23. Tyson
twenty-three
Tyson
It’s been over twenty-four hours since I saw Lottie, and I’m still hung up on not being able to say what I needed to. I wanted to so badly. As much as the museum seemed like the perfect place to meet up, it was, in fact, not. It was too public, and the vibe was off.
Not to mention the fake date lurking around.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy my day with her, but I failed. I had one task; tell her how I feel. As my frustration mounts, I zip my bag, and it’s all I can do not to hurl the whole thing at my stall. Not wanting to draw that kind of attention to myself, I carefully stow it.
I’m only here for a few weeks. Every day that passes is another day she’s spending with Bodan. Sure, she says it’s all business … but I don’t trust him. I’ve seen the way he looks at her, and he loves every minute of her attention. I would put money on the fact he’s waiting to make his move.
To top that off, it’s game day, and I’ve developed a lump in my throat.
I’m chalking it up to the pressure riding on me to perform.
I’ve done enough deep-breathing exercises to know this lump is going nowhere.
There’s a low murmur from the guys as they pull on gear.
I don’t engage much with the chirping, but as team captain, I make sure to give everyone a nod. I mostly hover near my stall.
Taking another deep breath, I focus so hard on filling my lungs, I barely hear the vibration. When it buzzes again, I realize it’s my phone. I’ve got a few seconds before I need to get on the ice, but I grab it, and my stomach drops like I’ve taken a punch.
Lottie: Hey, just letting you know I made it to the game, and I’m wearing the holy jersey.
Chuckling, I catch what she did with the wordplay—from holey to holy—and I smile. Sure, it’s not the wag jacket I often pictured her in, but my jersey feels special too.
But then the room tilts as it sinks in.
She’s HERE!
My pulse is suddenly everywhere—in my throat, in my ears, in the tips of my fingers—as I struggle not to drop my phone. Seriously, did she tie her mom up and lock her in a closet?
Okay, that’s a little extreme.
Excitement surges through my veins, racing all through my extremities until even my toes tingle. I text back fast, tossing a look over my shoulder to make sure no one has left the locker room yet.
How are you here!?
With wide eyes, I wait for a reply, because she’s not supposed to be here—because her mom hates me and hates hockey even more—and because if she’s recognized, this could turn her fake-dating situation into a scandal.
No response!
Around me, the guys snap helmets on. Bryce slaps my shoulder on his way out the door. My feet won’t move. One by one, the stalls empty. The knot in my throat swells as my time runs out, and I reluctantly curl my fingers around my phone. I’m about to stuff it back into my bag when it buzzes!
I know, it’s shocking. I asked Bodan if he wanted to go on a fake date to see the game. My mom was excited about the potential photo of the two of us together. Every time they go viral, her ratings go up a point. So, we’re here together. Perfect decoy, right?
My chest hollows out in an instant. Of course she’s here with Bodan.
Her public boyfriend.
The one who can sit beside her without anyone questioning it.
I picture it without meaning to. Great, now I’m going to throw up. I can’t stop the image from replaying in my head—her leaning toward him to pose for a photo. She’s playing her role. I get it, but I don’t trust he won’t try to swoop in.
The sting rises in the center of my chest—hot as blue fire.
But then something else pushes through, stronger than the sting.
She came to my game.
Even though her mom hates hockey, Lottie risked being here. She wanted to be here so badly, she brought Bodan just to make it possible. That feels like it means more than it does on the surface.
I’ll find you .
My heart pulses in my throat as I can’t stop thinking about her sitting next to Bodan, knowing he’s working hard to win her over. Any guy would. I force a grin despite myself, tuck my phone away, and hurry out of the locker room.
The arena’s roar crashes over me as I take a warm-up lap. Scanning the crowd, it’s effortless to spot her. Our gazes are so in tune, we connect instantly.
She’s a few rows up, and like she warned me, she’s tucked beside Bodan. He has no clue how lucky he is to be on a date with Lottie, even if it is fake. When she sees me, her mouth curves into a smile I swear she’s been saving just for me.
I lift my glove and wave.
She waves back.
Bodan waves too. In my opinion, he’s a little too enthusiastic and obvious, like he’s greeting a best friend across a parking lot. I chuckle under my breath. Buddy, you have no idea. I shake my head as I get ready for the puck drop.
Everything narrows, like it always does, to just the ice and the puck.
The first period is a little out of sync.
It feels like everyone’s trying to establish dominance.
Despite that, we get control of the puck, and Jake Twiles takes off on a rush that makes my stomach clench.
It’s looking good until their goalie shuts him down with a glove save that brings the crowd to its feet.
Emotion rises in my throat as I steal a few seconds to look at Lottie.
Sitting on the edge of her seat, her gaze fixes on me with so much focus.
Not at all like she sat at the museum lecture, which makes me chuckle.
Poor Bodan. He has no idea … What is that, like the third time I said that about him?
That’s like his slogan. No-idea Bodan. I like it.
Back in the game, Twiles gets loose again.
He snaps one on a breakaway. I skate past our bench, my jaw twitching as I force myself not to look at the crowd. Stay focused, Ty . For the most part, I do. It’s easy to be consumed by the game. It’s a first language to me.
Late in the period, Taz catches a cross-ice pass and snaps the puck toward the net. It goes in clean. The horn blares, announcing the tie, and the sound punches straight through me.
The Stripes take a second to celebrate with a few fist pumps, but my eyes lift up to the stands. Lottie’s on her feet, and the expression on her face makes my chest feel too full for my ribs.
The game grinds on. In the second period, Stripes’ player Chas Sullivan buries a one-timer from the left circle, and the arena explodes. My chest constricts, my airway narrowing even more.
In the third period, Jeremiah Precio gets a shot in for our team, and thankfully everything is tight again. That’s not the only thing that’s tight though. The tension coils tighter with every shift.
Midway through the final period, Baptiste Marchand slaps one home. Suddenly, the Stripes are up again. The cheers vibrate through my chest protector. In a risk I’m not sure I’d take, Coach Badaszek pulls our goalie, and my palms start to sweat. We gain a skater.
My teeth clench as my attention snaps back to our unguarded goal.
If there was ever a time to show the team what a defenseman can do, it’s now.
I dig in, pulling every last ounce of adrenaline to drive my skates faster.
I block a shot that rattles my shin, but I don’t stop.
I chase down the puck as if my life depends on it.
The crowd erupts, and it looks like we got this.
With seconds left, East player Reeves fires it from the red line, and when it slides into our empty net, the Stripes win is sealed.
The horn sounds.
I barely register it.
My heart is in my throat. This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go.
As I skate off the ice, I toss one final glance toward Lottie, who’s politely clapping when her eyes lock on to mine.
A jolt of electricity shoots through me.
I may have lost the game tonight, which sickens me, but in a tiny silver lining I didn’t see coming, something else is slowly, and finally , coming together.