I tip my head back, scanning the rows that rise around me in a steep bowl of purple and gold. Thousands of them. They're filling fast, with fans dressed in jackets and scarves and foam fingers, all of them beginning to populate the lower sections like a tide of passion rolling in.
It's a lot to sit up here tonight, alone, even if only for now.
I've looked up into these stands more times than I can count. After every goal, every assist, every fight won or shift survived.
My entire life, I've looked up, scanning the faces, searching for…
What?
My parents, maybe. In the beginning.
Before I learned that they'd watch the highlights on TV and send a text after. Before I stopped expecting them to show up and started expecting the silence instead.
After that, I'd look up and just… look. At the couples sitting together in their seats. The dads with kids on their shoulders. The girlfriends in jerseys too big for them, screaming so hard their voices cracked.
I always wondered what it felt like to have someonethere.
Someone who isn't a sponsor. Not a social media team or a casual hookup who wanted the VIP experience and a story to tell their friends when I eventually stopped writing back.
I've always searched for someone who was there forme.
Just me.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the two empty seats beside me.
They're prime real estate inside this arena. Behind the home bench, close enough to hear the coaches barking as the sticks crack and the players swear at each other in a way only professionals truly understand.
When the glass shakes from a hit and you're this close to the action, youfeelit in your spine.
My knee bounces harder as more seats fill around me.
Where are they?
I check my phone. Nothing. I look toward the main entrance tunnel at the top of the section. Fans are streaming in now, a river of purple and gold scarves, Snow Leopards jerseys and face paint, the bass of the pre-game playlist thumping through the floor beneath my sneakers.
The scent of arena food drifts down from the concourse. Buttered popcorn and hot dogs mixing with spilled beer. The lights are flashing as the DJ works the crowd from his booth. Somewhere above me, Prowl the mascot is doing backflips on the mezzanine railing while a group of kids cheer for our favorite mascot.
Yep. This is my world.
And in about ten minutes, Zoey Morrison is going to walk into it.
My stomach does something that has no business happening to a professional athlete who once scored a hat trick in the Western Conference Finals without breaking a sweat.
Calm down, Lane. It's just a hockey game.
Then five minutes later, right at the top of the section, framed by the tunnel entrance and backlit by the purple glow of the concourse lights, Zoey appears.
I stand upright, smiling broadly as Zoey places one hand on Morgan's shoulder, scanning the rows like she's navigating a foreign country.
She's wearing jeans and a purple sweater that makes her look so soft I want to bury my face in it. Her hair is down tonight, falling past her shoulders in dark waves, and all I can think about is what it would feel like between my fingers. Against my pillow. Spread across my chest at two in the morning while she sleeps and I stare at the ceiling wondering how I got this lucky.
Get it together, Lane.
And Morgan—
Morgan isalreadygone.
Her mouth is hanging open so wide I can see it from thirty rows away. She's gripping Zoey's arm with both hands, her head swiveling in every direction like she's trying to absorb the entire arena through her eyeballs.
