Chapter 7 #2
The music does little to drown out the world that’s sticking to my skin like glue. My fingers tap an erratic rhythm against my thigh as I breathe hard into the scarf that’s quickly becoming too much to bear and is fogging up my fucking glasses.
I keep my head down, wading through the crowd, humming below a whisper in an attempt to distract myself.
The only reason I don’t tuck tail and run is because I want to see Leo in the flesh. Need to. I deserve to finally breathe the same air as him for more than a couple of seconds. It’s my due.
It must be my lucky day because I manage to get a seat between several groups of Phoenixes supporters, and for a second, it’s like I can finally breathe. My eyelids fall shut, and I go through breathing exercises to calm my nerves. In for four. Out for seven.
Once the violent buzzing beneath my skin finally disperses, I make an effort to loosen my limbs: rolling my shoulders, tipping my head side to side, and stretching my back. Finally, I feel stable enough that I won’t have a breakdown.
If I came here with Joyce, I’d be able to tolerate all of this better. But doing it alone feels like a suicide mission. At least I’m wearing my good socks, and none of my clothes are tight, itchy, or restrictive.
Praise be my foresight for dressing in nonstimulating clothes.
Removing my headphones, I replace them with Loops and finally survey my surroundings.
The place is packed to the brim for the highly anticipated game.
There’s no way any of the guys will notice me.
I’m not too close to the ice, and not too far away.
Players don’t look at their opponents’ supporters, right?
Because I’m currently the enemy. In case they do look, I have to hope the hat throws them off my scent. That’s the idea, at least.
Pulling up my phone, I internally cringe at Mom’s confirmation message that we’re finally having dinner with Jacob’s family at the end of the week, then click into Leo’s latest text.
Leo: You’re going to regret that.
I grimace when the music and lighting changes, and then people start skating around the ice while holding up flags before leaving again.
The refs come flying in next. People suddenly leap to their feet, cheering their heads off, and it takes me a second to realize why.
Goosebumps explode along my skin as the players skate onto the ice, with the goalie leading the way.
The intensity of the atmosphere and the spotlights have my hair standing on end.
Anxiety burns into exhilaration. Tension morphs into anticipation.
It multiplies when he prowls out, dripping with shades of gloom that come with the first day of winter.
Every player before him seems to stare down their opponents, take in the crowd, or lose themselves in the slide of their blades along the ice. But Leo’s different.
No, he scans the sea of people like his true foe hides in the stands.
For a moment, everything stops.
His eyes land on me.
The world stills. Tilts. Teeters on the precipice.
My blood stops pumping. The final second before the bomb goes off.
The air plummets ten degrees, and it’s like the crowd goes so silent that nothing can be heard except blades slicing across the ice.
Violent shivers ripple down my spine as if he’s consuming me whole, mind, body, and soul. But . . . maybe I’m imagining it?
My eyesight’s shit. I can’t be sure if he’s looking at me or in my general direction.
I swear the golden brown of his eyes morphs into vicious black as he consumes every inch of me, leaving a sour taste behind.
Leo recognizes me, and he hates it; his lips are curled in a sneer, brows flattened into a straight line.
The expression disappears just as fast, but there’s something so . . . hostile that remains. I mentally shake my head. Maybe it wasn’t recognition, just a way to intimidate the other team.
There’s an edge to the way he holds himself from then on, like a chip on his shoulder he can’t get rid of. Usually he has the grace of a sharpened blade, but tonight he’s more like a wolf moments away from going for the jugular. I swear I hear him silently seething.
Whether it’s wishful thinking or a trick of my imagination, his eyes keep flitting over the crowd throughout the national anthem, and each time, my hopeful little heart is convinced those golden eyes end up on me.
The game starts, and within seconds, he’s body-slamming one of the Phoenixes players into the plexiglass even though the guy doesn’t have possession of the puck.
I think. I’m honestly not really paying attention to the game.
I can barely see the puck—I wouldn’t be able to even if it were flying right in front of me.
My brain struggles to process stuff like depth perception—another reason why I suck at sports.
Is bodychecking someone unprovoked allowed? Probably? I spent eight hours researching and watching games, but I’m still confused as shit—unsurprising, since I spent ten weeks playing soccer when I was fifteen and never figured out the rules beyond kick the ball within the lines.
It’s harder than trying to understand the rules of a card game. It’s not like all the hockey romances I’ve been reading have taught me much beyond hitting the puck into the net.
I mean, surely it’s not allowed . . . unprovoked? I . . . fuck it. I’m entertained enough just watching him move across the ice.
Maybe also a little hot and bothered by the brutality. So, sue me.
The crowd is bursting with life. Everyone—on the other side—is living for Leo’s display of bloodlust. He’s seven parts aggression and three parts tact.
Not once has he passed to Jack—it’s blatantly obvious to anyone with eyes that Leo’s ignoring the guy, and it makes me happier than he’ll ever realize.
Leo seems completely possessed. He’s acting like a different person who’s fueled solely by aggression, and every single person here is losing their ever-loving mind.
I’m on the edge of my seat, eyes glued to him. If he’s in the sin bin, that’s where my attention is. If he’s on the ice, that’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I’ve watched countless reels of footage of Leo in action, and this is somehow the best and worst game I’ve ever seen him play.
The slightly frustrated, yet confused, yet pleased expressions on the Serpents’ fans’ faces mirror my thoughts.
The Phoenixes, on the other hand, are acting like someone killed their dog.
But Leo is John Wick.
He’s a man on a mission who’s turning hockey into an individual sport—and his team seems pissed and simultaneously pleased.
The coach is screaming at him from the side, but no one appears to be in the mood to stop his rampage.
This has to be the best game they’ve had this season, and Leo shows no signs of slowing down.
He must be getting his contract reviewed or something. It’s the only thing that could explain the sudden unearthly talent. Because, shit, if he plays with this level of precision every game, he’ll go down in the history books.
By the time the break—intermission? Quarter time? Fuck knows—rolls around, I slump back into my seat. My legs heave out a sigh of relief from jumping up and down for the past however many minutes.
I almost feel for Leo and the ass-whooping he must be getting. But to my complete and utter dismay, his name pops up on my phone.
Leo: Are you watching?
I reread it to be sure.
A chill goes down my spine. No, he can’t know it’s me.
Play it cool.
As far as he’s aware, we don’t live in the same state, and the one time he went to the state I’ve claimed to reside in, he made no suggestion to meet up.
It’s purely a coincidence that he’s asking me this.
Mina: You’ll have to be more specific with your question. I have a broad range of interests and could be watching anything.
I survey my surroundings like he might be hiding somewhere, staring straight at me, but no one gives two shits about my existence—especially not the kid beside me who spent the entire game playing Subway Surfers and wearing noise-canceling headphones.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Leo: Can you do me a favor?
Why can’t he just outright say it? Ugh. The suspense is killing me. I let a minute pass in the hope that he’ll save me the mortification of agreeing to something I’ll hate. But at the two-minute mark, I break and fire off a response.
Mina: Depends on what it is.
Leo: Don’t take your eyes off me. I’m winning this game for you.
My eyes bulge out of my head, body flushing hotter than any person should.
Leo: And one more thing.
Lord, give me strength.
Mina: What?
Leo: You’re going to be screaming my name by the end of the night.
My stomach tightens involuntarily, and I groan into my hands. These sexual innuendos are going to be the death of me.
And because I’m a sucker for pain, I respond.
Mina: Give me a reason to.
I’m almost grateful that this is happening over the phone. If he said that to me face-to-face, I bet my grandma’s prosthetic hip that I would be stunned stupid.
My gut turns as I wait for a response that never comes. The players speed back onto the ice, and I’m hit by a sudden wave of emotional exhaustion.
Leo’s back in my sights, reenergizing my empty well with each minute he’s on the ice. The cacophony of loud, grating, piercing sounds has me sinking deeper into my seat, wishing I could step outside for two minutes of peace and quiet.
My hopelessly romantic heart staggers each time Leo looks my way. I’m half tempted to run down the stairs and press myself against the plexiglass to get a closer look at my man.
Both teams have changed their tune after the break. The Phoenixes’ new focus appears to be taking Leo down, while the Serpents’ game plan quickly changes from teamwork makes the dream work to everyone pass to fucking Duval.
Their plans are halted every time he gets swapped out.
I don’t hear from Leo during the second intermission, but I roll my eyes when I see a comment from Jack about how Leo’s too good for me. For the hell of it, I reply with a swift “fuck off” before responding to the emails about my upcoming book release.
The game starts back up for the final period, and the Phoenixes continue with their attempts to gang up on Leo, but his teammates have picked up the slack, guarding him like he’s their crown prince.
Still, none of the Phoenixes’ players are free from Leo’s rampage of body-slamming and getting into fights. I didn’t think it was possible, but my man has more energy and aggression than he did before. He’s back with a vengeance.
The blood dripping down his face does something ungodly to my stomach. I snap a picture so I can swoon about it some more once I get home.
I’m cheering the Serpents on, and it’s making me stand out worse than a sore thumb amongst the moping Phoenixes fans. They look like they want to brawl because their—our?—beloved team has only scored a single goal this entire game.
The Serpents have scored five goals—two of which were courtesy of Mr. Duval himself. My Leo.
Leo clocks Jack’s shoulder, then elbows him in the face. My jaw drops, and the heavens fucking open because I’ve never seen something so beautiful. I want him to do it again.
I’ll be sure to rewatch a video of it later.
Leo then dodges another guy and does some trick with the puck that has everyone on their feet and screaming.
I’m not sure what it’s called, or how to describe it beyond catching the puck in midair and doing some swirly thing with his hockey stick.
Whatever it is, it’s impressive enough that I’m up, too, shouting for . . . I guess the other side? My side?
The puck hits the net.
Again.
Make that six–one.
The crowd goes fucking wild.
Hell, I go wild.
Leo waves the hockey stick in the air, and because I’m stupid, I tell myself that he waves it my way. I scream his name for the hell of it, and I swear his brown eyes lock onto me.
I think.
God, I wish I had better vision—I shouldn’t have put off getting my eyes checked for so long.
All I know is that the overhead TV captures the victorious gleam in his eyes as if he’s a man who just won a war. But all I can think is that what I’ve done over these past few months isn’t enough. I’m done watching him from afar, breathing in his secondhand scent.
I need more.
I need to approach him.