8. Olivia

8

olivia

Three Weeks Later

T onight is the home opener for the Milwaukee Steel Riders. Every game is exciting, but the first real game of the season is my favorite. The offseason feels dreadfully long for a fan, making the simple act of being in the arena with fresh ice exhilarating. It’s like showing up for the first day of school with your new sneakers and backpack ready for a new start but being nervous to make a good impression. Except this ‘class’ just happens to be filled with twenty-thousand fans who will rip you to shreds on social media if you don’t meet their standards.

No pressure.

Much like the players, I have a whole pre-game routine to help calm my nerves. While I get ready at home, I listen to my hockey playlist and fix my hair and makeup. I drink a cup of tea specifically brewed to prep my vocal cords, then I get dressed, putting on my prized possession, what I like to call my ‘work uniform’. I cherish my personalized Riders jersey—the vibrant blend of blue, teal, and white, adorned with the team's striking motorcycle emblem on the front, and the name 'brOOKS' stitched across the back—fills me with pride.

As an added bonus, it really cuts down on the nightmare of deciding what to wear every time I perform for them.

Arriving at MKE Arena, I begin warming up my vocal cords for the national anthem. Cayden has been engrossed in something on his phone since the minute we got here. These last few weeks Cayden has been…off. Every time we talk, his words almost seem rehearsed, nothing like the way we used to talk when we met. My gut has been twisting with unease lately with this sudden change. And that doesn’t even account for the fact I almost kissed a random guy in the back alley of a bar. Now that I think about it like that, it really does sound like an episode of Dateline.

Of course, I have not mentioned that incident to Cayden. He would lose his collective shit. But, sadly, I’ve only seen him once in the three weeks since my last show at Walt’s. He’s been distant, and I’ve been super busy working extra hours on the Bayview Bourbon campaign.

I just can’t shake the fact that something seems funny with him. He is constantly on his phone, even more than usual, going to extreme lengths for me not to see his screen, and being more distant and standoffish than usual. I don’t have evidence he’s cheating on me, but I can’t help thinking about that saying, ‘where there’s smoke there’s fire.’ At least he came tonight to support me . Or, more likely, for the free tickets.

“Hey babe, I’m going to go refill my water and use the restroom. I’ll be back in a few.” I glance at him, but he doesn’t even look up from his phone. Rolling my eyes, I wander off toward the green room.

Pushing open the door with a silent huff, I see they have the usual dinner, snacks, and drinks for the Riders staff. I immediately spot David Green who is in charge of in-game entertainment. He’s my ‘national anthem boss’ so to speak.

“Hey David! Ready for a new season? You didn’t find anyone to replace me during preseason, did you?”

“Olivia! Good to see you, too, and no; you have not been replaced by the Singing Granny’s Choir,” he says, giving me a good laugh and helping calm the pre-game nerves.

“Anything special happening tonight before the anthem? Ceremonial puck drop? Sponsor appreciation?” I ask.

“Nope. Just the usual home opener pre-game introductions. You know the drill; Harley the mascot will skate out throwing t-shirts, they introduce all the coaching, training, and scouting staff, the players, then the starting lineup. Then you’re up.” He winks, catching me fidgeting with the bottom of my jersey. “I’m heading up to the booth, but I know you’ll kill it out there, as usual, and get the crowd pumped up for the new season.” He heads out into the hallway, lifting a hand over his shoulder in goodbye. “Make em cry, Liv!”

“You know it!” I yell back. I say a few hellos to some of the Riders staff I’ve gotten to know over the last few years as I fill up my water bottle and grab a snack, watching the monitor showing the fans in the crowd, Zambonis finishing up on the ice and the pre-game countdown. Ten minutes till showtime.

I head back to where I left Cayden. He’s talking to some guy in a fancy suit, and I quickly realize it’s Zack Reeves. Oh no… he’s the team captain, one of the Riders best players, but he’s recovering from an ACL repair. He’s been cleared to practice, so hopefully he’ll be back soon. Tonight, he’s not playing, so he’s walking around before the game in a nicely tailored three-piece suit.

As I near the two of them, Zack hands something to Cayden and walks off towards the locker room shaking his head with an annoyed look on his face. Was that a puck? And a marker?

“Cayden! What were you doing talking to Zack Reeves?” I ask, slightly panicked.

Rule number one of being on staff or singing the anthem or being on the ice crew: No player interaction. If they say hi to you, you can say hello back—they aren’t monsters, even if they are intimidating—but otherwise, there is no bothering them. They are working and don’t need to be hounded for autographs, selfies, or anything else that could distract them. My stomach churns seeing this interaction, unsure about what transpired.

“Yeah. I got him to sign these pucks for me,” Cayden replies, a wicked glint in his eyes as he pockets the pucks.

“You did WHAT?” I ask, my voice echoing around us.

“It’s no big deal,” he scoffs like I’m an idiot for mentioning it. “It’s just some pucks.”

I snap back. “Cayden, you know I could get fired for this right? We are not allowed to bother the players. Especially for autographs before a game. I’ve told you this!” What the hell is he thinking?

“Livy, you are way too uptight about this. It’s not a big deal, and no one is going to say anything. Isn’t it time for you to go sing now, anyway?”

Rage bubbles to the surface of my skin. This hockey arena is freezing, but right now…

I. Am. Fuming.

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right about one thing. It’s seven minutes to pregame, and I have to grab my mic and get my in-ears situated. I cannot have this conversation with Cayden right now, who still seems to be engrossed in whatever the hell he’s doing on his phone tonight. I have to focus. Shake it off, Olivia. You can do this.

Standing in a corner by a trash can just off the ice, I do a final run through of the Star-Spangled Banner. I could certainly find a classier place, but I warmed up here once and now it’s part of my routine. I like my pre-game routines; they help settle the last of the butterflies. Even though I’m still fuming mad at Cayden, I have to focus on not screwing up the one song I am most known for. At least this song is about war, so I can fuel all my rage into this performance.

The Riders entertainment assistant rolls out a rug onto the ice for me to stand on and motions it’s go time. As I walk out to hit my mark, the opposing team hits the ice and whips around the rink doing their pre-game warm up, and my lip curls. We are playing Omaha tonight, and their hideous dark brown uniforms are on full display. They look like giant prunes skating around the ice. Is it petty to judge them for their uniform color? Pursing my lips, I hum quietly to keep my voice warm. Probably. But vomit brown is just not in my color wheel.

The Milwaukee Steel Riders staff and players are introduced - all except for the starting lineup. The crowd is electric, so excited to see their boys back on the ice. I take in a deep breath and do one last check to make sure my mic is turned on.

The announcer begins the introduction of tonight’s starters. “And now, the starting lineup for YOUR Milwaukee Steel Riders!!!” he shouts as the crowd cheers. “Starting at Center, from St. Paul, Minnesota, assistant captain, number 22, Hayes LARRRson!” I start to clap awkwardly with the heels of my hands, which is the only way to clap while holding a microphone… wait a minute. Did he say Hayes? I swear the announcer just said Hayes. My heart lodges in my throat, my head feeling fuzzy. Like the same name of the guy from the bar? Surely my mind is playing tricks on me, and this is a crazy coincidence. My head whips towards the video board, nearly knocking me off balance on the carpet. Not only is the name Hayes Larson up on the Jumbotron, but so is his picture and those damn gorgeous eyes I can’t stop thinking about.

The microphone nearly drops from my grip. My jaw is nearly touching the ice. As I prepare to sing for a sold-out crowd, I stare up at the picture of the handsome man I nearly kissed three weeks ago in a back alley after he told me I lit up a room. Number 22 skates out of the tunnel, speeding across the rink towards me. He stops on the blue line, taking his spot for the anthem, smiling at the roaring crowd. My mouth goes dry, and my pulse races knowing he’s standing on the same ice as I am.

Holy. Shit.

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