Knew it began with a P.
“Not my shirt to hand over I’m afraid, lover boy.”
He shrugs. “Did my part. Got the shirt to you. What you do with it is up to you.”
It’s my turn to grin. “Tell yourbuddyit’ll make great kindling for the fire pit in my back yard after the game.”
His face falls. “That’s cold. Ice cold.”
“I’m a complex woman.”
“I’ll say.” He gets up and leaves, casting one last hesitant look back in my direction as Eloise returns to her seat. I cram the bag between my feet, willing her with the strength of my eyes not to ask.
I don’t want to support the fact Raffi is playing hockey by wearing it. But I also kinda hope the shirt smells like him so when I get home I can roll around in it and pretend I’m snuggling him now that I don’t have to hate him for leaving me a barefoot and pregnant freshman.
“We’re going to have to talk about it all at some point, you know.”
“Not yet.”
CHAPTER 19
Raffi
It’s nil-nil here in the second in Cedar Rapids. With Tate injured in the stands, there’s a chance for one of our rookies, Angel Ferrara, to get a shot in but the Flame’s goaltender is quick off his line and closes the door. Begrudgingly, I concede it’s a nice save. Not only is it a great save, but he’s able to hold onto the rebound despite both of us chipping at him to get it free.
After the line change, Apollo controls the puck, sending it back to the blue line for Jackson Gilbert, who skates it back down into the circle, tipping it over to Apollo who tries to create space in front of the crease.
The Flame’s goaltender’s back door is wide open, and none of the Raccoons can ram it home. Apollo picks it up and feeds it out to Scott Raine close to the blue line, but the netminder smacks it away into the corner.
Ferrara sends the puck down the wall to me. I have options. Quick assessment and I send it back to Angel. Apollo’s on the far side, Ferrara heads down ice, gets it to Apollo, there’s a tip in front, two tips, and gets it back to me. As I passit back to Ferrara, my calf muscles burn under the weight of the second period. Ferrara looks for a backdoor play, takes the shot, and puts the biscuit in the basket.
The crowd goes wild. Well, almost all of them. There’s one redhead who seems to be chewing on her thumbnail so much I’d be surprised if there’s a thumb left by the end of the game.
Did something happen? Why is she so anxious? And why the hell is she wearing Tate’s shirt? She might not be mine, but she sure as hell isn’t his either. Not sure what it is, but seeing a girl you like wear another man’s number does something to a guy.
Part of me wants to hop the goddamn plexiglass and make her change her shirt right here and now. It wouldn’t end well for me, but fuck is it tempting as hell.
Two big saves from Ares has the crowd on their feet yet again, solid, high quality catches. The guy’s a fucking wall. Morris from the Flames strolls almost nonchalantly into the zone but is robbed by the de la Peña between the pipes once again. Ares is bailing out our D across the board right now and they really need to work on tightening up our defense.
On our next shift, Ferrara falls on his ass, his legs going out from under him. He recovers quickly, but the Flames picked his pocket and snagged possession. One of the Flames gets a shot off, and there’s a scramble in front of the net but it’s cleared out by Raine.
The tide is turning against us. The Flames are picking up momentum and with each play we seem shakier. On our feet, on the blue line, the only thing holding us up right now is Ares between the pipes.
Scott’s on his knees. That was a big block kneeling on the ice and from the wince on his face it hurt like hell. A turnover at center ice brings possession back to us, and we aren’t fucking it up. Flanking Ferrara as he skates to the goal, I coverhis wing. He passes it to me before getting in closer to the net to find a better position.
Back to Ferrara, Apollo now joins us in front of the crease. We’re chipping at the puck, but it feels like it’s not actually going anywhere. I try to toe-drag it around and break away but there’s not enough gas in the tank to make it happen.
My limbs are like lead.
A stupid ricochet from the back wall misses the Flame’s stick and meets mine. Stepping out in front of the net, I’ve got nothing but time. The goaltender’s on his face, their defenders are marked and pushing my teammates, and if I miss this shot I’ll be laughed off the ice.
The puck sails easily into the net. It’s a goal anyone could have made, but the stars aligned to make it mine. I search the club for my redheaded firecracker, but her seat’s empty.
She’s gone.
The rest of the game happens to me, around me. I’m not an active part of it, despite not missing a shift and chalking up another assist, my mind is elsewhere.
Is Victoria okay? Did something happen to Wyatt that she had to leave? Is he okay? Should I call her? At least text, right? I mean, offer my help if something happened to him? It’s the least I can do.
