Page 77 of Worth the Shot

“There are only three Muskateers,” I remind him.

“Yeah I know, but our Muskateers have four,” he says, all confidence and the IQ of a nine year old.

“Aww, Wes,” I coo, hand to my heart. “You worried you’ll chip your nail polish with those gloves on?”

He whips the towel at me as he wipes his skate blades. “Fuck off! I’ve been through this before. That’s how I ended up settling for you three clowns.”

“I heard that, Thomps!” Miles yells from the showers, voice echoing off tile. Still haven’t figured out why he needs a shower before games, but we don’t question rituals around here.

Wes winces. “Great. Now I’m gonna be in trouble.”

We both laugh as we suit up for warm-ups. We chirp each other and act like everything is normal, but underneath it? My pulse is still pounding. My chest physically hurts with each breath I take because now, in this very moment, I have so many things I’m terrified of losing and there isn’t one I’m ready to let go of. Not this city, not my teammates, and especially not her.

I suit up faster than usual, every movement muscle memory. I tape my stick, tie my skates tight enough to cut off circulation and pull on my jersey.

Delaney’s words pop into my head: Believe in yourself, because everyone else already does. Hearing her voice in my head steadies something in me that still feels unsure.

Wes slaps my back on our way down the tunnel. “You ready, lover boy?”

“Eat shit,” I say automatically.

Miles leans in. “He means yes.”

We skate out for warm ups and the roar that hits me nearly knocks the wind out of my lungs. Fans stand. Cheer. Some hold signs with my number, my name. One says WE LOVE 22 with a red heart next to it. My throat tightens immediately. I shove down the negative thoughts screaming in my head and let the warm-up playlist take over until it’s all I can hear.

I try to stop the panicking from creeping in as I take shots from the hash marks and the top of the circle, but they almost all miss. Nothing gets past Khilo, some hit the post and I even fan on a few of them.

When warm ups end, the guys head back to the dressing room, but Coach stops me with one hand on my elbow.

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation.

“You hesitating on anything mentally?”

“No.” Maybe. But he doesn’t need to know that my brain is running a mile a minute worried about where I might be playing hockey next week.

He studies me one last time. “Okay, if you say so.”

I just nod, faking a smile that feels tight and practiced.

As puck drop approaches, the nerves in my chest are buzzing again like a live wire. I sit in my stall, helmet in hand, bouncing my knee like I’m trying to shake out a ghost.

The guys chirp, laugh, shove each other around me, but the noise is distant. Everything sounds fuzzy, like I’m underwater. Then, my phone buzzes in my bag. I shouldn’t check it this close to taking the ice and I never do. But when I see Delaney’s name flash across the screen, I don’t think twice before unlocking it. It reads: If you look over and don’t recognize me, it’s probably because I just may have a different number on my back tonight. You’ve got this, Brennan. Go make the ice your bitch.

I let out an involuntary, loud breath as a smile breaks out across my face. The guys stare, of course.

Wes leans over. “Tell your girlfriend I say hi.”

“She’s not—” I start.

He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Keep lying.”

I hate that I have to defend that, but it’s a conversation we haven’t had. I can’t go there until she gives me the green light.

We start lining up and Khilokov leads us in. Goalie always goes first. Miles stands at the edge of the ice, glove out for fist bumps. The lights dim and music pounds through the arena floor as we flood out one by one and the crowd is deafening.

I hit the ice running, skating like I’ve never had a doubt in my mind. Not for a second. The announcer starts calling the lineup.