Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
The building is so loud it’s almost quiet, the noise becoming a steady ring in my ears. My lungs burn, and my thighs ache. My gloves are slick with sweat, and my hair is plastered to my head underneath my helmet.
Fuck. Please don’t let this go to overtime.
The puck’s pinned against the boards. Our sticks clack and scrape as we dig for it trapped between our skates. Their D-man shoves back. I shove harder.
I’m sure he’s talking shit, but I can’t hear a word of it. All I hear are my own chanting thoughts: win the battle, clear the zone, win the battle, clear the zone.
I wedge my stick under his and pop the puck loose. Their center jumps on it, pulling it to his backhand and scanning for a lane. When he tries to cut around me, I step into him and strip it off his blade.
Fox appears on my left as I push the puck through center. We make a clean entry into their zone, and I slide it through the seam to him, right on his tape.
He cuts inside the defender in one smooth move.
Their goalie squares up, dropping into his stance, glove high, blocker ready, trying to read whether Fox is going to shoot or pass.
He snaps it.
That unmistakable, metallic thwack of the puck hitting the back bar.
Red light.
Fox turns to me, eyes wide, grinning.
I slam into him first, both of us nearly going down. His arms wrap around my shoulders, yelling in my ear, “Holy shit!”
“That’s right,” I shout back, my voice clear in the stunned silence of the Dallas crowd.
We both look up at the clock.
Fourteen seconds.
After their team takes a timeout, we’re back in the circle. Dallas wins the draw and dumps it in.
Ten. Nine.
I beat their winger to the puck along the boards. He jams it loose behind me and passes to their D.
Seven. Six.
We seal the middle, boxing out, sticks in lanes.
Four. Three.
Their point flings a wrister toward the net, but traffic eats it before it gets anywhere close.
Two.
One.
The final horn sounds, and our bench explodes.
Helm crashes into me first. Then Fox. Kettler. Logan. The win is even sweeter for Knolls, competing against his old team. Then the whole team piles on, gloves flying, sticks clattering to the ice. Bodies surround me. One giant mass of helmets and sweat and fucking victory.
Volk skates the length of the ice, a rare, wide smile visible through the cage of his goalie mask. I grab his helmet with both hands, pull him in, and thump my forehead to his.
“We did it,” I choke out.
After our celebration, we line up for handshakes. The guys follow, tapping gloves with the opposing team. One of the Dallas guys grips my hand. “Hell of a series, King.”
It was.
And we won.
We’re advancing to the second round.
I skate off with the rest of my team, chest still heaving, one thought cutting through everything else: I can’t wait to talk to Summer.
We file onto the team jet.
I take my usual spot. Window seat, left side, six rows back. My phone’s out before I’m even buckled in. With hands still shaking from adrenaline, I pull up her contact. It rings and rings before finally kicking me to voicemail.
She’s probably at the afterparty. Or, I guess, the award show could still be going on—
Fox drops into the seat next to me. “Mind?”
“Go ahead.”
Once everyone’s settled, Coach stands in the aisle. “All right. Listen up.” The chatter dies down. “Hell of a win. Enjoy it. We’ve got seventy-two hours until Round 2. Minnesota finished in five. That means they’re fresh and they’ve been watching us all week. So, get some rest and stay locked in.”
We take off, and the cabin settles into that steady hum. I stare out the window, trying to find stars in the midnight sky, but all I can make out are distant lights below. As soon as the Wi-Fi connects, I pull up Summer’s contact, hit call, and wait for her voicemail.
After the beep: “Hey—we won. Can you believe it? You’d probably say you knew all along.” I chuckle. “I know you’re busy. Call me when you can. Can’t wait to hear how everything went. I love you.”
Fox is watching me. “Wow… Throwing out the L-word. When did that happen?”
I search YouTube, and sure enough, her performance is already up. I tap it but press pause, looking over at Fox. “After the party. The one at my place.”
“Right.” He nods. “And it’s going well?”
“Yeah.” My knee won’t stop bouncing. “Really well.”
He cracks open his sparkling water. “Does that mean she’s sticking around?”
“I don’t know.” I rub at the back of my neck. “Don’t think so.”
Fox pauses mid-sip. “Have you guys talked about it?”
“Not yet.”
“What? Why?”
I turn my phone over in my hands. “What’s she going to do in Chicago?”
“… Be with you.” He sounds utterly perplexed.
“What about her career?” I lean my head back against the seat.
“Don’t actors and singers and stuff travel a lot? Why should it matter where her home base is? Or you could do long distance, I guess.”
He says it like it’s all so simple. And I don’t know… maybe it is. “Yeah. We’ll figure it out.”
Fox takes another long pull of his drink.
I can feel him waiting for more, but I don’t give it to him. “Are we done talking? Can I watch this now?” I hold up my phone.
He waves me on, but leans on the armrest to watch, too.
I press play.
And there she is.
She’s stunning. Her hair falls in loose waves, and her dress is different from the one she sent me a picture of earlier, but she looks just as good in this one.
My focus isn’t on her outfit, though. It’s on the way she seems a little nervous, at first, yet still owns the stage.
How she settles into her stride around the chorus, and the smile she shoots at the camera when she does.
It’s my favorite one, and I tell myself she did it just for me.
Cash is there, too, but Summer steals the show. I can’t look away.
“Damn,” Fox says. “They’re good.”
I swallow. “Yeah. She is.”
She looks happy. Really happy. And so in her element.
Fox gives me a look I can’t quite read. “You good, man?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I reply, though I’m not sure. There’s too much emotion churning inside me—from the win, missing being there for Summer, and wanting to talk to her so badly—that I can’t make sense of why watching this is making it worse.
He shrugs, sinking back into his own seat and giving me some room.
I pop in my headphones, and her voice fills my ears. I watch the video again. And again.
On maybe the fifth time through, I’m finally able to pay attention to the lyrics.
Cash joins her for the chorus. Their voices blend. The chemistry is undeniable.
The song is about taking chances. About letting someone in, even when you know it might not last. Falling anyway.
It’s about us.
I think.
I hope.
The performance ends, and the crowd erupts. Summer and Cash hug, both grinning.
The camera stays on them.
Cash says something in her ear, and Summer laughs, throwing her head back. He kisses her cheek.
The video recording cuts.
Fox elbows my side, and I ease my headphones around my neck. “Shit, have you seen all this press she’s getting?”
His fingers tap across his screen, then he starts reading aloud:
CMAs Breakout Performance: Summer Starling and Cash Walker Deliver Show-Stopping Duet
Summer Starling is country music’s newest sweetheart
Cash Walker and Rising Star Summer Starling Spark Romance Rumors at CMAs
“What—let me see that.” I snatch Fox’s phone and read the article.
Scroll.
And the next.
Scroll faster.
And the one after that.
They’re all the same story.
More photos. The red carpet. His arm wrapped around her. Her smiling up at him. The cheek kiss after their performance.
The article speculates.
“Sources close to the pair say they’ve been inseparable during recording sessions.”
“Their chemistry is undeniable, both on and off stage.”
“Could this be country music’s next power couple?”
I read it twice.
Summer with Cash. The perfect country music couple—
I know it’s not real. I know her. That she takes every opportunity to smile, and laughs at her own jokes, how she talks to Grace like she understands her, and has the cutest little snore that she’ll absolutely deny.
I know how her face looks when she’s performing something she means versus something she’s selling.
I know her as well as I know myself, and I know there’s nothing romantic between her and Cash.
“It’s just tabloid bullshit.” I hand his phone back, maybe a little harder than necessary.
Fox nods, pocketing it. “Yeah. Summer’s not like that.”
“I’m sure it’ll blow over.” I crack my knuckles. “Just gossip. Comes with the territory.”
The thing about knowing something is that it doesn’t stop the ugly twist in my gut at the thought of her being with someone else.
I pick up my own phone. Set it face-down on the tray table. Pick it up again.
Headphones back in, I open the video.
Her face fills the screen, lit up and completely in her element. This is the version of her that belongs to everyone else.
But I know the one that’s just mine.
I hit play once more.