Caleb stands up in the aisle, yelling some bullshit about the other team’s goalie, his voice cutting through everything, wanting to be the center of attention. I don’t bother looking up. Caleb is one of those guys who thinks volume equals personality. He’s a pain in my ass, but he’s a damn good shot.
I pull out my headphones and put them in, not even bothering with music at first. I just need the barrier. The noise of the team fades to a dull roar.
Almost without thinking, I open the tracker app. I watch the little dot that marks Madeline’s car as it moves along the highway behind our bus.
I finally start my music, but I barely notice it. I’m focused on the dot. Once we get there, we’ll drop our bags and head to the rink to start warming up for tonight’s game.
The Kingmakers Ice Crew only performs at home games. Madeline will be in the stands for this one.
The bus pulls into the rink’s lot, and I grab my bag, already scanning the parking lot for Georgia’s car. Nothing. They’re not here yet. She got to the hotel a little after us, but we quickly dropped our shit and got back on the bus. The hotel already had all our keys ready so that we could haul ass.
I follow the team inside, but my head’s not in it. I have played hockey for most of my life because it got me out of the house andit was a place to take my aggression out. Now, it’s getting in the way.
The locker room smells like every other rink—stale sweat and tape. I get dressed without thinking. Before heading to the ice, I check my phone. The tracker app says they’re five minutes away.
I hit the ice for warm-ups, but all I can do is check to see if she’s here yet.
“Locke!” Coach’s voice cuts across the rink. “Eyes front. She’ll be here.” He shakes his head at me, annoyed. I can’t blame him. I’m fucking annoying myself at this point.
I force my attention back to the puck. Then I see her.
Madeline walks down the steps with Georgia, and my chest tightens. But it’s not just her that is having that effect on me. It’s also what she’s wearing: a white T-shirt, hand-painted in black and gold. My number and name are on it.
She made that. For me. Seeing my name displayed on her makes me want to beat my chest in victory. Now everyone will know she’s mine. Not only the students from Kingmakers.
She spots me on the ice and tilts her head, smiling as she waves to me.
“Locke!” Coach says again. “Let’s go!”
I skate backward to the line. She takes her seat right behind our bench, close enough that I’ll hear her. Close enough to see that shirt every time I look up.
She’s all in. She’s really fucking all in.
The first period starts fast. We are flying around the rink today. I’m on my game, but the referees are making shit calls.
My eyes keep going back to the stands where my girl is. Madeline stands out under the lights, cheering every time I do anything. She’s louder than everyone else and doesn’t hold back.
“If you had another eye, you’d be a cyclops!” I hear her shout across the ice. “Hey, ref, does your wife know you’re fuckingus?!” Georgia turns to Madeline, her mouth hanging open. I can’t help but laugh a little.
“Locke!” Grant yells from the wing. “Focus!”
I pull my attention back to the game. The puck drops, and I win the face-off. We’re up by one when I feel someone watching.
Then I see him, number 14. Their center. He’s been doing it off and on all period, and now he’s smirking. He’s gunning for me.
“Pretty girl you’ve got,” he says as we line up for the next draw. “Shame she’s gonna watch you lose.”
I ignore him. He’s baiting me. I don’t want to give him what he wants, but he keeps at it. Every whistle, something new. “Did she make that shirt herself? Cute. I bet she’s really talented.” He skates close enough to whisper, and I let him.Get closer, mother fucker. “Don’t worry, I’ll cheer her up after you lose.”
My eyes catch Grant’s. He sighs and shakes his head but nods. He’s got my back. He always does. I’m starting to kind of like him.
The whistle blows at the next face-off, and the ref drops the puck. My gloves are off before I think. I grab 14’s jersey, pulling it over his head so his movement is restricted. I throw a few punches, knocking his helmet off in the process. He’s helpless with his arms locked down. My fist connects with his jaw, and a solid crack echoes. The crowd roars. He staggers, getting his bearings, and then comes back swinging. We go down in a tangle of fists and elbows, the ref’s whistle screaming.
I get one more shot in before they pull us apart. My knuckles are burning, adrenaline singing in my veins.
“You’re done, Locke!” the ref shouts, pointing to the penalty box. “Five for fighting!”
I skate off the ice, breathing hard.
