10. Chapter 9
Josie
The VIP box is bedlam, and I have never been happier in my entire life.
"GO! GO! GO! YES!" Darcy's screaming with her whole chest, a half-empty cocktail glass clutched in one hand as she pounds her fist against the rail. "Did you SEE that pass? Tell me you saw that pass!"
"I saw it!" I'm screaming right back, my voice already shot to hell. We're only twelve minutes into the first period. "GET IT BACK! GET THE PUCK BACK!"
The crowd's a beautiful mix of blue and gold, scattered around but enough. It's not a full house by any means. Not even close. But it's more than half, and for a weekend game against a team nobody's heard of, that's a fucking miracle.
My miracle.
I take a sip of my cocktail, letting the tart lime and something sweet roll over my tongue. It's perfect. Cold and sharp and exactly what I needed after the week I've had.
The game's not bad either.
Down on the ice, the Bears are playing like they actually give a damn. They're checking hard, their passes crisp and purposeful, and every time they swarm the opposition's zone, the crowd rises with them.
Rose appears at my side, a fresh cocktail in each hand, her eyes wide with excitement.
"I got us refills because I think we're going to need them.
This is—" She gestures wildly at the ice where Travis Campbell accepts the puck from Sawyer near the Bears net.
"This is insane, right? This is not normal for them? "
"Not even a little bit." I accept the glass she offers, ice cold against my palm, the rim salted and perfect. "They're actually… hockeying."
"Hockeying," Darcy repeats, still not moving from the glass barrier holding her back. "Is that a technical term?"
"Yes. It's a Josie technical term." I clink my glass against hers. "And it means they're doing well."
"You mean they're doing the thing they're PAID to do!" Rose crows, taking a giant gulp of her drink.
I laugh, a real one that bubbles up from somewhere I'd forgotten existed.
Ah… I remember this feeling.
This is what I used to love about sports.
The noise. The chaos. The way a whole room of strangers can become one single, beating heart for one night. The way we all hold our breath together and scream together and ride the same wave of hope and terror and pure, unfiltered joy.
It reminds me of sitting with my dad in front of the old crackly TV in our basement. We'd sneak away with a bowl of popcorn, leaving mom and my sisters upstairs, probably braiding each others hair or something.
Both of us would sit close together, yelling at the screen like the players could hear us through the static. He'd wrap an arm around my shoulder and pull me close every time our team scored, and I'd glow. Fucking glow.
He was the only one who ever got it.
Dad understood me. My passion.
He was the only one who didn't look at me like I was speaking a foreign language when I broke down a play or argued about a penalty call or cared about something that wasn't boys, or makeup.
"Josie!" Rose's voice cuts through the memory, pulling me back to the present. "They're going on a power play! THAT'S GOOD, RIGHT?"
"THAT'S VERY GOOD!" I shout back.
The arena lights dim slightly, the jumbotron flashing with the announcement, and the crowd erupts. A wave of noise crashes over us, so loud I feel it in my chest, vibrating through my bones.
Declan Morrison steps onto the ice for the line change.
And fuck me, he looks good.
The black helmet, the blue home jersey with the C stitched over his heart. He moves on his skates like he was born on them, all power and precision.
Darcy shrieks next to me. Rose grabs my arm, jumping up and down.
But my eyes are glued to him.
His power. His focus. The way his jersey strains across his shoulders as he drives forward, a streak of blue and gold against the white ice. My brain suddenly chooses this moment to remind me of his voice in my ear last night.
You were thinking about me? Tell me what you were thinking about.
A warm ache settles low and hot in my stomach, so I shift against the rail, trying to ease it, but it’s no use. Seeing him like this, with pure athletic power… it's doing things to me I cannot explain.
“He looks so serious down there,” Rose observes, sipping her drink.
Serious is one word for it. Possessive is another. The memory of him whispering mine against my skin, those rough hands all over me in my office.
Fuck. That was stupid. Stupid, and possibly the hottest fucking thing I've ever done in my life.
His eyes are locked on the play unfolding in front of him, but for just a second, his gaze flicks up toward the VIP box.
Toward me.
My cheeks flame, and Darcy glances at me, one eyebrow raised. She doesn’t say a word.
It's still tied. Zero-zero. Twelve minutes of the tightest, most beautiful hockey I've watched in years.
The first period wizzes by, and deep into the second, down on the ice, Mason steals the puck off a defenseman with a check so clean the crowd loses its mind. He dishes it to Beck on a perfect tape-to-tape pass.
"OOHHH!" the whole box screams.
Beck rips a shot at the net, but the goalie kicks it out. The arena groans in unison, a few thousand people deflating at once.
"So close." Rose presses both hands to her face. "I think I'm gonna throw up. Is that normal?"
"Welcome to my entire childhood," I laugh.
"I love it. I hate it. I love it. Christ, I starting to sound like my dad." She grabs another fry, and casts an eye down to where Coach Pearson is pacing at the players box. "Margot is a genius, by the way. These are emotional support fries."
She's right.
Margot, our Michelin-trained team chef, apparently doesn't believe in doing things halfway. Especially not for the VIP Guests.
There's a heaping tray of loaded fries in the middle of us, crispy golden potatoes drowning in molten cheddar, smoky pulled pork, jalapenos, and a drizzle of a tangy sauce I can't stop eating.
Next to it, Darcy ordered a charcuterie board that's the size of a tire.
It's loaded with sliders, mini tacos and a bowl of those little chocolate-dipped strawberries that I keep telling myself I'll stop eating.
"This," I say around a mouthful, "is the best night of my life and I'm not being dramatic."
I grab another fry, the cheese stretching in a long, glorious string, and shovel it in my mouth as the crowd roars beneath us.
"You're being a little dramatic," Darcy says.
"I'm being appropriately enthusiastic." I wash the fry down with a sip of my cocktail—something pink and fizzy and dangerous that Darcy called a 'Beachside Breeze.' "Look at this place. Look at it."
All three of us turn to take it in, this sea of blue and gold stretching from the glass to the rafters. There are foam fingers and painted faces, even a fucking kid two sections who's over wearing a full-length bear costume.
My heart does that thing again. That swelling, aching thing.
Because I did this.
I did this.
"You okay?" Rose nudges my arm, her warm brown eyes soft.
"Yeah." I blink fast. "Yeah, I'm just—" I gesture helplessly at the whole arena. "This is what I love, you know? My dad used to say hockey was the only sport that felt like a war and a dance at the same time."
Darcy's expression gentles. "Your dad sounds like he was a poet."
"He was a sheet metal worker who cried during the national anthem.
" I laugh, and it cracks a little. "Every game.
Every game. He'd point out plays before they happened.
'Watch the winger, Jojo. He's gonna cut to the slot.
'" I smile, because I can almost hear his voice when I say it.
"And you know what, he was always right. Always."
"Well now you're up in a luxury box drinking pink cocktails and running the whole show," Rose says, beaming. "He'd be so proud, Josie."
I smile as the puck pings off the crossbar below. The entire arena gasps as one before exhaling into a groan. Sawyer, in net, freezes the puck, and the ref blows the whistle.
Still 0-0. Late in the second.
"Okay—wait, wait—" I dig my phone out of my back pocket. "Before I forget, I need photos of this. The place is packed, I need some photos for the socials—"
"Ooh, ooh, selfie first!" Rose snatches the phone right out of my hand. "Come here, get in, GET IN—"
She yanks both of us against her, the three of us mashing cheek to cheek.
"Say BEARS!" Rose crows.
I get one glorious glimpse of us in the screen and Rose starts clicking the button. Darcy is doing a peace sign with her champagne, and Rose is mid-laugh with fry crumbs on her chin.
I'm just smiling, and grinning like an idiot in my too-big MORRISON jersey.
"BEARS!"
She taps the screen, clicking away as we change poses, eventually collapsing into a heap of laughter, the three of us a tangle of arms and cocktails and happiness.
This is it. This is the thing I came to Beachside for.
The thing my whole life was missing. People who get it. Who scream at the ice and steal each other's fries and call each other sisters like it's nothing.
I'm still laughing when the screen in Rose's hand starts to buzz and flash.
A photo of a woman with a tight smile and a silver necklace fills the display.
MOM.
"Oh—Rose, no, don't—" I lunge for it, but it's too late.
Rose's thumb, still hammering the photo button, jabs right on the big green button at the side of the screen.
She answers the call without meaning to, her face crumpling in horror as she registers the name now filling the screen.
"Oh shit." Darcy's hand flies to her mouth.
Because they know. They both know. They sat with me in those empty stands and watched me confess that my mother doesn't have the faintest idea where I am. That she thinks I'm freelancing some vague marketing nonsense.
That she'd sooner believe I joined a cult than took a job in professional hockey.
Rose thrusts the phone at me like it's on fire. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Josie, I'm so sorry—"
"Josie? Hello? Are you there?"
And there it is. My mother's voice, tinny and clear, cutting through everything.