12. Delaney
12
Delaney
The harsh scrape of my blade against the ice echoes through The Glissade as I launch into a triple axel. For a blissful moment, I'm weightless, spinning through the air like a top. Then reality crashes back as I land with a less-than-graceful thud.
Dammit.
I grit my teeth, frustration bubbling up inside me. That was sloppy. Unacceptable. I need to nail this jump if I have any hope of making it to the Olympics. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. I have. Plenty of times. But, fucking Rafe is still shaking my confidence.
As I set up to try again, movement at the edge of the rink catches my eye. I was expecting one of my teammates trying to work through their own routine—this is a mandatory freeskate after all. But, Greer Collins, in all her prickly glory, is hovering a few feet away, watching me with an unreadable expression.
Great. Just what I need right now—an audience for my failures.
I try to ignore her piercing gaze as I run through my solo routine again. And again. Each time, I can feel her eyes tracking my every move. It's unsettling, like being under a microscope.
After my fifth attempt at the triple axel (still not perfect, but getting there), I can't take it anymore. With an exasperated huff, I skate over to where Greer is standing.
"Can I help you with something?" I ask, not bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice. "Or are you just here to critique my form?"
Greer's lips quirk up in that infuriating smirk of hers. "Now why would I critique perfection, Quinn?"
I roll my eyes, resisting the urge to point out all the flaws in my routine. "Seriously, what do you want? I'm kind of in the middle of something here."
Greer's smirk widens, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, I'm just watching a master at work. Who wouldn't want to learn from the great Olympic hopeful, Delaney Quinn?"
Her words, dripping with sarcasm, make me snort. I shake my head, feeling a mix of annoyance and begrudging amusement. Greer has a way of getting under my skin, but I can't deny there's something oddly refreshing about her bluntness.
"And what do you really want?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because I highly doubt you came over here just to watch me practice."
I absently smooth my hand over the braid keeping my hair back from my face, the strands neatly secured into a low ponytail. The cool air of the Glissade feels good against my flushed skin, a reminder of how hard I've been pushing myself.
Greer's expression shifts, becoming more serious. "Actually, I was wondering if you're planning on going to the hockey home opener this Saturday."
The question catches me off guard. Hockey? Me? I blink, trying to process this unexpected turn in the conversation. "I... hadn't really thought about it," I admit, my mind racing. Why would Greer care if I went to a hockey game?
As I ponder her question, I can't help but think of Breck. His easy smile, those intense eyes... No, Del. Stop right there. You don't have time for distractions, remember? Even if you have been letting him distract you every night on the phone.
I furrow my brow, a sudden realization hitting me. "Wait, I thought they were playing Riverton this weekend. Isn't that an away game?"
Greer's lips curl into a knowing smirk. "They are playing Riverton, but since they're so close, they split it. The first game is away, the second game is home."
"Oh," I say, feeling a bit foolish for not knowing. Hockey isn't exactly my area of expertise. I chew on my lower lip, trying to think of a graceful way to decline. "Well, I appreciate the invite, but I'm not sure if—"
"Save it, Quinn," Greer cuts me off, her tone brooking no argument. "I already bought the tickets. We're going."
I blink, taken aback by her forcefulness. "But I—"
"No buts," she says, crossing her arms. "You need to get out more, and I need someone to go with me who won't spend the entire game drooling over the players. Well, not all the players anyway."
I can feel my resolve weakening, but I make one last attempt. "I don't even have anything to wear to a hockey game."
Greer rolls her eyes. "Please. You can borrow one of my Hunters hockey sweatshirts. It'll be fine."
I sigh, knowing I'm fighting a losing battle. Part of me wants to dig in my heels, to insist that I need to focus on my training. But another part—a part I've been trying to ignore—is actually intrigued by the idea.
And, Breck has gone out of his way to support me. Can’t I do the same for him? Friends do that, right?
"Fine," I concede, trying to sound more reluctant than I feel. "But don't expect me to become some hockey fanatic overnight."
Greer's face breaks into a genuine smile, a rare sight that momentarily throws me off balance. "Wouldn't dream of it, princess. Now, are you done showing off, or do you want to run through the short program one more time?"
I can't help but laugh, shaking my head at her audacity. As I move back into position on the ice, I find myself wondering what I've just gotten myself into. And why, despite my better judgment, I'm actually looking forward to it.
??????
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at the oversized Hunters hockey sweatshirt Greer has practically wrestled onto me. It's a deep maroon with gold lettering, the fabric soft from countless washes. I feel like I'm drowning in it.
"Stop fidgeting," Greer snaps, swatting my hand away. "It looks fine. Better than fine, actually. You look like you belong."
I raise an eyebrow. "Belong where? In a laundry basket?"
Greer rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smirk. "At a hockey game, smartass. Now, put these on." She tosses a pair of distressed jeans at me.
As I change, Greer continues her fashion assault, tossing items from my closet onto my bed. "Wear your brown boots," she instructs. "And for the love of God, leave your hair down for once."
I comply, more out of exhaustion than agreement. When I'm done, Greer gives me an appraising look. "Not bad, Quinn. You clean up nice when you're not in spandex and sequins."
"Gee, thanks," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. I'm starting to realize that Greer's prickly exterior is just that—an exterior.
As she grabs her keys, Greer casually drops, "By the way, I'm going to a country concert next weekend with some friends. Nash Callaway. You interested?"
The question catches me off guard. "I... maybe?" I hesitate, surprised by the invitation and my own uncertainty.
"Cool. Let me know," Greer says, already heading for the door. "Now come on, we're gonna be late."
The drive to Hunter's Hollow Ice Center is short, but the parking lot is already packed. As we approach the entrance, I'm struck by the sheer number of people streaming in. The air buzzes with excitement, punctuated by bursts of laughter and animated chatter.
"Wow," I breathe, taking it all in. "I knew hockey was popular, but this is..."
"Insane?" Greer finishes, a hint of pride in her voice. "Wait till you see inside."
She's not wrong. The moment we step through the doors, I'm hit by a wave of noise and energy. The stands are a sea of maroon and gold, dotted with homemade signs and banners. My eyes widen as I spot a group of girls, each wearing a different player's jersey, holding up a glittery sign that reads "MARRY ME, MONROE!"
"Are they serious?" I ask, gesturing to the sign.
Greer snorts. "Oh, honey. You have no idea. Welcome to the wonderful world of hockey groupies."
We weave through the crowded concourse and head toward our seats. Just as we’re approaching, I hear someone call Greer’s name.
“Hey, stranger!” A girl with shoulder-length blonde hair jogs over, her easy, boyish style clear in her well-worn jeans, a jersey that’s slightly oversized, and a Hawthorne Hunters cap. She looks oddly familiar in a way I can't quite place. She pulls Greer into a quick hug before grinning at me. “You must be Delaney. I’m Eli.”
Before I can respond, another girl appears, all energy and sunshine. Her dirty blonde curls bounce as she throws her arms around Greer in an exaggerated hug. “You’re late!” she scolds playfully, her pink hoodie and glittery nails standing out in stark contrast to Eli’s low-key vibe.
“I told you we’d get here when we got here,” Greer retorts, laughing. “Quinn, this is Savannah.”
“Nice to meet you!” Savannah beams at me. “I’ve heard so much about you already!”
“Oh, really?” I glance at Greer, raising an eyebrow. She just shrugs.
As we find our seats, I can't help but feel a mix of fascination and bewilderment. It's so different from the refined, polished world of figure skating. There's a raw energy here, an unbridled enthusiasm that's both intimidating and oddly appealing.
"So," I say, leaning towards Greer, "is this what I signed up for? Becoming a screaming fangirl?"
She laughs, a genuine sound that surprises me. "Nah, that's optional. But who knows? Maybe you'll surprise yourself, Quinn. Stranger things have happened."
As the teams start to take the ice for warm-ups, I find myself leaning forward, oddly eager to see what all the fuss is about.
The players glide onto the ice, their skates carving graceful arcs as they warm up. My eyes scan the rink, searching for a familiar face. And then I see him.
Breck's out there, his movements fluid and purposeful. He's different on the ice, more focused, more... something. I can't quite put my finger on it. As he skates past our section, his gaze sweeps the crowd. When his eyes lock onto mine, his whole face lights up like a Christmas tree.
My breath catches. I'm not used to this—to being seen, really seen. It's... unsettling. Exciting. Terrifying.
"Well, well," Greer drawls beside me. "Looks like someone's happy to see you."
I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. "He's probably just surprised to see me here."
"Sure, Quinn. Keep telling yourself that."
As I try to focus on anything other than the way his eyes keep flicking toward me during warm-ups, movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Eli is making ridiculous faces at one of the younger players—number 9, Daniels. Cross Daniels, if I’m not mistaken. I may or may not have done a little cyberstalking after Greer insisted I come to the game with her, so the name and face are familiar.
I snort as Eli keeps sticking out her tongue and crossing her eyes. My brow furrows as I glance between them. The resemblance is uncanny—the same bright blue eyes, the same smattering of freckles across the bridge of their noses. Then it clicks. The oversized jersey she’s wearing? It’s his. I guess I know why she looks so oddly familiar now. There’s no way they’re not siblings.
She grins when he smirks back at her, then shouts something I can’t hear over the roar of the crowd. He shakes his head but looks amused, like this isn’t the first time she’s tried to mess with him during a game.
My gaze shifts, and I catch Greer watching him—Cross. He's watching her too now. His expression is unreadable at first, , but there’s something soft in his eyes, almost like longing, before he snaps his attention back to the ice.
As the warm-up continues, I find myself getting caught up in the energy of the crowd. By the time the game begins, I'm on the edge of my seat, heart racing with anticipation.
The puck drops, and it's like someone lit a fuse. Bodies collide, sticks clash, and the crowd roars. It's chaos, beautiful chaos.
"Holy sh—" I cut myself off, wide-eyed. "Is it always this intense?"
Greer grins. "Welcome to hockey, princess. And this? This is nothing. Riverton's our biggest rival. It's always a bit of a bloodbath."
As if on cue, a Riverton player slams one of our guys into the boards. The crowd boos, and I wince.
"Jesus," I mutter. "How is this legal?"
"Hockey’s a contact sport. Now, that," Greer points to where one of Riverton’s players is shoving at one of ours, her eyes never leaving the ice. "That'll be a penalty. Two minutes for crosschecking, probably."
I nod, trying to process. "So, why is this rivalry so intense? I mean, besides the obvious reasons."
Greer's expression darkens. "It's always been bad, but it's worse now that Tyson's on their team."
"Tyson?"
"Yeah, Tyson Brooks, the goalie. Used to play for Riverton, but transferred to Hawthorne this year after some issue with their new coach. It’s been... messy."
I lean in, intrigued despite myself. "Messy how?"
Greer sighs. "Let's just say there was a lot of yelling. And a fist fight. And maybe some property damage. They’re not exactly happy he chose to leave."
My eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"
"Hockey boys," Greer says with a shrug. "Drama queens, the lot of them."
My eyes are drawn back to the ice, searching for Breck's number 22. When I find him, I can't look away. It's like I'm seeing him for the first time, really seeing him.
On the ice, he's... different. Transformed. The easy-going, slightly goofy guy I've come to know is gone, replaced by someone I barely recognize. His jaw is set, eyes laser-focused as he glides across the ice with a fluid grace that takes my breath away.
"Wow," I breathe, not realizing I've said it out loud until Greer snickers beside me.
"Yeah, he's something else out there, isn't he?"
I nod, unable to form words as I watch Breck intercept a pass, his movements quick and decisive. He dodges a Riverton player, spinning away with the puck like it's an extension of himself.
The crowd around us surges to their feet, a wave of noise and energy. I find myself standing too, heart pounding in my chest.
Breck's racing down the ice, two Riverton players in hot pursuit. He's so focused, so commanding of the space around him. It's... mesmerizing.
"Come on, Breck," I whisper, surprising myself with how much I want him to score.
He dekes left, then right, the goalie shifting uncertainly. Then, in a move so fast I almost miss it, he shoots. The puck flies past the goalie's outstretched glove and into the net.
The lamp behind the goal lights and the arena erupts. Greer's jumping up and down, screaming. I'm cheering too, caught up in the moment.
As Breck's teammates mob him, he looks up into the stands. Our eyes meet, and he grins, pointing at me. My stomach does a backflip.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no. This is not good. This is not part of the plan.
I sink back into my seat, my mind reeling. When did I start caring about hockey? When did I start caring about Breck?
"You okay?" Greer asks, eyeing me curiously.
I nod, not trusting my voice. Because the truth is, I'm not okay. I'm realizing that somewhere between the banter and the coffee and now this game, Breck Monroe has wormed his way past my defenses. And that terrifies me more than any competition ever could.