It’s…the girls.
Fine. The women.
Luna waddling in, her arm looped through Bri’s. Kailey smiling serenely, her hand resting on her lightly curved belly, Faye smiling down at her.
And…Harper.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“You’re staring, bro.”
I rear back so suddenly I nearly go ass over tea kettle. I keep my feet—barely—then glare over at Sawyer.
Who’s busting up, nearly going down himself.
Asshole.
He smirks and rights his helmet before he skates away, following the guys over to where Luna and the others have gathered.
I hang back, watching as Aiden pops open the door and steps off the rink, bending to brush his lips over Luna’s. He straightens and grins at Bri, who’s no doubt said something snarky. Smitty’s right behind him, moving to stand next to Kailey, draping his arm around her shoulders and making her and Faye laugh. Gray’s stops beside his woman, staring down at her like the sun rises and sets on her smile.
And Harper…
I can tell she’s not really focused on the conversation. Though she seems to be smiling and laughing at all the right moments, her gaze is sweeping around the space, seemingly taking in something alien.
And maybe the rink is exactly that to her.
I grew up in places like this, have spent so much time in them that they oftentimes feel more like home than my actual homes. Not just the ice itself or the locker rooms or the training spaces or even the gym. But it’s the guys too.
The laughter and inside jokes. Working together to accomplish something.
Being frustrated and excited and angry and motivated, sometimes all at once.
And the rush of being on the ice, the cool air on my face, the sting of the puck hitting my stick and traveling up to my hands. The joy that comes from sinking a great shot or connecting a pass through seemingly impossible odds.
Battling on the boards. Crashing my fist into an asshole’s face (usually with the last name Ambrose). Skating my ass off to save a goal.
Hearing my name in the starting lineup.
The crowd roaring when we score…
A woman in the stands cheering just for me. A kid wearing a jersey with my number, holding her hand as he jumps up and down, shouting, “Dad!”
I freeze.
Where the fuck had that come from?
Of course, I know exactly where it came from.
It’s just…dumb as fuck.
“Ricky!” Smitty shouts and I groan, consider pretending I don’t hear him.
Impossible.
His fucking voice echoes through the rink, buzzing through the air molecules until it reaches my ears.
Sighing, I skate toward them.
