I groan, both at her observation and the explosion of cinnamon sugar on my tongue. I take my time chewing, trying to decide what I’m going to tell her.
“A problem shared…” She’s said that phrase forever, though she rarely needs to finish her sentence.
I sigh. “She’s holding on to ideas from high school, about who I am, or rather who she thinks I am. I’m not sure I can get her past it.”
It’s Mom’s turn to sigh. “Cheating?”
“She was Molly’s best friend in high school. I know Girl Code dictates she needs to make a voodoo doll of me and stick pins in my eyes out of loyalty to her friend. But people change. I was kind of hoping she’d give me a chance to at least show her I’m not the guy she thinks I am.” I swallow. “And I don’t care what you and dad believe, I never cheated on that test paper.”
“I know you didn’t.” Mom’s eyes soften. “And if she doesn’t see the real you, then she isn’t the one for you.” She rubs my back with a splayed hand. “What’s for you won’t pass you, Justin. And if she passes you, maybe at least you’ll get a fictional happy ever after from your attempts at wooing her.”
I laugh and pick up a piece of bacon. “No one says woo anymore, Mom.”
“This mom does. And she has also believed you from the day you told her you didn’t cheat on your test.”
We both know Dad never believed me. Not then, and not now. No matter how much I proclaim my innocence, he’s just not interested. As though the accusation alone was proof enough of my guilt, and enough to condemn me.
Mom leaves me to finish off my breakfast and my edits. The words in my document from last night aren’t bad. In fact, I kind of like them. One good thing about being so painfully aware of my feelings on a cellular level is that when I need to bleed them onto my pages, I can, though it can be just as draining as feeling someone else’s emotions.
Rereading my work, I experience Savannah’s terror on the plane, and I laugh at her bursting out of the bathroom stall, seeing my cock on display. Even if I never publish the words I’m writing, I’m enjoying the process and the story is alive on my screen.
When breakfast is finished and my work is done, I spend a few minutes centering myself and getting ready for the game. I don’t have the bandwidth to let Savannah cloud my thoughts all day. I need to focus, bring myself into game-day-space and get ready to kick ass on the ice—not so I can impress her and her dad in the stands. Nope. I just don’t want to let my boys down. That in itself is motivation enough not to think of the fact she’s going to be there watching.
* * *
She’s not here.
I left tickets at will call for her and her dad, but it’s not her sitting next to Kev in the stands. He seems to have brought along one of his buddies, which wouldn’t usually bother me, but while I’ve spent the day trying to put her out of my head, I’d been looking forward to seeing her again.
We’re up by two—make that three—by the end of the first, and the guys are faring well on the ice despite my being distracted by the notable absence of my blond inspiration.
The UCR Raccoons are a force to be reckoned with this season and what’s more, everyone knows it.
Why didn’t she come?
I push the question aside and refocus on my team.
Ares skates out to meet Lincoln Scott as he maneuvers into position to take his shot. A gasp ripples around the crowd as everyone holds their breath, waiting for the lamp to light. When Ares does the splits and makes an impressive glove save that should have been close to impossible, the spectators groan, some boo, and Lincoln looks like our netminder just killed his puppy.
I don’t blame him, they’re now three-nil-down and Ares is in danger of doing that thing goalies do that we’re not allowed to talk or think about until the final buzzer. We still have a lot of play left, so I’m not counting my chickens. Or goals for that matter.
Despite his asshole attitude and playboy nature, Ares de la Peña is one of the best goaltenders I’ve ever seen play. Maybe the fact he moonlights as a stripper accounts for his flexibility between the pipes, but he’s also wicked talented. And he knows it. He shoots water in his mouth and over his face from the bottle resting on top of his net before taking up his position again.
I have to admit, I wasn’t sure what we were getting ourselves into when Coach signed him. But so far, other than having the reputation for fucking anything that moves, his on-ice performance has been beyond reproach. I’ve gone from apprehension at his joining our team, to hope for our success.
Maybe this is our year.
I glance down at the C on my chest. I worked damn hard to become captain of this team, and my pride warms me against the chill of the rink.
After the period break, the teams face off again, and there’s a shift in the mood. The Snow Pirates are frustrated, missing passes, and fumbling plays. Russell Stewart has been offside twice since the first whistle of the period blew.
As much as I love winning, playing against a team coming apart at the seams can be dangerous. The air changes, anticipation crackles against the surface of the ice.
Apollo de la Peña turns over the puck at center ice after picking Luca Hook’s pocket. Apollo is now on a one-on-two breakaway and dekes around their last defender standing before chipping the puck over Séb’s shoulder.
It’s a beaut of a blink-and-you’d-miss-it kind of goal, but instead of letting their heads drop, the Snow Pirates sink into their bad moods and get aggressive.
In the marrow of my bones I feel a fight brewing, so it’s no surprise when Russell Stewart and our de la enforcer, Artemis, drop their gloves. It’s not a short fight either—the guys are well matched and strangely alike. Both are stoic, calm, and patient, the anchors of their teams. The irony that our cool headed, calming influences are also our enforcers is not lost on me. Though it does mean that when they drop the gloves it’s for a good reason, and not just because they’re quick tempered.
