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JACOB
Istare across the ice at one of our opposing players and pretend to scratch my nose. With my middle finger.
Knox Whiteshaw, fellow rookie and my best friend, grins back. He shakes his head and turns back to his warm-up. I follow suit, fighting the small smile on my lips.
Playing professional hockey against my friends never gets old. It would be better if he and I were on the same team, but I can’t resist the opportunity to check him into the boards whenever fucking possible… and then laughing about it over drinks later.
Best friend or not, when the puck hits the ice, it’s game on.
This is my second year in the NHL. I signed on with the Colorado Titans right out of college, much to my father’s disappointment. But he can’t stay upset forever. It’s one of those things he’ll just have to get over.
We’re in round one of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and the energy in the building is palpable.
It’s not directed at us, though. We’re the visitors. The enemies. Amongst the sea of New York Guardians fans, dressed in black and gold, there are a few pops of blue and white. A good portion of fans traveled to see us in the sold-out arena.
The Guardians won two nights ago. In overtime, no less, the puck slipped into the net by Knox Whiteshaw three minutes into the fourth period.
Fucker.
Our friends are in attendance tonight. Knox scored them seats for the second game of the series, although I’m not sure where he put them. Another look in Knox’s direction has him waving furiously at me, then pointing toward the glass next to the penalty boxes. I wave him off and skate in that direction, ignoring the call from my team captain.
He can piss off.
I stop short of the boards and smirk at my friends. They’re on NHL teams that didn’t make the playoffs—tough shit for them. It still warms my cold, dead heart that they came to watch us.
“You good?” one asks through the glass.
I nod and scan the rows of seats above them.
My gaze trips over someone, and I do a double take. I grip my stick harder, not sure if I’m seeing things right.
The woman sits there like she’s never been to a fucking hockey game. She’s utterly familiar and heartbreakingly different all at once. Blonde hair, unlike her normal light-brown shade I knew before. Dark-rimmed glasses. Her nails are painted black, and she uses a manicured finger to push the frames up her nose. Her lipstick is soft pink, not red like in my memories. A white sweatshirt with the Titans logo hugs her chest, the dark-blue capital T backed by mint-green waves in the center of her chest.
Melody Cameron.
An apparition right out of my dreams—and then my nightmares.
Fuck.
All at once, I know I’m going to play like shit tonight. My focus shatters, and memories come flooding back. The weeks of tortured,twistedobsession. The years of anger and confusion that followed.
She wasn’t mine—but I wanted her in the worst way.
“Hey.” Knox elbows me.
We’re all staring up at her. My friends, my opponent. Me. She’s oblivious, her gaze focused across the arena at some distant spot. I want to wave my arms and draw attention to myself. I want to climb over the fucking glass to get to her, to shake her and ask her where she went. And why. Even though that question has long since held any meaning. It’s just the where that keeps me up at night.
I thought I had found her a year ago, but it was a dead end. In the face of that, this is a slap in the face.
“Oh, fuck,” Knox mutters.
She’s sitting next to a man. He’s got on a Titans home jersey, mostly dark blue with stripes of the mint green and white, munching on popcorn without a care in the world. Dark hair with gray at the temples. Older than me, older thanher.
At least they’re rooting for the right team—although I’m perversely upset that she’s not in my jersey.
Knox spins me around and shoves me toward my bench. “You better get your head in the game, motherfucker. You’re not going to blame your team’s loss on this moment.”
I shake my head and allow him to push me. He practically guides me right to my team’s door. I step through and turn back around, opening and closing my mouth. But I don’t know what I’m going to say, because I’m a mess of emotions.
