42. ALIA
ALIA
Halfway into the second period, I am not sure who I’m more worried for: Ironhearts or me.
I’d forgotten how the adrenaline of the sport makes you feel. Even though I’m not playing, I’m watching men I know and admire battle for victory in a sport they love as much as I love cricket.
“I used to get dragged to Rohan’s practices all the time,” Irsia says, still managing to somehow multitask while we sit a couple rows behind the glass.
The sound of the shutter snapping is dulled by the music playing on the speakers as the players go through a quick line change.
“I thought I’d gotten bored of this game, but it’s been good to be here tonight. ”
“They’re playing really well but so is the opposing team.”
“Yes, but—” Irsia tapers off unexpectedly.
She slowly drops her camera into her lap, her gaze locked straight ahead.
I follow her line of vision to where a player from the opposition slides onto the ice.
His grey and red jersey has #34 on it and, even from this distance, I can tell why Irsia’s attention is caught.
He projects an aura that demands attention.
This is a man who’s used to dominating the room he’s in.
In a turn I don’t see coming, he rushes toward their net, colliding harshly with Rohan.
They smash into the boards with a thunk that reverberates in the air.
A loud gasp travels through the spectators and, within seconds, there’s a skirmish which devolves into an all-out fight.
Gloves are ripped, helmets dropped, and punches are thrown.
Rohan and #34 go at it like they have a personal vendetta against each other. I’ve never seen Rohan react this way; with every hit he lands, he receives one hard enough to make me wince. I understand violence is part of the game, but worry whirls in my gut as the seconds drag on.
The referee jumps into the fray and pulls them apart, each team finally taking control of their player. Rohan and #34 are both led into their respective penalty boxes which, I’ve learned, is called the sin-bin. Fitting, really.
The two men sit side by side with a glass wall separating them. I can tell from his stiff posture that Rohan is frustrated and angry. What confuses me is that #34, despite serving a penalty, seems amused. His face flashes on the screens overhead and I catch a glimpse of a smirk under his helmet.
I can’t profess to understand what happened, but it hadn’t looked like #34 was gunning for Rohan. If anything, he stepped between his teammate—the burly Latvian with a constant snarl on his face—and my cousin. I mentally deny that possibility, sure I’ve misunderstood it.
“That fight was pointless,” Irsia mutters heatedly. “I can’t believe Ro and Nix punched each other like that.”
My brows rise in question just as the opposing goalie stops the puck from sneaking in. We’re sitting near Vancouver’s defending zone, so it’s easy to track the play while I ask Irsia, “Who is Nix?”
“Nixon Scott. Number 34. Defenseman for Vancouver.”
“But he’s been circling and interfering with Rohan’s play all evening.”
“That’s the game though,” Irsia mumbles. “The entire point of an agitator is to bother the opposition so they lose their cool.”
“Are you justifying the actions of someone we’re playing against? Rooting for the enemy, Ish?”
“He’s not—”
I don’t hear the rest of her answer because Cal scores and I can’t help it, I bolt upright, screaming in unison with every fan around me.
My face hurts with how wide my smile stretches, my cheek muscles tightening high, making me nearly squint in happiness.
I’m clapping so hard, my palms will sting all night long.
The Ironhearts pile onto each other to celebrate a two-point lead and I laugh at their rowdy yet boyish behavior.
As if he knows I’m cheering for him, as if he feels my pride on his behalf, Cal’s head turns and he zeroes in on me.
Bright lights flash across his face and I can imagine his irises lightening to a glacial green.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs, thumping like an overeager pet who’s caught the scent of her favorite human.
He punches his hockey stick in the air with the confidence of someone who knows how effortlessly sexy he is. Even with a red face slick with sweat, Cal is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
As if putting on a show for me, he deliberately lifts the edge of his jersey to wipe the side of his neck, revealing the cut muscles on his torso beneath the padding.
My fingers twitch, knowing exactly how hard his body is to touch, how warm he gets under my palm.
Or mouth. How those muscles flex when we lay flush together.
Heat curls deep and low in my abdomen when his perfect lips tip up, his wink aimed at me.
The screeching and swooning of the fan girls in the row ahead yanks me out of my daydream, just in time to catch the shine of mischief in his eyes as he skates past us on a victory lap.
“If you keep eyeing each other like that, everyone will know you two are dating,“ Irsia teasingly whispers, bumping her shoulder into me.
“We’re not,” I mumble, dropping into my seat. To my confusion, Irsia snorts. It takes her a second to realize I’m not being facetious and, just as quickly, her giggles subside.
“Aloo, c’mon.”
“What? You’re the one who told me to find a gentleman and helped me pick out a dress for a fling. So that’s what this is. A fling.”
“Is there a rule that says flings can’t turn into more?” she questions curiously.
I’m not ready for more, am I? I don’t sound confident when I protest, “I got divorced only a few months ago.”
“Again, is there a rule that says you shouldn’t be in a relationship soon after ending a shitty one?” she asks. “The question is, do you like Cal?”
“Of course. He’s amazing.”
“And he makes you happy in and out of bed?”
“We haven’t. . .” I sneak a glance around me to make sure no one is listening. Between the music and noise of the game, not a single person is interested in two whispering women. “We haven’t actually slept together. Yet.”
Irsia’s mouth drops open so low, I have the opportunity to pop a chip in to snap her out of it.
“Alia, what the hell?” she splutters. “What about Vegas?”
“I got cold feet. And Cal agreed to take it slow.”
She blinks, stunned. “He did?”
“I mean, we’ve done other things. Incredible things. I never knew it could be like that. The stuff he does with his hands and mouth alone—” I bite my tongue, chagrined. “Sorry, TMI.”
Irsia lets out a quiet guffaw, her face torn between awkwardness and acceptance of this insight into my sex life.
“No, Aloo, it’s okay. You can talk to me about anything.
I’m glad you’re getting what you wanted.
And I’m so happy you found a man patient enough to wait until you’re ready.
But it all brings me back to the same point. You’re dating him.”
“Irsia!”
“He brings you flowers, cooks for you, takes you out on cute little dates, practically falls all over himself to come say ‘hi’ when he should be focusing on winning the game, shoots hearts out of his eyes when he sees you cheering for him, and can’t stop staring at you like a lovesick puppy.
Newsflash: he’s acting like a boyfriend. ”
“He’s a player. He knows how to act,” I argue, even if the words feel hollow.
I will my fraying nerves to settle. This isn’t a situation that requires a fight or flight response, so I have no idea why my entire body is thrumming like I’m under attack.
“He’s amazing, charming, handsome enough to make my brain malfunction with a single look. He can have anyone he wants.”
I’m acutely aware of the discomfort spearing my chest when I picture Cal moving on to a woman better suited to him. She’ll be the one receiving his attention. The comfort of his hugs and the strength of his support would be hers. I’m already envious of this nameless, faceless person.
“I’m no mind reader, but the man looks like he wants you, not someone else,” Irsia says, breaking into my silent spiral.
“I’m a mess. We agreed this would only be temporary.”
“You’re not a mess. And, before you argue with me, know this. That man there? He has women knocking on the plexiglass begging for a chance to get their backs blown out by him daily.”
Acid churns in my stomach at Irsia’s words, jealousy leaving a bitter coating within my mouth. Her expression gentles as she shifts in her seat, twisting her torso to face me. She reaches out to hold my hand in both of hers.
“Even then, Aloo, I’ve witnessed him call you every single night the team’s been on the road, preferring to watch one of your reality TV shows while you chat over the phone instead of going out to pick up other women.
So maybe think about how the two of you have been behaving instead of what you agreed upon months ago. You might realize things have changed.”
Amidst the noise of the arena, Irsia’s words arrest me. I’ve been so careful to not let myself believe Cal and I could turn into something more. But if Irsia sees it too, then maybe. . .
Wishes I’d hidden away for fear of heartbreak push through to the surface, drawing a desperate breath of air.
I slink into my seat with the realization that I’m in more trouble than I bargained for.
The kind I don’t want to find a solution for.
Not when that trouble is embodied by a six-foot-plus sports god who makes me feel like I am the only woman who matters.
My cautious mind would’ve chalked this feeling up to great sex, but Cal hasn’t gotten sex out of our deal. Still, he shows up for me in every way I need him to, never pressuring me to give more than I’m comfortable with.
My gaze sweeps across the rink to where he’s exchanging words with his team as they break their huddle and get into position.
His eyes flicker to me and away so quickly that, if I hadn’t been studying him, I’d have never noticed.
His lips settle into a curve I’ve gotten familiar with and I hold in an audible sigh at how mesmerizing that expression is.
My heart skips a beat, catching me off guard. This is how it started.
I’d spied on him from the deck at Block on Wood because of his smile. It resuscitated a dull, greying heart and infused it with color. And that same smile now barrels me down with a truth I have no way of ignoring.
I’m falling in love with Callum Finnigan.
Like vines creeping up the side of a torn house, covering its broken walls with lush greenery, Cal has slowly filled in the cracks in my life that once felt like gaping chasms.
Maybe I was never meant for casual flings. Maybe this is yet another mistake.
But this one, I refuse to regret.
It’s laughable how terribly my plan has fallen apart. I’d promised myself I would take what I needed from this arrangement and, whenever it was time to let go, I’d wish him well and leave. I’d keep his memories buried within the vault of my desires, never chaining him when he was meant to fly.
I observe jersey #23 zip down the ice with an ease that parallels how stealthily he’s made a home within my heart. And I know there’s no denying it.
I’m his.