Chapter 16 #2
“Everything alright?” Eric asks, catching me staring—gawking—at him.
“F-Fine,” I stammer, promptly continuing my own warmup routine.
…Which is as equally suggestive as his own.
Thank God the helmet hides how red I’ve turned, because my mind’s far from hockey.
Closing my eyes, I’m subjected to intrusive flashes of Eric and I in bed, his body covering mine, rocking into me with the same steady pace as he moves now, hardly a foot away.
I’ve fantasized about us together countless times, but now I have visual confirmation of everything my imagination has ever cooked up.
This isn’t an intentional honey trap distraction by one goalie to another. It’s just an appearance of suggestiveness brought on by my attraction to him. Any other goalie, and I wouldn’t become so flustered.
These stretches aren’t a gimmick, I scold myself mid-routine. Focus up.
Yet when my eyes meet his during a rather lewd hip roll we happen to perform in-sync, I nearly lose my balance.
A shiver of desire races down my spine. Memories of our intense phone conversation return in full force, but I can’t think about that.
I can’t lose sight of why we’re both here. We’re professionals.
To my relief (and my dismay), we finish our reps not long after those sordid thoughts crossed my mind. Eric stands to his full height, an impressive wall of muscle and gear. God, if only we could touch skin to skin. I’d turn into a puddle right here on the ice.
By now, fans who bought tickets have begun pouring into the arena to find their seats. A pair of Eric’s teammates skate over, asking if they can take some practice shots with him for their own warmup.
Once we go our separate ways, this charged moment we’ve shared will be over. Once the pregame ceremonies are finished, everything else will fall to the wayside as we hone in on our job—defending the net with all we have.
As if sharing similar bittersweet thoughts, Eric lingers.
“Just give me a minute,” he tells his teammates who are eager to practice shooting the puck. After they agree, he pivots back to me. “Let’s both enjoy this series, James.”
I don’t need to be able to see his full face to know he’s smiling beneath his helmet.
Eric’s eyes have little crinkles in the corner.
He’s as excited as I am to get started. I expect him to let me go, ending our role model worthy display of good, healthy sportsmanship.
Instead, he leans in a little closer, his skate threatening to cross the red line.
“And just remember, James,” he murmurs so only I can hear, “you’re a talented, extraordinary goalie who isn’t ruled by his fears.”
And then Eric shifts away, skating off as if he hasn’t just left me flustered and overheated inside my gear. He rejoins his teammates who are happy to have their starting goalie back in the net.
The sound of my beating heart is louder than the crowd, the slam of pucks hitting boards, the slick scratch of skates on ice. It’s overwhelming.
I finish warmups with my team and then head down the tunnel to return to the dressing room.
I just need a few moments away from the ice to think and collect myself.
I take a seat in front of my slot, still reeling from the sight of Eric’s body moving in time with mine for warmups.
Foolishly, I thought being in his presence wouldn’t have such an effect on me, but it’s impossible not to be drawn in by Eric and his magnetism and charisma.
If I wasn’t already hopelessly in love with him by now, I would be after this unforgettable moment.
But the few remaining minutes before game one aren’t the time to unpack my feelings.
The rest of my team shuffles in to grab their helmets and to suit up the rest of the way.
Last minute speeches from Coach Miller and Callahan rile everyone onto their skates.
The goal of tonight’s game is straightforward: defeat the Seadogs in their home barn to put them on the back foot from the start.
We line up again in the tunnel. For a sport that’s so fast-paced, there’s so much waiting, so much anticipation built up ahead of a game. There’s order and ceremony involved in the playoffs, more so than in the regular season.
Once again, the Comets are given the signal to come out onto the ice to get into position for the national anthem and then the first period.
The forwards and defensemen stand at our blue line, and I take up my spot in the crease.
My eyes drift to the jumbotron with a simulcast of the television feed.
The rest of my teammates aren’t interested in watching what comes next, but I am.
The public service announcer’s voice booms as he introduces the Seadogs players, starting with their captain.
Braydan Beaumont comes out of the home team’s tunnel with a bright spotlight following him.
All around me, the audience erupts into screams and cheers, but the excitement only grows as each line of forwards and defensemen are introduced one by one until only one starting player remains: the goaltender, Eric Sinclair.
Just as he did at All-Star Weekend, Eric raises his stick to the crowd, showing his thanks for their outpouring of love.
With all players on the ice, all that remains is the national anthem. I crane my head upward to stare at the flag, glowing bright under the spotlight. Emotions run together like spilled paint on a blank canvas. Competition roars in my veins, a steady drum beat yearning for victory.
Our two teams have of course encountered each other during the regular season, but that was before All-Star Weekend, before Eric and I had ever shared words.
The dynamics between us are different now.
We’re friends—close ones, I’d argue. We both understand what’s at stake and how hard we’ve worked to make it this far.
We both want to win the series and go on to the next round, and we both know the other is a formidable opponent.
In my heart, I know we’re about to experience an incredible series, the kind hockey fans fantasize about when they imagine the perfect playoff season. The ending will be bittersweet for one of us.
I've never been more determined to win, and I expect nothing less from Eric.