Raffi
The win doesn’t matter.
Okay, that’s a lie. It does matter. It actuallyreallymatters. I’ve been falling behind on the ice. My legs have been heavier, my headaches more frequent, and the puck hasn’t been going where it’s supposed to as often as it should.
No one’s said anything, but I feel it. Ifeelit. Everywhere.
In every missed pass, in every clink against the crossbar, in every training session where I slip behind by another fraction of a second.
I feel it.
But right now, it doesn’t matter. The W doesn’t matter. The goal and two assists I got don’t matter. The bubbling headache behind my eyes doesn’t matter.
What matters is the stunning woman sitting at the edge of the bench in the bar. She’s got thick, curly auburn waves rolling over her shoulders. I can’t see what color her eyes are from here, but they sure as hell are expressive.
When I scooch down the bench to sit next to her, her expression darkens. There’s definitely murder in those eyes.
I can’t for the life of me figure out who it is she wants to murder.
There’s a distinct lack of hockey colors on her person, but I’m pretty sure I can convince her to cheer for our team. I’m kind of charming.
Or so I’m told at least.
Perhaps if I’m really nice, I can convince her to let me buy her a drink.
Before I can make my move, a flicker of red in my periphery catches my eye, drawing my attention from the beautiful woman I want to kiss.
The tattoo. I grab the stranger’s forearm. He has a similar firecracker tattoo to me—there’s no date underneath it, but his ink is close enough to my own that he might know why I got it.
“Dude.” The guy moves to lift his fist until he clocks who I am. “Raffi Shaw. Great game.”
“Thanks.” My cheeks warm. I’m no more used to people knowing who I am in the bar now than I was in my freshman year. But I might be closer to knowing what the fuck this tattoo on my arm means.
“Your ink.” I jerk my chin at his forearm.
“Yeah? Cool, right?”
Nodding, I drag my hand over my face. “It’s great. Hey, did you get it for any reason?”
His brows bounce then crash into a frown. “Uh. No. Did you?” He points at mine.
With a shake of my head, my face gets hotter. “Nah, I just liked it the day I was in the tattoo parlor. I thought we might have gotten it together or something. You know, tattoo twinsies?”
“I wish.” He pats my chest. “Hit me up if you ever want to get some new ink though, yeah? I have a list of tattoos I want to get.”
It’s never going to happen. Having art on my body and no fucking clue as to why it’s there or what it means was enough to turn me off getting ink ever again. Much to Mom’s delight.
I thought about getting it removed, but if I did, and it means something really fucking important, and I don’t find out until later, I’ll be pissed.
So I live with the firecracker ink on my skin. A constant reminder that I have a very delicate relationship with my own brain. Forced retirement is only a concussion or two away.
The doctors have suggested it over the years, but it’s not going to happen. I’m not giving up the sport I love, that I need to play, just because Imightget hurt again at some point. I can’t spend my life living in fear of the outcome of something.
Mom’s already saving for tickets to the NHL. For real, she’s already started a savings account. NHL tickets aren’t cheap, and she’s so determined to watch me play she seems to forget that when I play for the National Hockey League, I’ll be able to give her complimentary tickets.
But that’s not the point for her. She wants to be able to hand over money to watch her son play on the ice for whatever team I manage to get signed to.
The idea of skating on NHL ice is fucking terrifying, but there’s always a glimmer of hopeful excitement in my chest when I think about it.
