Animalistic
Lex
Present Day
I must be out of my mind.
We walk into the arena, Rosie’s arm slipping through mine. There is a lightness to her as she bounces through the crowded entrance. I, however, feel like I am walking the plank and hovering above a dangerous plunge into dark waters below. I woke up the other morning feeling foggy. Despite having slept for 13 hours, I felt incredibly sluggish. The ringing in my ears and the storm cloud in my brain made it take me a couple of hours to notice the misplaced paper items on my nightstand. Officer Calloway’s business card was gone, replaced with two tickets to a charity hockey game in town this weekend. Tonight, right now, I am walking into the arena for the game.
Out of my goddamned mind.
I didn’t even need to check the teams playing when I saw them. I called Rosie right away—she is my most reckless friend—and asked her what I should do with the tickets. She squealed with delight and demanded we go.
“Lex! This event is a huge deal; those seats are next to the bench. There is a huge party after that, and it will be so much fun!” She sounds like a child as she carries on.
A shiver runs down my spine—part fear, part intrigue. How the fuck did he get into my apartment? I had double-checked the lock before I fell asleep. Rosie leads us to a concession stand, and as we wait, I fidget back and forth. I shouldn’t be here. I should have tossed the tickets, changed the locks, and started shopping for a new condo.
But I didn’t.
I won’t.
That’s what fucks with me the most.
I love the way my heart skitters at the thought of him — of what he’s capable of.
She turns to say something, stopping when she sees how I fidget.
I’ve been caught.
My stomach clenches, heat creeping up my neck. If she noticed it, others probably did, too. I shift, force my feet apart, feign nonchalance, but I can feel her eyes studying me—seeing too much.
“I’m fine,” I lie, voice steady. “Just… it’s been a weird couple of months.”
She nods slowly, stepping up to the counter. “Right, like the hot cop changing your locks after someone broke into your place and…nothing was taken?” She gives me a look. “I feel like we’re missing a piece of this puzzle.”
I force a laugh because I can’t tell her the truth.
I knew it was him. I knew he had come back. I knew he had been there before I even looked around my apartment. Before I even saw the tickets, he left for me.
Instead, I reply, “The cop was cute.”
“Sure. Sure.” She’s handing cash to the kid working in exchange for two huge beers.
I hate beer.
She pulls a ticket out of her pocket, reads it, and groans. Her full lips tilt down into a pout.
“I can’t believe you traded your tickets for these.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t stomp her feet like a toddler.
“Two tickets magically show up in my recently burgled condo. Do you think it’s a good idea to use them?”
She says nothing as we walk up the stairs to the 300-level seating. I had traded one of the temps at work for his two tickets. He was too willing to swap when he saw our rink-side seats next to the players’ bench. My stomach bottoms out as we reach our row. I hate heights. I grip the railing, suddenly lightheaded. This is too high up.
“This place is massive…” I murmur, leaning into Rosie.
She spins around suddenly, bumping my beer and spilling half of it on the ground.
“Ah! Sorry, girl, that’s alcohol abuse.” She jokes.
Thank god—less for me to choke down.
We’re taking our seats when she continues.
“This is the arena for the NHL team, but these beer league teams are drawing insane crowds, and the pro team is on the road this week.”
That makes sense. The place is nearly full. The game is to raise money and teddy bears for the local children’s hospital; these events always draw a huge crowd. Add in the Bushy Beavers ’ infamy, thanks to TikTok and Instagram, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s sold out. The chair under me is hard and cold; consequently, my legs are rubbing together. The movement creates heat and friction, sending a pulse of electricity up my core. Just knowing he’s here fucks with my head.
The lights dim, and loud music starts to play. A siren sounds as spotlights and strobe lights kick on. I’ve never been to anything like this and have no idea what to expect. A deep voice sounds over the loudspeaker, announcing the entrance of the Bushy Beavers . Rosie and I giggle at how absolutely idiotic the name is.
Welcome to the Jungle plays as the players are announced individually. Then, they skate onto the ice, forming a human chain, moving so fast. The crowd erupts in cheers as a group of players sinks onto one skate, their left foot straight in front of them, hooking the player ahead. One guy at the front pulls the chain, and they do what can only be described as an interpretive dance with their hockey sticks.
Leaning to Rosie without taking my eyes off of them, I ask. “What is happening here?”
She laughs, “They perform, duh! That’s how they went viral.”
I wrinkle my nose as they continue, eventually rising to their full height as many Beavers skate onto the ice. They are colossal mascot costumes, with varying neon bikinis on. Around the bottoms, what looks like enormous pubes stick out.
Rosie and I groan and laugh, and flashes overcome the arena and screams erupt from the crowd.
This is so stupid.
Hilarious but stupid.
I spot him without looking. He is leaning against the door to their bench, helmet off. Rather than observing his teammates, his eyes are fixed on two guys who, from here, look to be the temp from work and his friend. Even from this height, I can see the tension in his jaw. He’s not watching his team. He’s watching them. When another player crashes into him, he shifts, scanning the arena. We’re so high, but I can see his ragged breaths—the way they punch through his chest. It looks animalistic, and I can’t stop the chill that runs through me.
I’m mesmerized, watching him as another player shoves him into the box, still breathing heavily and glaring at the seats I should be in. The sound of the buzzer startles me back to reality. The game is about to start, and Rosie squirms beside me, already fully invested. She leans toward me, not taking her eyes off the ice as the puck is dropped and the Beavers take possession of the puck.
“God, doesn’t this make you so hot?”
I scrunch my nose at the question because, no, it does not.
This makes me feel trapped. Caged.
The game is a flurry of rapid movements that I miss. My eyes are locked on Adrian, #55, on the bench. Other players poke at him and slap his helmet. I squint my eyes, trying to read his expression beneath his helmet, but it’s useless; we‘re too far. He stares straight ahead, leaning forward slightly, looking like a bomb waiting to detonate. The crowd cheers when a goal is scored, and I drag my eyes away from him to the players on the ice. They all move so fast, so much quicker than I realized.
Adrian’s huge presence grabs my attention as he enters the ice, towering over most other players. He moves with precision and control, similar to how he walks. The movements capture me, and I watch the puck pass back and forth. He intercepts it and explodes forward, racing toward the net. He weaves through players from the other team, his white jersey a flash among their green. The hit surprises me—I was so focused on him that I missed the other player ahead until Adrian slams into him. The entire arena flinches. It was violent.
Rosie winces, grabbing hold of me. “Oof—your boy doesn’t hold back.”
Her words spread warmth through my body.
But he’s not…
Adrian doesn’t stop to check on the other player, who’s still lying on the ice. He gets to the puck before his teammate and shoots. Its speed prevents me from seeing it make contact with the upper corner of the net. The crowd erupts, and he doesn’t celebrate. He skates toward the bench with no celebration, no look of satisfaction. His head whips around toward us, and my breath hitches.
There’s no way he can see us, right?
I swallow hard.
Maybe I get the hockey thing.
Rosie leans in as the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first period. Her voice laced with amusement. “You’re looking a little flushed, babe.”
Standing, I force myself to laugh.
“It’s hot in here.”
She loops her arm through mine as we walk toward the concession, chattering about the game.
“Rose, I didn’t know you were such a hockey fan.”
“Oh, you have no idea. Just wait until you meet Greg.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “He’s such a babe and really a nice guy. He said we can meet him after the game, and he’ll drive us to the party.”
I try to ignore the nerves that fire over the blind date I allowed her to set up. Well. Allow might be generous. She suggested we ask her friends on the team if we could crash the party, and I said that sounded great. It wasn’t until later that she mentioned setting me up with the other Team Captain. Part of my brain screamed that it was a bad idea; I was poking the bear. The other part of me is so fucking angry he violated my space that I immediately agreed.
Walking, we pass by a store lined with merchandise, including jerseys. I pull her toward it, having a devious idea. She skips away to a clothing rack, flipping through the jerseys. Some are white, and some are a beautiful blue color. She pulls one out and holds it up with a triumphant expression.
“Look! Get this one!” She squeals.
The silly beaver on the front makes me roll my eyes. I spin it around, seeing #55. The name Liberty is in bold blue letters. I run my fingers across the fabric; it’s rough and scratchy, like him. I consider buying it, putting it on, and wearing his jersey. I imagine him seeing me in it. The excitement of it is shocking and unexpected. It also feels so safe, as if he would want or expect me to wear his number, so I shake my head and put it back.
Rosie’s eyes narrow, and a gleam of adventure flashes through them.
“What are you thinking, Alexandria?” She rolls the ‘r,’ in Alexandria.
I step to the next rack, filled with emerald-green jerseys. On the front, a large Sasquatch makes a mean face. I flip through each until I find the one I want. Then, I call Rosie over my shoulder to confirm I have the right one.
He thinks he can come to my home without an invitation?
“Greg’s the Captain, right? The Grizzly?”
She brushes against me as she steps up to see what’s in my hands and sucks a breath in, giggling.
“You’re so bad. If he sees you in another guy’s jersey, he’ll lose it. It’s super taboo for a guy’s girl to wear another guy’s number.”
A smile spreads across my face, and I must have no sense of self-preservation at all.
“Good thing I’m not his girl.”