12. Devon
Devon
“Chambers!” Grey shouts across the ice, startling me during warm-ups. I skate over to him, my brow furrowed.
“What?” I growl loudly, feeling somewhat annoyed. “What is so fucking important?”
“You need to learn some manners,” Grey tsks, grinning, “especially when you’re in the presence of a lady.”
“What—” I start, confused, until I turn and see her sitting in the stands.
Wearing a fucking Kraken jersey. She has to be fucking with me.
At least this time it looks like she’s taken some steps to try and conceal her identity, but she’s not doing a very good job. She’s easily recognizable with a Kraken hat thrown haphazardly on her head and a scarf that keeps slipping off her face.
“Did you plant her?” I demand, grabbing Grey’s sleeve as he cackles. “Is this a fucking joke? You’re fucking with me on purpose to try and get me to play better?”
“I am a genius,” Grey says, yanking his arm free of my hand. “But I’m not sure even I could have come up with a plan like that. I’m just glad to see it’s working.”
“What?” I frown.
“You’re already acting like you’ve got a fire under your ass.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, skating away from him and back out onto the ice, where the rest of the guys are going through their warm-ups. I can only hope none of them heard what Grey said. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my cool if they start talking about her, too.
Later, when warm-ups are over, and we all huddle around Grey, he says, “I want Chambers on the opening face-off today. We’re rallying around him.”
I feel the team’s dynamic shift around me, and I hate it. I don’t want to be in the limelight. I groan internally, and then we get onto the ice, and I line up across from the Kraken’s center.
From my position on the ice, I can just see the woman sitting in the stands, right above the Kraken’s shoulder. Something hot and driven rolls through my stomach, and when the referee drops the puck, my stick moves faster than light, scooping it and flipping it back to Sammy. The defenders drop back, and I take off across the ice. Sammy passes the puck back to me, and lightning fast, I rocket it into the net.
A score right off the opening face-off—I can practically hear the announcers going crazy. The fans are roaring, filling the arena with unbelievable noise. Sammy and Dole slam into me, and another team member jumps on my back.
“Insane!” Sammy shouts. “That was fucking insane, man!”
I skate over to the bench where Grey is waiting. He has a big, pleased grin on his face. His arms are crossed, showing off two matching tattoos—one that says Ellie and another that says Clementine.
“It’s confirmed,” he says to me under his breath. “You’ve got a good luck charm, and she’s here tonight.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, brushing past him to grab a water bottle.
“Scoring in the first ten seconds of the game?” Grey says, following me. “Unheard of, dude.”
“What, you don’t think I’m naturally talented?”
“I think you’ve never played like this before, and you’re playing like this now,” Grey says, then reaches over and takes the water bottle from my hand. “Now get back out on the fucking ice.”
***
“Devon—Devon—over here!” a reporter calls out, and I sigh, gesturing at him to ask me a question. When he gets the go-ahead, his eyes light up. “We all want to know—what is inspiring this comeback?”
“What do you mean by comeback?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Am I coming back from winning the Stanley Cup last year?”
Red brushes across the journalist’s face, and he swallows visibly. For a second, I almost feel bad for the guy, but the implication that I have something to “come back” from rubs me the wrong way.
“Sorry—I just mean, what is driving you to play like this? Is it the loss of Aldine and Ratcliffe?”
I open my mouth to say something sarcastic, but then I remember Melissa and her offer. I haven’t agreed to that yet, so I wouldn’t technically be breaking a deal if I did.
If I told them the truth, it would be about my mystery woman. The truth would be that, for some reason, seeing her there, knowing she’s watching me, and knowing she’s wearing the other team’s jersey fills my body with adrenaline. It makes me angry just to the point of being amazing, but not to the point of breaking down.
She really is a good luck charm.
“No, it’s actually the night I spent with your mom last night.”
The reporter rolls his eyes, tucking his notepad in his back pocket and stalking out of the room. Another journalist has her hand raised, and I call on her. Her bright, fierce eyes pose a challenge, and I feel my throat go dry.
“Yeah, Chambers, thanks. My question is: Do you have any comments for the accusations that your sour personality is dampening the current winning streak for the Vipers?”
Dampening the winning streak. I wish I could go back to a time when sports were just about the game you played—about performing. About the score on the board or the pass you made, instead of me also needing to be a personality. Sitting here, talking about myself and how I feel after the game.
That’s something they always ask—how do you feel about what happened today? But the truth is pretty much always something they can guess at. If we won, I’d be feeling pretty good. If we lost, I’d probably be feeling like shit. If the refs sucked, I’d be angry.
So why do I need to sit here and waste my time talking to reporters who will just misquote me and write whatever they want anyway?
A surge of anger shoots through me, and I decide I’m done with this whole stupid thing.
I stare at her and frown as I try to think of an answer I can give that will get me out of here the fastest. Then, with a silent huff, I just stand up and leave the podium.