My heart stutters. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d noticed my weekly disappearances. “I’m not obsessed with anything.”
“You go there every week like it’s church.”
I guzzle my water, mind racing for a believable lie. Nothing comes.
“Who is it?” Rigsy’s voice drops to a dramatic whisper. “A bartender?”
This is it—the perfect moment to come out. To just say, “Actually, it’s a him, and his name is Forest, and he has a beard that makes me want to cry with happiness.”
But I don’t do it. “Maybe,” I say. Anyone can tend bar, so it’s a safe cover. “And there’s a reason I go to the bar alone. I don’t want the rest of you cutting in on my action.”
As if.
He hoots with laughter. “I see how it is. Must be something special if you’re willing to almost miss the bus.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Special.”
“So let’s talk about my prize,” he says, smacking his gloves together and mercifully changing the subject. “Breakfast for two weeks. I want those fancy egg sandwiches from that place by the rink. Not gas-station crap.”
“Whatever you want, Rigsy.”
We board the bus to go to lunch, and I check my phone again.
Nothing. Forest is probably working, or buying groceries, or doing a hundred other things that hot, interesting guys do the day after a hookup. He’s not obsessing like me.
Fuck it. I have to say something. I have to shoot my shot. I pull up our texts.
Beck
Hey, I’m in Abbotsford BC, which is the raspberry capital of Canada!
Just a random fact I thought you should have in your bartender arsenal. For trivia night.
Then I immediately add:
This is Beck btw. The goalie who stole your peanut butter. Not a random berry enthusiast.
God, I’m bad at this.
I just wanted to say hi, and to tell you I can’t stop thinking about last night. It’s not hurting my game for some reason. Made like 40 saves in practice today. Coach only yelled at me twice. Personal best.
And, yup, my whole screen is full of text. Ugh. I lock my phone and put it in the bottom of my gym bag, so I won’t be tempted to keep staring at it.
The next morning, there’s still no response. And then Coach confirms it—I’m starting in goal tonight. My first start in four games.
So I add something to the text chain.
Starting in net tonight. Thinking about changing my pregame ritual from listening to Depeche Mode to thinking about you tying me up. For scientific purposes. To see if it improves my save percentage.
I send it and immediately regret it. Too much? Definitely too much.
But then I think, screw it. If he’s already pulling away, what do I have to lose?
The arena fills up slowly during warmups. I’m tracking pucks, feeling the ice under my skates. My phone is locked away in my stall, probably still showing zero notifications.
Right before the puck drops, I close my eyes in the crease. Just pretend you’re back at that high school rink. Playing for the Stickhandlers. Playing for Forest. He needs you to shut the Plague down again.
Our opponent has black jerseys, actually. Just like the Plague did. See? It’s the same.
