“You know my mystery messaging guy?” I shrug, letting her fill in the gaps.
She gasps. “No!”
“Yes!”
“And they met on Halloween, and she lost her shoe dressed as Cinderella!” Faye pipes in.
“No!” Cami squeals.
“And he was dressed as Prince Charming,” Faye decides to add.
I cradle my face in my arms, trying to limit my embarrassment.
“What are the odds!” Cami says.
“Very slim,” I mumble underneath my arm cocoon.
The two of them continue to gossip and laugh at my expense until the period ends, and we get inundated once again with hungry fans.
When there are only five minutes left in the game, Faye nudges my shoulder. “Why don’t you watch the last few minutes?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine here.” I hug my arms over my chest.
“Humor me,” she says, as she nods towards the stands. “Let’s see how he does with eyes on him.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
On cue, the crowd collectively groans, and I glance up to the big screen where there’s a replay of Dallas tripping over thin air and collapsing on the ground. Shit. Maybe I should watch, but before I make a final decision, he’s skating off the ice, head hung low.
Fans start to exit in large packs, many female ones too, despite there being some time left on the clock.
* * *
I’m one of the few people left at the rink, mainly just Harry and Faye flirting near the pro shop, refusing to leave before I do. All the fans, players, and coaches are long gone.
With a black trash bag in hand, I saunter into the men’s locker room for a final check.
I trip over my feet when my gaze lands on those familiar chestnut-brown eyes. Dallas is sitting on the bench, his broad shoulders hunched over, still half-dressed in his equipment.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak out. “I thought everyone had left by now.”
“Did everyone leave?” His eyes are wide and hopeful.
“Yeah. It’s empty here.”
“Outside, too?”
“Oh. I don’t know…” I trail off, because I have no idea. “Do you want me to check?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He sinks his head into his hands. “Can I stay here?”
“Sorry, no,” I hesitate before bending down to sit beside him.
The scent of sweat and gear is strong, but I ignore it, or try to.
“Sorry, I should’ve…” He waves to himself, maybe referencing his odor. Is he a mind reader?
“I don’t mind.” It’s the truth. I’ve lived in ice rinks since birth, and the scent is second nature to me now. Plus, it’s not him that smells but merely the room itself.
