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“Of course he did.” Quinn laughs. “He adores you. I feel like we’ve known you forever, Tristan. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet before now, but we thought we should give the newlyweds some space.”
It’s my turn to blush.
“He doesn’t shut up about you.” Erik adds. “Tristan is so smart. She graduated top of her class with a dual degree while working full time. Her soul is bright like a rainbow but her favorite color is a deep indigo. She wears fuzzy bunny slippers and giant socks at home but can run in stilettos. She loves scrambled eggs but not omelets. She’s smart, she’s generous, she loves harder than anyone he’s ever met. She’s the only one who can keep the team in line. To be honest, I’m half surprised you’re a real person and not a figment of his imagination. I thought for sure no one was that cool.”
Quinn narrows her eyes at him.
“Except for you, baby.” He loops his arm over her shoulder, pulling her back against his chest.
“He said you were gorgeous, too,” Quinn says. “And you make the best pancakes. We stock chai tea at our house and oat milk if you ever want to come over.” She winks and I can’t help but laugh.
Warmth is flooding my veins. I’m hot. Burning up here in this plastic seat and oversized jersey. Because he didn’t tell them about our fake marriage, he told them aboutme.He knowsme.What did Erik say to his fiancée? A piece of paper doesn’t matter. Not when we belong to each other?
That resonates deep in the dark untrusting pit of my soul. It doesn’t matter if we got married or not. It doesn’t matter because I’m his. And I think he’s mine.
“It’s working,” I say and Erik grins.
“Then the trouble was worth it. Especially if he can play the rest of the game like that.” Erik nods at the ice, and Quinn and I turn our attention to the game in time to see Vic pull his stick back and slam the puck into the back of the net. The buzzer blares through the arena, the red light behind the net blinding as Vic pumps his fist into the air. He heads to the bench for a shift change and our eyes meet as he steps off the ice.
I blow him a kiss and he lifts a gloved hand to catch it out of the air and press it against the C embroidered on his chest.
I’m a goner. I don’t think I can even pretend to be mad anymore. I just want to wrap my arms around him. I want to fold myself into the solid wall of his chest and burrow in for eternity. I want him to come back so Hela has someone else to stalk through the apartment. I’m sick of drinking coffee in the morning because I made it for him by mistake and don’t want to pour it down the drain. I’ve only done that once. He’s only been gone a day, and I’m over it.
Coach Noris puts a hand on Vic’s shoulder and he turns away from me, smile dropping as the coach says something into his ear. I can’t make out the words, but the facial expression tells me it isn’t anything pleasant.
“Tell me about the trouble,” I say to Erik.
Erik is watching his twin get a lecture, too, Vic nodding even as his eyes follow the moving puck on the ice.
“He deliberately drew a penalty,” Erik says. “He put the team at a disadvantage.”
“He’s tossed me a puck before.” I say. Vic settles into the bench, tuning to meet my eyes before he grabs a drink of water.
“Sending the puck out of play is considered a delay of game. There are situations where it’s unavoidable, or the penalty is worth the chance to regroup, but showing off to one’s wife doesn’t count as either of those. Not to the coaching staff or the team or anyone in the NHL.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask. The ticket was enough. I was already here. He’d already won this round. But I already know.
Vic thinks I’m worth it.
“I’m guessing he knew the Arctic’s penalty kill was stronger than Toronto’s power play,” Erik says, which is a good point. “And that goal went a long way to helping him out.”
“You know why he did it.” Quinn smiles. “You’re his good luck charm.”
I am. I will be.
I can make this easier on him. On us. It takes less than a minute to pull up Chris’s contact information and send off a quick text. I slip the phone away before I get a response, but twenty minutes later after Vic’s second goal of the night, my video plays across the Jumbotron and the whole arena sees my husband say that tossing me the puck is his lucky charm. He pauses his slow circuit of the ice to point first up at the screen and then at me, and the crowd goes wild. Quinn and Erik scream louder than almost anyone else.
My heart beats against the cage of my ribs, my blood fizzing in my veins like champagne, popping each time Vic’s eyes meet mine.
The buzz of my phone draws my attention as both teams set up for another face-off. And there, in writing so I can see it again and again and again, is a message from Chris.
“Great call on the video. Let’s talk next week about how to incorporate more of your ideas into actual game time.”
This is it. The break that I hoped for. A grin splits my face and still I tuck my phone away without answering, because Vic is streaking over the boards and back into play, and there’s nothing I’d rather turn my focus to than this moment. Than him.
The game is blowout, Ólaffson blocking every single shot that comes his way. Erik says he’s “standing on his head” and it’s an appropriate description. I didn’t even know people could bend the way the Icelander does. Robbie Oakes puts up two goals and Spags scores on the power play. By the end of the third period, Erik tells me and Quinn that the Arctic is playing keep-away, not even trying to up the score anymore. Every time Vic leaves the ice or passes the bench, we lock eyes and he smiles.
I am yours and you are mine.
