Chapter 31
Just Like Back Then
Wyatt
Aspen’s market square is overflowing with makeshift tables. Today’s the yearly flea market that William brought to life years ago in order to rid himself of his “crap.”
Aria is strolling along next to me, one hand occupied with a bag full of churros, the other…wrapped up in mine.
It’s wild. So wild that I have to keep looking to make sure this is really happening. Ever since that snowstorm ten days ago, we haven’t been apart. I even got a new SIM card so I could give her my number. I mean, the other belonged to the fake Paxton after all.
“There’s Will!” Aria points out William with her churro. He’s standing behind his table bundled up in his snowsuit. “Let’s see what kind of weird shit he’s selling this year.”
“You remember when the mayor of Breckenridge was visiting, and William lost it over his not wanting to buy his toothpick art?”
“Yeah! You know, sometimes I have nightmares about Will getting all blue in the face.”
We stop in front of his table. When Aria starts examining something that looks like a shrunken finger, William thumps his chest.
“A pipe. You interested?”
“There is no way that’s a pipe.”
“You bet it is.” William puts his fists on his hips and eyeballs me with his smart-ass look. “All Aria has to do is try it.”
“Will, you know how susceptible to herpes Aria is.”
“Hey!” She attempts to cast me an angry glance but ends up grinning instead. “You have any no-point cups, Will?”
“Umm. I don’t think so.” Her fingers become entangled with mine again as we move to walk on.
William eyes us skeptically. “Next week there’s an important town hall.”
“And?” I ask.
“It’s the most important one of the year. We’re planning the Christmas party and allocating tasks.”
“We’re aware of that, Will.”
He crosses his arms. “You’d better be there.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Because one never knows with you two. Back when you and Aria first got together, you started to skip every single one and didn’t think I realized your excuses were bunk.”
Aria turns red. “That’s not true.”
William snorts. Ever since we got back together, he’s looked at us with narrow eyes.
He clearly doesn’t trust the situation. Doesn’t trust me.
Most other people have taken it in stride and are happy for us, especially Knox and crew.
But William is really protective of Aria.
He puts his hands around his mouth to form a megaphone and shouts, “HEY, SUSAN, ARIA AND WYATT ALWAYS USED TO SKIP MY TOWN HALLS, RIGHT?”
“I DON’T HAVE A THING TO SAY TO YOU SINCE YOU BLOCKED MY SHOW!”
“BUT IT’S UNSETTLING, SUSAN, UN-SET-TLING!”
“YOU’RE UNSETTLING!”
“ONLY DURING A THREE-QUARTER MOON, BUT IT’S PAST, SUE!” His head turns red. “PAST!”
Aria and I move on. William has long forgotten us, but his exchange with Susan continues to echo across the square. I put my left arm over Aria’s shoulder and pull her toward me as we saunter over to Vaughn’s table.
Over the past two weeks, Aria has worked on my wound three times a day.
I never believed I’d be pain-free again, but she managed to do it.
There’s still work ahead, of course, but not that much.
I’m doing well. So well that Coach Jefferson is going to let me onto the ice for my first NHL game tonight. Home game against Ohio.
Am I nervous? You bet.
Am I going to tuck in my tail? Hell no.
Vaughn is sitting behind his table restringing his guitar. I pick up a cup with a turquoise-colored llama with red cheeks. It’s labeled No ProbLLAMA.
“Oooh,” Aria squeaks. “Cute!”
“Hey, how much?”
Vaughn looks up. “A churro.”
“You can have two!” Eyes shining, she holds out her bag to him as she bounces up and down with joy. His locks bounce up and down as he stands up, too, and, in addition to the churros, he nabs two cinnamon sticks.
And then we move on again, but now Aria’s hands are wrapped around the cup.
“You’re holding onto it like you’re in love.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to break the cup then.”
“Touch it and you lose a finger, Lopez.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I raise my hand to say hey to Knox, who’s getting into his car with Paisley on the other side of the street. “I’m just going to buy Will’s weird pipe and stick it to me.”
“Sexy.”
“I know what you’re into, babe.”
“Well now! You sure you feel ready for the game tonight?”
“You bet.”
“You happy?”
“Happy isn’t the word.” I use her distraction to steal the cup out of her hand and put my fingers back where they belong.
“Hockey’s my passion, and when it’s taken away from me, it’s like being locked up in a big cage.
There’s enough room, yeah, but it’s limited, and you never have the chance to spread your wings. ”
“Well said.”
I accompany her to the door of the B it just happens.”
The guys keep messing around, throwing crap at one another, just because we hockey players are predestined to do that for some reason, but I opt out. I’m thinking about Aria, in the good seats, waiting to see me play.
Eventually, I’m suited up and standing with the others in the players’ entrance.
As soon as the opening music starts to boom through the stadium, my heart begins to race.
We take off, bumping into one another, body check here, body check there.
Caden taps Samuel against the helmet with his stick, and Owen farts—the usual pre-game rituals.
Then our names are called. A projector plays a highlights reel of our games accompanied by epic music and lights, and our names appear in bright neon together with some really impressive bass.
One by one, we hit the ice, and the fans go wild, as does my heart.
It’s mind-blowing; there are so many people, the bass is booming above our heads, there’s a blue pulsating light like we’re in a huge club, and all the stands are aglow because everyone’s holding their phones and taking videos.
We do our laps, and I’m covered in goose bumps.
The way the crowd is yelling, I feel like the coolest guy ever.
NHL openings are the absolute shit. I’ve dreamed about this ever since I was a little kid beneath my NHL blanket.
We move into position. I know that, somewhere, Aria’s watching me, and that makes me feel like I’m on cloud nine. With my gloves on my stick, I skate to the middle of the ice. Fans are chanting my name. It’s all so surreal.
The game starts, and it’s immediately clear that Ohio has no intention of playing fair.
They’re aggressive and don’t even attempt to make their checks and high-sticking look like mistakes.
Their center tries to hit me a bunch of times, which I only manage to avoid because I’m really quick and really good, but Caden takes a bad one and has to be helped off the ice.
Right before the end of the first period, it’s 1–1, and that’s only because I was able to free up the goal line for Paxton through a cheap trick.
I got busted, of course, and had to sit it out for two minutes, causing Coach Jefferson to give me a lecture about how I’ve got to stay out on the ice no matter what.
By the last third our opponents have grown even more aggressive, either because the coach has throttled his team or because they’re getting tired, I don’t know, but the chants are getting rougher.
When Samuel blocks a seemingly perfect shot and Xander passes off to Owen, who manages to dodge a check, his opponent yells across the ice, “You, fucker, I’m going to plant my stick in your nuts! ”
But Owen doesn’t get distracted for a second. This is hockey. It’s how it is. You ignore it and move on. All that matters are the goals.
The opposing defender sets up in front of him and blocks his path to the goal.
Owen pretends to break out to the right and instead passes the puck to the left—toward me.
The center forward and I rush ahead at the same time, and, hoping to throw me off by playing dirty, he yanks on my arm, my injured one, the fucker.
It still hurts. I can definitely feel it, but Aria’s done a good job of getting me back in shape.
Or well enough for me to play, at least. I jerk away from his grip, shift my weight forward, and speed up.
The fans collectively suck in their breath as I take control of the puck at the last second.
But it bounces and slides off my stick. A huge “NOOO!” rings out.
I don’t give up and rush forward once more, check the opposing left winger who’s trying to get in my way, and grab control of the puck again.
The fans let out a collective breath. Behind me the boys are scrapping with Ohio’s team; I hear insults and blades on ice coming after me as I press into the attack zone, raise my stick, shoot and…
Goal.
My first ever goal in the NHL. Single-handed.
The second the stadium clock announces the end of the third period, I feel the mass of my teammates’ well-trained bodies throwing themselves at me.
A real dogpile—everyone screaming in my ear and hitting my helmet.
And then there are all the people in the stands in their green fan jerseys completely losing their shit and all the reporters’ camera lights flashing. But I only have one thought.
I get away from my team and shoot across the ice to the VIP seats right behind our bench.
Then I see her. Aria’s standing behind the plexiglass next to her mom, William, and Camila; she’s in my jersey with number twelve painted on her cheeks.
She’s laughing.
I laugh.
And it’s all like it used to be, just a little bit more.