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But that belief only lasts for a moment before familiar doubts come flooding back.
“I can’t even go to a party without having a breakdown,” I say, self-doubt weighing on my shoulders.
“Never mistake trauma for weakness, Phoebe,” Hunter says. “Fuck, you’retrying. It hasn’t even been a year since your accident, and you’re trying. You’re trying to overcome your trauma, you’re still getting out there on the ice to teach kids to love skating as much as you still do, even after what happened. That says a lot. One of the things it says is that you’re going to be alright, that you’re going to find a way to use your abilities to make others’ lives better, even if you don’t know exactly what it’ll be yet.”
“You don’t really believe that. You’re just saying it to be nice.”
The side of his plush mouth twitches into a grin. “Phoebe Sinclair, have Ieversaid anything to you just to be nice?”
My chest hitches on a laugh, and despite everything that’s happened tonight, I feel my own lips curling upwards. “No.”
“Exactly. I said it because I believe it. I said it because it’s true.”
Hunter’s eyes remain locked on mine, like there’s a taut string tethering our gazes together.
My hand is still in his, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of the sensation.
His hand is so big, powerful, strong—and more comfortable than I could have imagined. From where his fingers press against mine, tendrils of electricity radiate, spreading through my body.
Pulling my hand away from his grasp right now is the last thing in the world I want to do. Which is exactly why I know that I should.
Disappointment flashes in his eyes when I pull away.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I turn and keep walking towards my house. Hunter follows, walking silently by my side.
“Thanks for walking me home,” I say once we get to my house.
A warm, wistful smile plays on his lips as he looks down on me. “Any time.”
12
HUNTER
Our first game of the regular season is an away game.
Of course, I’m excited for the game. I love hockey, and the first regular season game is a highlight of every year.
At the same time, there’s a nervousness tightening my chest that’s never been there before. It’s not the good kind of nervousness, that excited tension that lets you know you’re alive, that lets you know you’re about to do something important, something you care about.
It’s a more ominous feeling.
As one of the leaders of this team along with Liam, I’m trying to be as positive and optimistic as possible. I’m trying to force myself into a success mindset, visualizing having an incredible first game and leaving New Jersey, where we’re now traveling to on the team bus, with a win.
I’m trying—but the two other exhibition games we played after that loss to Fernwood College didn’t do a lot to inspire confidence that isn’t blatantly forced.
The second we lost just as pathetically as the first.
The third exhibition game, against West Virginia, we actually won.
But considering West Virginia treated that game as a relaxed scrimmage and we played our hearts out wanting to prove that it was at leasttheoreticallypossible for us to win a hockey game, that victory wasn’t something worth boasting over.
I’m sitting next to Liam on the bus ride there, like I usually am. Liam’s got his headphones in and he’s staring at the back of the seats in front of us, getting in the zone mentally ahead of the game.
I should be doing the same. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything except the game that we’re going to be playing in a few short hours. I shouldn’t thinking of anything except the schemes we’ve been going over in practice, what we’ve learned from the hours of footage we’ve watched in preparation, what I need to consciously change about my instincts on the ice to better mesh with the new first line players.
Instead, I’m thinking about Phoebe Sinclair.
It’s been three weeks since I walked her home from the party we threw at the Ice Box. The No-Victory Victory Party.
