Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Bowen
I exited my Highlander in the player’s parking lot, my stomach a tangled mess of apprehension and anticipation for the upcoming game—the first game in the Stanley Cup Finals. The pressure weighed on me, each step across the sun-scorched asphalt adding to the knots in my gut. Unseasonable heat shimmered off the pavement, distorting the figures of my teammates as they arrived.
My eyes wandered to the fence where fans eagerly gathered, their excitement palpable even from a distance. But then I saw the man who had lurked at the park during my picnic with Parker. My heart stuttered, and I halted mid-step. He was here—the tall, lanky man in the blue, nondescript baseball cap and aviator sunglasses. A cold dread slithered down my spine, its icy fingers gripping tight despite the blistering heat.
The man lifted his phone, aiming it directly at me. Instinctively, I took a step toward him, muscles tensing, ready to confront. But he turned sharply and walked away with a briskness that set off alarms in my head.
Shit. Fans came with the territory, but this guy was different. Something about him felt off. He hadn’t stayed to snap pictures of the other players. He wasn’t among the eager fans lined up along the fence, begging for signatures. He wasn’t here for autographs or fleeting moments with the team. Unease twisted in my gut.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I jumped, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Whoa, there, buddy,” Chase said, his grip firm and reassuring. He patted my shoulder, his usual laid-back smile doing little to ease the anxiety coiled tight inside me. “Relax, stay loose.”
I grunted in response, unable to muster more than that as we walked toward the arena, and Chase fell in step beside me. My mind was still on the unknown man, the concern lingering like a defenseman I couldn’t shake.
“Have a question for you. Want to volunteer at the shelter again tomorrow?” He wiggled his eyebrows and shot me a sly grin. “Parker will be there.”
I forced a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my insides flipped at the mention of her name. “Sure,” I said, hoping my casualness masked the surge of eagerness that ran through me.
“I’ll let Emily know.”
I gave him a sharp nod as we passed the cheering fans lining the slope down to the players’ entrance. Chase waved and grinned at them, soaking up the energy. I forced myself not to scowl, still occupied with the man and his unsettling presence.
Security let us through the door, and we stepped into the cool, concrete arena. The familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, sweat, and determination—washed over me and grounded me in the routine of game day. I pushed aside thoughts of the mysterious man. I couldn’t afford distractions.
After team meetings, a meal, and a game of two-touch soccer, it was time to gear up. I pulled on my jock shorts, the motion mechanical, but despite my earlier resolve to stay focused, my mind was far from the game.
Parker’s beautiful face floated in my mind’s eye. Smiling. Laughing. Flirting.
Gasping as she came apart beneath me before I followed her over the edge. Heat flowed through my veins at the memory.
Maybe that wasn’t the most appropriate thought before a game.
Although we’d agreed to keep things casual, I couldn’t deny the connection I felt with Parker. What we’d shared the previous night was something special—more than a casual hook-up or a temporary fling. I wanted to develop that connection, to explore what had sparked between us.
I strapped on my shin guards with a focused intensity, trying to channel my thoughts into the routine of suiting up. But my mind kept drifting back to Parker.
Though she’d shared a little more about her life during our picnic—small glimpses into her past—it was clear she was holding back, parceling out bits and pieces, offering half-truths instead of the whole story. It was like trying to put together a puzzle when a lot of the pieces were missing. Frustration flared, and I yanked a hockey sock over my shin guard a bit too hard, the fabric stretching taut.
Exhaling, I released some of the pressure that had built within me.
But the fact remained that if Parker didn’t open up to me soon, I might have to break things off. My gut sank, a heaviness that settled deep and uncomfortable. I didn’t want to end things with her—not when there was something real, something worth pursuing. But a relationship had to be built on trust and honesty, and right now, that foundation was shaky at best.
I’d have to confront her tomorrow at the shelter. The thought of it made my chest tighten, dread swirling inside me. I didn’t want to push her away, but I needed to know if she would let me in.
With a deep breath, I tried to put Parker out of my mind. I had a game to play, and it wasn’t just any game—it was the Stanley Cup Finals, the pinnacle of everything I’d worked for my entire career. This was my first time making it this far, and I needed to concentrate, to play the best games of my life. Anxiety clawed at my gut, a relentless gnawing that threatened to distract me.
I finished donning my gear, the motions automatic, ingrained from years of repetition. The familiar weight of the pads and the stick in my hand brought a sense of comfort, a reminder that on the ice, everything made sense.
We warmed up on the ice, the cool air biting at my skin through the gear. The sound of our skates cutting through the ice was sharp and precise, a constant in my life that steadied my nerves.
But as we skated out of the dragon’s head for the game, the atmosphere in the arena shifted, the energy electric and intense. The hometown fans erupted into a frenzy of cheering, stomping, and clapping, the noise reverberating through the space and settling deep in my bones.
The heavy bass of rock music pounded through the speakers, the beat vibrating in my chest as I lined up on the red line. My skates slid back and forth and kept my legs warm and limber. The lead singer of an iconic metal band—a die-hard Blazers fan—stepped up to the mic, his electric guitar slung low, and he launched into the national anthem. The wail of the guitar was raw and powerful, each note sending a shiver up my spine.
Goosebumps crawled along my skin, not just from the music, but from the weight of the moment. This was it: the culmination of everything. And as the final notes of the anthem echoed through the arena, I had to push everything else aside, to focus solely on the game.
I took my position outside the face-off circle at center ice, my heart thundering in my chest. The roar of the crowd was deafening as the puck dropped; Beck won it, and the game was underway.
Halfway through the first period, the first line took to the ice. Sweat dripped down my back, and my chest heaved as I rifled the puck to Beck. He caught it on his stick and lined up his shot. The puck flew in a perfect wrist shot, sailing past their goalie’s glove. The first goal of the Finals was ours, and the explosion of noise exhilarated me. I skated over to Beck, thumping him on the back. The thrill of our 1-0 lead poured through me.
The second period was a blur of intensity. I was on high alert, watching for any chance to press our advantage. When Boston mistakenly passed the puck straight to Luc, he swiftly shot it to Chase, who didn’t miss his chance. Our lead doubled to 2-0, and my heart swelled with hope. This was our game.
But that hope was fleeting. A scramble in front of our net sent the puck bouncing off a Boston player’s skate, then our goalie Hudson’s stick, and into the net. The momentum shifted. Boston barreled through our zone, tying the game with a power play goal that left me cursing under my breath and my gut clenching. The tension was palpable, the game slipping from our grasp at 2-2.
In the third period, Boston pushed harder. They capitalized on a net-mouth scramble, firing the puck past Hudson. A collective groan rose from the crowd. My frustration boiled over as Boston maintained their pressure, shooting relentlessly. Each shot was a dagger, Hudson doing all he could to hold the line.
The final blow came when their captain scored on our empty net, sealing Boston’s victory at 2-4. The Boston fans in the crowd cheered wildly as the Blazers’ fans quietly filed out of the arena. The loss settled in my gut like a boulder as I skated off the ice, the bitter taste of defeat lingering. The Finals had begun, but that night we were on the losing side.
I needed to see my sunshine in the gloom: Parker.
The weight of the night’s defeat hung heavy on my shoulders, like a storm cloud that refused to lift. After the press interviews, followed by an ass-kicking from Coach that left my ears ringing and my pride bruised, and, finally, a half-hearted pep talk from Beck, I felt drained. My body moved on autopilot as I quickly showered, the scalding water doing little to wash away the sting of the loss. I dressed in my suit, a thin armor against the world, and high-tailed it to Scrimmage’s with Hudson at my side. He was just as eager to see his wife as I was to see Parker.
I opened the bar’s door, stepping into a wall of noise—tepid cheers, raised beers, and the chorus of “Next time!” I grunted in response as I lifted my chin in acknowledgment. Hudson, ever the charmer, waved and grinned at the fans, but I couldn’t muster the energy to engage.
The scents of stale beer, fried onion rings, and sweat thickened the air, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. My skin felt too tight, my nerves frayed, and all I wanted was to find Parker, to see that luminous, calming presence that somehow made everything else fade into the background.
I finally popped out of the throng and onto the patio, where the fresh summer evening air hit me. I inhaled deeply, the apprehension in my chest easing just a fraction as I scanned the area.
Where is she?
A cheerful, melodic giggle drew my attention to a corner of the patio, and there she was—her head thrown back in laughter, the sound like music to my ears. Her ponytail swished along her shoulders, catching the light as she tilted her head. She was facing away from me, chatting with Hope and Emily, who were laughing along with her.
Just seeing her like that, happy and carefree, sent a wave of relief through me. The strain that had coiled in my gut ever since the final horn of the game unwound, slowly but surely. She was what I needed. My sunshine cutting through the storm.
As if she sensed me, Parker turned, and our eyes locked. Her soft smile was just for me, and in that moment, everything else faded away. The noise, the crowd, the lingering frustration from the game—it all vanished, leaving only the two of us. Her gaze held mine for a beat longer, and then she turned back to Hope and Emily, saying something quickly before making her way over to me.
She didn’t get far before she stumbled on a loose paver, and her pad slipped from her fingers. I was there in an instant, catching her in my arms, exactly where I wanted her.
She gripped my biceps, her hands small but strong, and for a heartbeat—maybe ten—she just looked at me, her eyes wide and bright. “Oops,” she whispered, her breath warm against my chest.
My lips twitched. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she echoed, her face lighting up with that smile that never failed to melt away my worries.
Someone—probably Hope—cleared their throat loudly, reminding us that Parker was at work. The moment broke, but the warmth lingered as Parker stepped back, her cheeks flushed, and picked up her order pad. Her playful smile told me she wasn’t embarrassed, just amused.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said just loud enough for me to hear over the din of the patio.
I grunted in response, but her welcome lifted a weight from my chest. “Glad I’m here, too.”
“Sorry you lost, but that was a nice assist.” Her tone was sincere, not just offering empty consolation.
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “You saw that?”
She nodded, a little sheepishly. “Between orders. On the replay.”
That she’d been watching, even during her busy shift, warmed something deep inside me. She cared enough to pay attention, to keep up with what mattered to me.
She glanced around furtively, then stepped a little closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I missed you this morning.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d wanted to stay, to hold her in my arms all night, but that wasn’t what we’d agreed to. “Thought we were keeping things casual,” I said, the words coming out harsher than I intended.
She flinched, just barely, but enough to make me feel like an asshole. “I mean…No, you’re right,” she said quickly and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s just…I think we need to talk. Tomorrow. When we volunteer together.”
I held her gaze, searching for a clue to what she was thinking, what she wanted. Was talking good? A way to move forward? I knew what I wanted—honesty and a chance to see where this could go—but what did she want?
The uncertainty ate at me, adding to the stress already weighing me down.
I’d already lost the first game of the Stanley Cup Finals. I couldn’t lose her too.