Chapter 28 Saps Like Us
SAPS LIKE US
FORD
Whenever I hit the ice for pre-game warmups, I usually keep my head down. I shoot the breeze with my teammates, but then I focus on the stretches. Hell, that’s why I play brain games.
After I run through a round of River Ranger in the locker room—spotting animals I pass in the on-screen water, then recalling them in order—I’m ready to tackle Phoenix.
Tucking my phone into the stall, I grab my stick and head down the tunnel alongside Miles and Tyler, who’s currently describing his new foster kitten’s latest antics.
It’s hilarious how obsessed the guy’s gotten with kittens since he started fostering them with Sabrina. But I guess a woman will do that to you—make you feel all sorts of new things.
Like the woman who’s already here at the arena, for me.
I flash back to Skylar’s last text.
Skylar: Should I blow a kiss during warmups? You know, for all our new fake-dating fans? Wait—I’ve got it. I’ll come to the glass, press my fingers against it, and you can skate over and kiss the glass. Make it look desperate.
Ford: A wave will do.
Skylar: You’re so not fun.
Ford: I’m so fun. Like I was last night when you begged me to spank you.
Skylar: Great reminder! I’ll hold up a Spank Me sign.
I laugh, shaking my head at the memory as I push open the gate and skate onto the ice.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her to actually hold up a Spank Me sign.
As I glide across the cool surface, I can’t resist. My gaze drifts to center ice—right where she’s standing, waving, and holding up a sign.
And I nearly trip on my skates when I read the big, bubbly letters—yellow, outlined with black. I’d Knock So Hard To See That.
I fight off a smile the entire time I’m warming up from the insider joke. But also from the color. And when it’s game time, I do everything I can to channel my River Ranger mentality and push her out of my mind.
We’re down by one with nine minutes left in the game. I’m battling it out in the corners with a Phoenix defenseman, who’s shoving me into the boards. He jams an elbow into my ribs. A sharp, bone-rattling ache lances through me. But I put it out of my mind and jab my stick toward the puck.
Ha. Take that, asshole.
I’m off and racing away from the big guy. I’m faster—that’s the job as a forward. I leave him in a spray of ice, passing the puck to Bryant in the neutral zone.
My teammate flies down the ice, full speed ahead. Bryant closes in on the net with our defenseman Rowan Bishop flanking him. With one swift move, Bryant lifts his stick, and smacks that little black disc. In no time, it zips past the goalie and lodges into the twine.
“Yes!” I shout, racing down to high-five Bryant as the lamp lights. “Let’s do it again,” I shout, since we’re not there yet.
“We’re gonna get another,” he says.
“We fucking will.”
We skate over to the boards for the line change. Once I hop over, I hazard a glance across the ice.
Skylar’s on her feet, cheering the goal, jumping up and down.
My chest floods with endorphins. From the goal, I think. Or maybe not.
Because these heady feelings don’t dissipate. They seem to spread as Skylar’s red hair tumbles around her heart-shaped face, her cheeks bright, her eyes probably full of mischief and excitement. She looks so damn good in my jersey.
I just can’t stop looking at her.
Briefly, I remember Brittany coming to games. She always wore my gear too, but looking back, there was something performative about it. Something she seemed to enjoy about being a hockey wife.
With Skylar, it feels real. Like that joy over the goal came from deep within her.
I have to keep reminding myself it’s not real. But it’s getting harder especially when we win, and I impulsively skate over to her and do the very thing she asked me to do. I blow her a kiss.
Well, it’s for San Francisco Neighborhoods.
That’s what I tell myself.
But I know the truth. It’s for me.
“Yup. Called it. Our boy is hap-hap-happy,” Bryant sings in the locker room, flinging his jersey into the laundry bin.
I scowl. “Never pretended I wasn’t.”
Miles scoffs as he unties his skates.
Tyler laughs, while icing his shoulder.
“What? I’m not the team grump,” I argue, nodding toward our defenseman Rowan Bishop—the one who took that title from Max Lambert.
“That’s right. I own that,” Rowan deadpans as he stretches his neck from side to side.
Wesley rolls his eyes. “Not the point, boys. Not the point.” He turns to me. “You were always sarcastic as fuck. Always steady. Always a grinder.” He smirks. “Now you’re a fucking sap.” He claps his hands together and cackles like a madman. “And I love it.”
“Because he’s a sap like you.” Lambert grunts as he tugs on a T-shirt.
Wesley points to Max. “And you.” Then to Asher. “And you.” Then Miles. “And you.” Then Tyler. “And you, and you, and you.”
I roll my eyes and wave a dismissive hand, turning my back so they can’t read my face while I change. Because they’re not wrong. I am raring to get out of here and see Skylar.
But before I can do that, the team publicist, Everly, knocks on the door, and calls out, “Are you decent?”
Max—her fiancé—shouts, “Never.”
She pokes her head in. “Ford, can you join Wesley for the press tonight? With your assist and all, it’d be good to have you there.”
“Of course,” I say.
After I pull on a T-shirt, shorts, and slides, I head into the media room and run through the usual game-day questions. Easy stuff. How did you feel out there, what were you thinking late in the game, and so on.
Until Gus—grizzled, sharp-eyed, and probably born in a press box—leans forward. “You’re having a great season—and it’s your last one. How does it feel to be a month in and playing like this?”
It’s a simple question, but it’s loaded with meaning.
If I say I feel good, I invite hypercritical attention. If I hesitate, they’ll read that as doubt. Either way, it’s a trap. I sidestep. “Any player wants to have a strong year.”
Then another reporter pipes up—a younger guy from The Sports Network. “Is your new girlfriend the reason?”
It catches me off guard. My brow furrows. “I don’t think she has anything to do with the assist,” I say, but that sounds callous. “But I’m glad she was here.”
It’s true. Every word. Yet it feels like I’ve changed the narrative—moved our fake relationship one step closer to real by acknowledging it out loud. Here, in front of the sports press. Not just the lifestyle media.
And that raises a question I hadn’t fully faced until now: What happens when it ends?
It’s a sour thought, one I don’t want to sit with.
I skip the polar plunge this time. I shorten my post-game bike ride to ten minutes.
A truncated routine now and then won’t hurt me.
Besides, I am more than ready for the rest of the night to begin.
By the time I’m showered and suited up, all I can think about is taking Skylar home and doing very bad things to her.
Just like that, the game, the press, and the quiet dread I’ve been wrestling with fade into the background.
With a one-track mind, I find Skylar chatting in the corridor with Sabrina and Leighton, as well as Everly.
I hope she doesn’t plan to hang out with them for long.
I head over to them, with Everly catching my eye when I’m a few feet away. She tips her head toward the other side of the corridor, the sign she wants to talk.
“Hey, Ford,” she says quietly, and I’m running through potential issues she might be drawing my attention to.
Something I said wrong to the press? But that’s doubtful.
I’m pretty bland—deliberately so—when I talk to them.
“I didn’t want to say this in front of everyone,” Everly adds.
“But we have family night next week when we play Vancouver here, and if things are going well, it’d be nice to have you two there. ”
Oh. Oh.
That’s the game where players bring their partners and kids, if they have them. Where the team takes all sorts of pics for social media. Everywhere we turn, it’s like the universe wants us to keep pretending.
Or maybe you do.
I school my expression, reining in the cat-who’s-got-the-cream smile. “I’ll check with Skylar, but it sounds good to me,” I say.
“Great.”
We return to the other two women, and this time Skylar peels away from her friends as I approach, flashing a flirty grin my way—a grin that says we’re on the same wavelength.
“Want to go home with the star of the game?” I ask, sliding my arm around her shoulders—a very possessive arm.
She grins. “I do.”
But as we leave, footsteps grow louder behind me. The loud clop-clop of someone jogging in work shoes. I look back. Damn. It’s Ryan from the neighborhood site heading our way. We can’t leave just yet.
“Hey, Skylar. Hey, Ford,” he begins, as I hit pause on my do bad things plans. “I couldn’t make it to the game—my partner was sick. But I sneaked off when he fell asleep. Can I get another picture and maybe ask a few more questions for our site?”
It’s just a neighborhood site. It’s small on the scale of things. But then again, I was just a Minor League player for a long time. An undrafted guy. Here’s Ryan, clearly hustling for a living.
“If it’s okay with Skylar,” I say.
“I’m up for it,” she says, and if that doesn’t sum her up, I don’t know what does. We talk with Ryan for a bit, answering easy questions and smiling for the camera.
When we’re done, he offers a grateful smile. “Appreciate you sticking around, man.”
He didn’t mean it this way, but his words remind me of my goal for this year—to stick around. As I leave, I start to wonder if romance and sticking around are as mutually exclusive as I’d once thought.