My kid doesn’t know him, he doesn’t know my kid. If he wants to throw himself around the ice and smush his face into inanimate objects at high speed, that’s his business, right?
Right.
So why the fuck is raw rage consuming my entire being? Why do I want to shake him—albeit gently so I don’t rattle his brain around in his skull—until he sees sense?
What business is it of mine whether he skates and puts himself in harm’s way or not?
None of this is my circus, and Raffi Shaw is most certainly not my monkey.
A not-so-tiny voice at the back of my mind calls me a liar. He might not be my monkey, but he could be. I want him to be. But the nausea inducing fear engulfing my nervous system right now isn’t worth it.
I might pass out.
Eloise silently slips her hand into mine. I guess I look as bad as I feel. My hand is clammy in hers, and there’s a bead of sweat trickling down my temple.
Why is this so damn stressful?
She’s such a good friend. She hasn’t pressed me for information. She knows something’s there between Raffi and me, but she hasn’t prodded. It’s one of the things I love about my bestie—her ability to sense when I need some space to handle my own shit. I’ll tell her when I’m ready.
All these guys take this risk every time they step out onto the ice. It’s part of the job, just like he said. No amount of telling myself I’m being unreasonable and need to calm down is helping. As far as I’m concerned, the father of my child—who I just got back—is going to come out onto the ice, get hit, and die right in front of me. Completing our tragedy.
Fuck.
This isn’t worth it.
When I stand, everyone around me stands too. The team is skating out onto the ice for warm up, and as soon as his skate touches the ice, his eyes find mine like magnets drawn together.
There’s a flurry in my chest as my breath catches. The pre-game intensity brewing in his gaze is hot. That’s a lie—it’s super-hot.
Mercifully, he doesn’t skate over to me or make a scene. I don’t care how delicate his brain is, but if he does something dumb, or calls attention to me in anyway, I’ll ram his stick up his ass and turn him into a fucking flag.
It’s too hot. Taking my eyes off the ice, I contemplate trying to pull this jersey off. Eloise borrowed it from someone for me at the last minute. As soon as I do, though, I’ll start to shiver because I’m in a goddamn ice rink.
I’d love to say I pay attention to the warmups, but I don’t. I focus on a space in the distance and work on getting my shit together. This might be my first panic attack. Which is so not cool considering I’m surrounded by thousands of people.
So not cool.
After warmups but before the game, Eloise heads to the bathroom. While she’s gone, a hot guy in a suit comes scooching down the row toward me with a bag in his hand.
Nope.
My gut tells me he’s coming right to me, and whatever the fuck is in that bag can fuck aaaaaaall the way off.
He kinda half-squats next to me, ignoring the ruckus a few kids are making behind us. Guess he’s one of the players. “My buddy tells me you’re wearing the wrong name on your shoulders.”
Oh, does he indeed?
He snorts. “Told me you’d eye roll when I said it too.”
Of course he did.
He places the bag on my lap. “How about you give the jersey with my name on it”—he jerks his chin at the shirt I’m wearing—“to your friend here.” He winks at Penelope next to me, and she turns the color of the sun. “She needs to replace that dish rag she’s wearing with a good team.”
Once again, she is wearing the shirt of the opposing team. Last time I saw her she wore a Snow Pirates shirt, and this time she’s got a Flint Flame’s shirt draped on her. My dude here has a point—she sticks out like a sore thumb.
“Tate.” He flashes a blinding grin at the girl to my left.
“Penelope.” She takes his outstretched hand and shakes it.
