Chapter 14
NICKY
Are you coming to the house tonight after the game?
Solnyshka
Yes.
Good. I stopped by HR after morning skate to have a note about our dating status added to our files.
Solnyshka
I’m in Ava’s calendar for tomorrow morning to discuss how she’d like me to proceed with the film crew. It’s likely a conflict of interest to continue having me represent you.
Solnyshka
The rest of the department is very capable of looking after your interests.
The only interests I have are you and Nat. I don’t want anyone looking after those but me.
Solnyshka
Awfully possessive for only a week, Nikita.
If you think I’ve only felt like this for a week, you haven’t been paying attention, solnyshka.
Bea laughs at my text, and I finally look up in the walk-in tunnel.
Amelia snaps some photos from my left, gathering her usual social media content, but I keep my eyes focused forward.
It’s about three hours before our game against Vegas, and I’m eager.
There’s less than a month before the All-Star break in the season, and The Midnight wants to finish this stretch at the top of our division.
We’re getting closer to having a steady run.
We’ve gone back and forth with New York since mid-December, but all of us would feel better going into the break if we gained a few points in the standings before then.
“I don’t think I’ve ever caught you smiling, Baladin,” Amelia calls. She’s looking at the screen on her camera. I slow at her words, realizing I was smiling. Texting with Bea—making plans with Bea—makes me smile.
“I’d tell you not to get used to it, but I try to set a good example for my kid by not lying.
” I toss the words over my shoulder as I pass, her echoing laugh following me the rest of the way to the door that leads to the room where we’ll meet for a team meal.
It’s a rather quippy response for me, but I’ve felt lighter than I ever have in my life this past week.
Every chance I’ve had, I’m either talking to or touching Bea, like a horny teenager.
I haven’t told Natalia that Bea is more than just a friend, for no reason other than having no idea how to approach it.
I’ve never brought a woman around her before—at least not one I was interested in romantically.
Sneaking Bea out before morning has felt odd, given how much they get along, but Bea and I agreed to wait until we had things cleared at work first.
I don’t see color when I think about having Bea in my life.
The world isn’t suddenly brighter, more brilliant in hues previously only reserved for dreams. Instead, I see black and white.
The flash of a billowing gown and sharp pressed suit in the late-spring sunshine.
Frames on the mantel filled with crooked smiles and quiet joy, of the time moving forward and reflected back.
The immutable permanence of something that can only be described in the simplest of terms. I see her as an essential part of who I am and who I want to be.
I see forever.
“Stop smiling so much. It’s really freaking me out,” Hutchy says warily from his seat at the table where my friends are gathered. I relax my face, completely unaware that I’m smiling again, and school my features by looking at the plate of food I just filled from the buffet.
“Stop trying to steal the man’s joy,” Gus defends, elbowing our winger. I set my plate next to Charlie’s and drop into the chair. “I like seeing you happy, Nicky. Don’t find it creepy at all.”
“Thanks?” I can’t help but raise my voice in question. Gus returns to his chicken parmesan, and I turn to Charlie. “Was I really that miserable of a bastard?”
“You were just quieter. Like me,” he says with a shrug. “Remember last season when Crosby and Violet started dating? We all gave him a bunch of shit, even though we loved seeing them together.”
Charlie is right, so I let it pass, digging into my penne pasta and salmon filet, trying to focus on the game tonight.
It’s easy to find the mental thread I have used for years in these situations.
I visualize the ice, the incoming forwards passing the puck.
I sense my defenders closing in on either side, bodies battling for space: to shoot, to block.
My eyes fall closed as I think about the different ways I can lift my glove, shift my blocker, and extend my stick.
I feel an imaginary burn in my legs as the image of me in my head drops into a butterfly block.
The air shifts in the space on my other side, and I open my eyes to see Robbie taking the open seat.
My goalie coach is in a sharp onyx suit and an electric-purple tie that matches the color of our logos.
It’s rare to see Robbie on game night. It’s downright unusual to see him on game night in a suit.
He’s an essential member of the staff, but doesn’t work at the games.
I tilt my head at him as he tucks a thick napkin into the collar of his white button-down and turns to a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
“My wife will kill me if I get sauce on this damn shirt,” he grumbles as he twirls saucy noodles around his fork.
He shovels the bite into his mouth, leaning as far over the table and plate as possible.
Chewing efficiently and dabbing the corners of his mouth with the napkin before he loads up his next bite, he spares me a glance. “It’s not like I’m going to be on TV.”
“You’re behind the bench tonight?” The pieces click into place.
While Robbie works on staff, Jan Ahlqvist, lead goalie coach, is usually with us for games.
I have a great working relationship with Jan, but I’ve always thought Robbie deserved more opportunities to share the role.
It will be great to have him around tonight.
“Yeah, well, make me look good out there, okay?” Robbie continues to eat, and I wonder if it’s his nerves propelling him to finish, like the meal’s about to be taken away from him.
I can’t imagine playing and coaching are that different, but I don’t know what it’s like to be in Robbie’s shoes tonight.
I only ever saw him on the ice, in his crease, cool and calculating.
One of the best goalies in the modern game.
But as he meticulously ensures no sauce touches his suit—much less the napkin spread over it—I find the idea that this is what he was really like, wildly endearing.
Warm-ups have always been a part of playing hockey I enjoy.
I slide into a spot against the boards I favor and begin stretching, while watching my teammates run through their drills.
I steal glances at Vegas’ players and their restrained shots on their own empty net, my counterpart across the ice from me doing his own pre-game rituals.
Over my time in the league, warm-ups have grown their own unique audience.
Die-hard fans getting to their seats early, not wanting to miss out on any moment in the arena.
New fans watching in awe from behind the glass.
And the fangirls. We haven’t figured out what else to call them since “puck bunnies” feels gross, but they arrive with the same energy as concert attendees desperate for a glimpse of their favorite rockstar.
They have signs in one hand and a phone in the other.
They roam along the curve of the glass, clambering at times to get a shot they want or to jockey for a better position.
I’ve learned it’s hit or miss if they’re here because of the game or the ’gram.
While it doesn’t change how I interact with them, sometimes, if it’s the latter, it can make things weird.
Instead, I just tune out as much of their behavior as I possibly can.
I let myself sink into a calmness deep in my very center.
Music blasts over the speakers, and there are pucks being slapped everywhere, making the arena a cacophony of noise.
But over all of that, there is a particularly loud banging on the glass behind me.
It’s the incessant, attention-seeking kind that our ushers and security staff are quick to redirect.
It’s destroying my inner peace, and I begin looking around the ice to see if anyone else has noticed the disruption.
Gus and Obie are directly in front of me, looking over my shoulder at whoever is being a public menace.
They’re laughing, and Gus hollers for the person to be louder. Charlie shakes his head.
“Oi, twenty-eight! Get off your arse!”
It shouldn’t surprise me that it’s her. I rise to my skates, turning on the ice until I’m looking at her through the glass. It’s impossible to keep the goofy fucking smile off my face when I lift my mask to take her in.
Bea beams up at me, with crimson lips and a loose braid over her shoulder.
There’s a black ribbon tied at the end, and I home in on it, thinking of all the ways I’m going to use it later, in the dark of my bedroom.
Her lean legs are wrapped in fitted black jeans, and the rest of her is drowning in a Midnight hoodie. My Midnight hoodie.
“Thieves get punished,” I manage to yell through the Plexi, indicating the hoodie I’ve been looking for over the past two days.
It’s one of my favorites from my first season, worn and comfortable.
Bea’s pupils flare, briefly trying to overtake the warm brown, and her smile morphs into something sultrier.
“Can’t wait, Nikita.” Even with the noise and the thick glass, Bea’s purred taunt slides down my spine.
My cock immediately likes her jovial tone and the possibility waiting after the game, but playing with a boner is a form of torture I don’t relish.
I will it to stop reacting. Bea must notice my impending discomfort because she doesn’t say anything else.
Blowing a kiss and waving, she doesn’t actually ease anything as I watch her perfect ass climb out of the lower bowl, one stair at a time.
“I don’t know if she just helped us win, or ensured we’re fucked,” Obie teases from behind me.
“Shots on me. Now!” I slam my mask down and skate for my net.
Five minutes left in the third, and the scores are still at zero.
Considering how much of the game has been played away from my net, I’d say the guys have had a lot of opportunities to put us ahead, but some games are like this.
Our third line is on the ice, playing good defense as the Las Vegas wingers attempt to move the game over the red line.
A wild pass sends the puck into the stands, pausing game play, and I take a moment to relax out of my crouch.
I glance at Robbie, but he just offers a hand, letting me know to keep doing what I am.
I scrape the edge of my blades into the posts, building up a tiny mountain of ice to keep the blood flowing and my legs loose.
Being a goalie is a lot of hurry up and wait.
It’s being constantly on, but only engaged for short, violent bursts of time.
In a highly competitive game, fatigue can build in my muscles by this point from sheer force of exertion.
But in a game like this, I feel tight because I haven’t had to do as much work.
The shots-on-goal stats are lopsided in The Midnight’s favor, even if we haven’t scored.
It’s given me too much time to think—a potentially dangerous activity on the ice.
At least if it isn’t about the game. It’s not a good idea to let myself get distracted.
Especially not by visions of creamy skin in moonlight.
Hot breath against my lips. Hushed cries of passion.
Whiskey eyes and curls wrapped around my fingers.
Nope, I do not need to let myself become distracted by that.
I chance a look into the stands in the direction of the suites as the game resumes.
I can’t see her, but I know she’s up there, sitting with Violet and Andy.
A whistle blows, and any further searching for Bea comes to a halt when the guys settle up for a face-off.
Both teams changed lines during the stoppage, subbing in their first lines.
I focus just beyond the edge of the puck, letting everything surrounding it blur as it is passed across the ice.
Each slap of the rubber against the wooden blades brings the action closer to me.
I sense Obie dropping back, toward the crease, to provide coverage as the Vegas players forecheck into the zone.
My eyes move without conscious thought, following the puck’s zigzag between skates and players.
My knees bend, lowering me to block out as much of the net as possible.
I grip my stick with confidence, holding tight but letting the heel barely brush the ice below.
The catcher in my other hand is open, wide and ready, relaxed a little closer to my side.
There’s no need to reach; the whole point of my job is to have the pucks come to me in a way.
And it will. I can feel it. A shot is coming.
A sharp crack, louder than the sounds of steel slicing ice, of bodies smashing into each other, of even my own breath, breaks the air of the arena.
It has a finality in its echo, makes time stretch thin, and my vision tunnels.
Round and round the black puck spirals toward me.
It looks like it defies the laws of physics as it travels unimpeded between players, its aim unfailingly true.
There’s no time for reaction. Nothing to be done but brace for the collision, one I’ve absorbed thousands of times before.
The puck hits me square in the chest, directly over my heart, the impact leaving an unusual sting in its wake. Every nerve radiates outward from the site. I want to chase it, follow where the energy goes even as I begin to feel lightheaded and the edges of my vision dim. I skate forward. Once.
Someone calls my name, I think.
I skate again, the world tilting on its axis as I slump to the side.
Tumbling.
No sound.
Collapsing in space.
Then, nothing.
Darkness.