Chapter 30
Skyler
“So.”
I looked up from taping my stick to find Tyler and Erik flanking my stall like a pair of very large, very smug bookends.
“So what?” I said, though I already knew where this was going.
“Tonight’s the night,” Tyler continued, settling onto the bench beside me with the casual grace of someone about to ruin my entire pre-game routine. “The big debut.”
“It’s just a hockey game.”
“It’s Jacks’s first hockey game,” Erik corrected, his accent making the name sound more significant somehow. “There’s a difference.”
“A big difference,” Tyler agreed. “This is like . . . meeting the parents. Except instead of parents, it’s twenty-three brutes with sticks, twenty thousand screaming fans, and a dozen TV cameras.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to make you more nervous.” Tyler grinned. “Is it working?”
“I wasn’t nervous until you two showed up.”
“Liar,” Erik said. “You’ve retaped that stick three times.”
I looked down at my hands, which had indeed been obsessively wrapping and unwrapping the same section of tape for the last five minutes. “I like it tight.”
“Isn’t that what Jacks should be saying?” Tyler snapped, then waved his hands in the air and squealed. “Ooh, my boyfriend’s so tight.”
Erik devolved from a Cro-Magnon caveman into whatever the hell came before bulbous noggins and grunting hunters.
“Please don’t call him my boyfriend in the locker room,” I hissed, glancing about to make sure none of the other guys overheard.
“Why not? It’s accurate.”
“Because walls have ears, and some of those ears belong to people who aren’t ready for that conversation yet.”
Erik glanced around the locker room. The guys were going through their usual pre-game rituals—some listening to music, others stretching, and Murph holding court near the whiteboard with what appeared to be a detailed analysis of why pineapple belonged on pizza.
“Fair point,” Erik conceded. “But you know half these guys already suspect something, right?”
“They don’t—”
“Kowalski asked me yesterday if you were seeing someone,” Tyler said. “Said you’ve been painfully cheerful lately.”
“Painfully cheerful? Is that even a thing?”
“His words, not mine.” Tyler studied my face. “Although, if we’re honest here, you have been glowing harder than a pregnant woman who thinks chocolate goes on Pop Rocks. Like, legitimately glowing. It’s been pretty obvious.”
“I have good skincare.”
“You have a good boyfriend.” Tyler blew me an air kiss.
I threw a piece of tape at him. “Shut up.”
Erik leaned forward, his expression turning more serious. “Are you nervous? About tonight?”
I considered lying, but these were my best friends, the two people who’d held my secret for days and somehow already felt like co-conspirators in whatever this was becoming.
“A little,” I admitted. “I keep thinking, what if someone notices something? What if the cameras catch me looking at him, or what if I react wrong to something, or—”
“Sky.” Tyler’s voice was gentle now. “You’re overthinking again. It’s one game. He’s in the stands with friends while you’re on the ice doing your job. Nobody’s expecting you to sky-write his name or anything.”
“Though that would be pretty romantic,” Erik added. “Do it in blood like real Viking, though. Otherwise, no Valhalla for you . . . or your tight boy toy.”
“Good God! You’re not helping,” I said, but I was smiling despite myself.
“Look,” Tyler said, “we’ve got your back. If you want to acknowledge him somehow, we’ll run interference. If you want to pretend he doesn’t exist until after the game, we’ll support that, too. Whatever you need.”
“What I need is to play hockey and not think about the fact that the person who . . .” I gestured at myself, unable to find the words.
“The person who makes you painfully cheerful?” Erik suggested with a smirk.
“The person who matters,” I corrected, “is watching me for the first time.”
“Then play like you always do,” Erik said. “Play like the captain we know you are. The rest will take care of itself.”
Coach’s voice boomed across the locker room. “Warmups in two minutes! Let’s go, gentlemen!”
The familiar pre-game energy kicked into high gear.
Guys grabbed helmets, checked gear one last time, and donned the quiet, focused intensity that always descended before we took the ice.
I stood and pulled my jersey over my head, the weight of the C settling against my chest with a little more weight than normal.
“Ready, Cap?” Tyler asked.
“Ready.”
The arena was already half full, the early crowd settling into their seats with beers and nachos and the anticipatory energy that came with Thursday night hockey.
I skated a few laps to get my legs under me, then moved into our shooting drill, trying to focus on the familiar rhythm of skate-pass-shoot rather than scanning the stands for a familiar face.
I failed.
On my third lap around, I spotted them.
Section 108, about twelve rows up.
Jacks wore a Lightning jersey—my jersey—I realized with a jolt of something that felt like pride and possession all tangled together. Beside him sat Benji, Finn, and a woman I didn’t recognize but who was clearly a friend based on the way they were laughing and gesturing toward the ice.
He looked good.
Really good.
The jersey fit him perfectly, and even from this distance I could see the way his face had lit up when he’d spotted me on the ice. He raised his hand in not quite a wave, but an acknowledgment. I had to force myself to look away before I did something stupid like skate into the boards.
“Found them yet?” Tyler appeared beside me during a line change.
“My seats in 108.”
“He’s wearing your jersey?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Nice. Very subtle.” Tyler grinned and pushed off toward the neutral zone. “Watch this.”
I watched in horror as Tyler made a deliberate lap toward Section 108, slowing as he approached the boards near where Jacks was sitting. At the last second, he raised his stick in a clear salute, grinning up at the stands.
Then he winked.
And then—and I swear my heart stopped—he blew a kiss.
The cameraman was already on it, filming the whole thing and tossing it to the control room where . . . yeah . . . they put it on the Jumbotron.
Jacks’s friends erupted in laughter.
I caught them elbowing each other, delighted by the attention. Jacks looked equal parts amused and horrified, his face flushing even from this distance.
“Tyler’s subtle,” Erik said, appearing on my other side.
“Tyler’s insane.”
“My turn.”
And before I could process what was happening, Erik was skating toward Section 108, stick raised, executing his own version of Tyler’s salute. He was more restrained because Erik didn’t do public displays of affection, but his salute was unmistakably deliberate.
The Jumbotron gods once again did not disappoint.
All four friends flashed onto the screen, each giggling and blushing like schoolgirls caught kissing boys behind the bleachers.
The stands in that section were buzzing now.
Other fans had noticed the attention being paid to what looked like a random group of four people, and I could see heads turning as people tried to figure out what made those particular seats so special.
I should stay away, I thought. I should skate to the other end and just swap jerseys with the opponents. I could defect. People do that. Okay, fine, not in hockey, but I could be the first.
I knew I should ignore that section until after the game, when I could find a private moment to acknowledge that Jacks had come, that he’d worn my jersey, and that seeing him here made something in my chest feel like it might explode.
Instead, I found myself skating in that direction.
I didn’t do it deliberately. I mean, not obviously deliberately.
It was a natural lap that happened to take me along the boards near Section 108.
As I approached, I felt multiple sets of eyes on me and could sense the attention from fans who’d noticed Tyler’s and Erik’s antics and were now waiting to see what the captain would do.
I kept my eyes forward.
I was a professional. I was focused. This was another warmup lap.
But as I glided past, I let my gaze drift up to the stands for just a moment. I found Jacks’s face in the crowd. I let him see me looking.
The smile that spread across his face was worth every ounce of risk.
I completed the lap and rejoined the shooting drill, my heart hammering, knowing that this was real.
Jacks was here.
He was wearing my number.
He and his friends were watching me play the sport I loved for the first time.
And somehow, it felt like the most important game I might ever play.