see you too, Rome,” I return, going for light.
And having the feeling that I’m failing completely because his face gentles further, his voice goes even softer, and he settles an arm around my shoulders. “Fucking hell, Banana-rama.”
I pull it together.
Because I’m good at that.
“Have I told you how much I hate that nickname?” I mock grumble.
His mouth kicks up. “Have you forgotten that once a team assigns you a nickname, there’s nothing to be done but to take it?”
Words I’ve said a hundred, if not a thousand times before.
“Well, fine, my little Romeo.”
He winces, but to his credit, doesn’t complain. Just hitches his head toward the ice. “So, do you want to get some shots in? Or not?”
“Is my name not Brit Plantain Barie?” I tease.
Then I remember.
I’m not Brit Plantain Barie any longer.
I’m just…Brit Plantain.
Fifteen
Stefan
She still moves like lightning, sliding across the crease in a flash of movement, stopping pucks she shouldn’t be able to stop, especially considering how old she is, how hurt she’d been a year ago, how?—
For all intents and purposes, her career should be over.
For another player, it likely would be.
