“How's it feeling today?” Lane asks, pressing his thumb into the muscle along my spine.
“Tight on the left side.”
“Same spot as Tuesday?”
“Yeah.”
He works on it while we talk. I ask about his parents. His dad had knee surgery a few weeks back, and Lane has been driving out to Jersey on his days off to help his mom around the house.
He shows me a photo of his dad standing up with a walker for the first time since the operation.
Lane finishes, and I get dressed and drive home. The midday light is coming through the living room windows. I close the blackout curtains in the bedroom, set my alarm, and lie down.
Right before I go under, my mind drifts to Jasmine. I hate that she’s now in my mind twenty-four-seven. What the fuck is wrong with me? Clearly, she wants us to be friends, and I know it’s the smart thing to do, but I can’t help how I feel.
I once read somewhere that your past lovers should remain past lovers. Smart advice. The kind of advice a rational person would follow. But rationality went out the window the second I saw Jasmine.
Madison Square Gardenat night is a different building. The lights are up, the music is pounding, and all the seats are filled. Tampa Bay is sitting third in the Eastern Conference and the pressure is tight for both our teams.
I'm in the tunnel, helmet on, stick taped, gloves flexed. Cole is beside me, and Blake is behind me. Liam is somewhere further back, doing whatever superstitious thing he does before every game that he won't tell anyone about.
The horn sounds and we hit the ice. The crowd noise rolls over us, and my body switches on. This is where my mind goes quiet. This is where the noise in my head goes away, and all that's left is the game.
First period is tight. Tampa is fast, and their forecheck is relentless. I log eight minutes in the first period alone, matching up against their top line every shift.
Their left winger tries to cut inside on me twice, and I close the gap and angle him to the boards both times. Their centerparks himself in front of our net, and I cross-check him in the lower back every time the ref isn't looking.
“Fuck off, Shaw,” he hisses after the third one.
“Move your feet, and I won't have to.”
“Touch me again, and I'll drop you.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re welcome to try.”
He doesn't try. He stays planted in front of the net, and I keep moving him out. By the end of the period, he's stopped talking and started flinching every time I line up behind him.
Between periods, I'm in the locker room, retaping my stick, listening to Mercer break down their neutral zone coverage. Then I pick up my water bottle and look at the TV screen mounted on the wall that shows a feed of the arena.
The camera pans across the lower bowl. It zooms in on Harper, Avery, Natalie, and Olivia with Maya on her lap.
Then it moves to Jasmine.
She's sitting between Harper and Avery, wearing a Renegades hoodie that's too big for her, and her hair is pulled back, and she's laughing.
God, she’s beautiful.
My parents are four rows behind her. Dad in his usual seat, Mom beside him, both in Renegades scarves.
Jasmine and my parents in the same section twenty feet apart. The two halves of my life separated by four rows of seats.
I put my water bottle down and go back to my stall.
Second period, I play the best twenty minutes of hockey I've played all season. I don't know why. I shut down Tampa's top line, block two shots, and make a stretch pass to Cole at the blue line that leads to a breakaway goal. The building erupts.
Third period, we pour it on. Liam scores on a power play with a wrist shot that beats the Tampa goalie clean. Jake adds an empty-netter with two minutes left. Final score 4-1.
After the game, Cole and I sit at the press table for the postgame. Cole handles most of it, talking about team structure and execution.
