Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
For the better part of six years, I was the perfect hockey girlfriend.
Notice I didn’t say good, or great—perfect.
When Dillon played in his travel leagues, I would go with him.
I would pack some fruit, water with electrolytes, and protein packs for him.
The night before a game, I’d stay up all night throwing glitter on posterboard to make sure he had the flashiest sign in the stands.
During the games, I kept my eyes glued to the ice, making mental notes of Dillon-coded-miraculous plays and who failed to pass my boyfriend the puck so I could be supportive in the car later during his vent-and-boast sessions.
After the games, I took care of him. Ice. Heat. Extra heat in appreciation of his talents on the ice. Being a hockey girlfriend was my entire personality.
Until it wasn’t.
Just like with my figure skating, someone or something else had stripped me of my identity before I had accepted its removal from my life, and for a while after I felt hollow.
I didn’t miss Dillon.
I missed being useful. I missed taking care of someone else for a change.
And now that I’m sitting back in the arena, microscopically healed from my last and only relationship, I can safely say it—I freaking missed hockey, too.
I thought I might feel haunted, sitting here with ghosts from my past lingering on the ice. But all I feel is complete freedom.
I’m not monitoring the calls, missed passes, or shift time in anticipation of my boyfriend’s mood after. (Though to be fair, Cole is always in a sour mood, so maybe I just can’t imagine it shifting any further negatively.) I’m just watching a game I love.
Even though Dillon left school early for the draft, Cole is, frankly, the better player. He’s faster, more agile, and more poised on the ice. I don’t get why he’s not playing professionally, too.
In the first period, Cole zips up the left side and makes a sharp cut that trips up the defensemen with his momentum.
He’s barely past the blue line when he pulls back his stick and slams the puck into the net.
His shot is so fast, the goalie is still looking futilely for the puck when the horn goes off and the crowd erupts into cheers.
My dad lets out a low, impressed whistle at the same time my mom shouts, “That’s our boy!” The minute the puck goes in the net, Cole’s eyes lock on to me. He points a stick in my direction and mouths, “That one was for you,” punctuating it with a wink.
Tessa leans into me. “When did Mr. Anti-Social get all flirty with you?”
“He’s not flirting. He’s just playing the part Caden was supposed to play for my parents,” I say. “Cole usually doesn’t give me the time of day.”
“Nat, the boy is coming home with you for the holidays. Get a clue. Cole doesn’t do that kind of stuff.”
“We don’t know he’s coming home for sure. He still has a day to back out.”
“Okay, so if he comes home with you, can we talk about how you never told me he has the hots for you then?”
I snort. “It’d be the wrong conclusion, but we can certainly talk about it.”
Cole’s second goal comes in the third period during a penalty kill, a breakaway that the goalie had no shot in hell defending.
After the goal, Cole drops his stick to his side, gliding along the ice like he owns it.
As if easily scoring on a four-on-five isn’t that big of a deal.
His eyes pick up to find me again. They’re dark and intense, and a shiver wraps down my spine.
You’re next. The unspoken promise binds itself to my bones.
“Is he usually this good?” I whisper to Tess.
She smirks at me. “Mhm, but he’s not usually devoted to one particular fan after.”
Toward the end of the third period, Cole streaks down the ice with only one defenseman he’s demolished all night to beat. This is his chance for the hat trick. Dillon lived for those nights.
I did too.
The nights when he’d tell me I was pretty (in an unconventional way)—maybe even take me out on an impromptu date.
Obviously, I don’t expect any of that from Cole, but if he is coming home with me tomorrow (something I still highly doubt) than it would be cool if he was in a good mood.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him in one.
He feigns left, cuts right, and then leaves the puck behind? What is he doing? Without missing a beat, a defenseman everyone has been calling Moose glides to the puck. He rears his stick back and slams it down the goalie’s throat.
Instantaneously with the shot, a human battering ram comes out of nowhere, charges Cole, and levels him, sending his helmet flying off his head and his body crumpling to the ice.
Air evacuates my lungs with the contact as if I’m the one who got hit.
Get up. Get up. Get up. My body hums. I stand up to get a better look as my knees shake terribly. Tessa grabs my hand and does the same.
Get. Up. Be okay.
A brawl breaks out on the ice. Mayhem. Probably. I’m vaguely aware of the action, still focused on Cole. One of his teammates reaches out to help him up. Red streaks down the side of his face.
Be okay.
For the rest of the game, Cole remains off the ice. My legs rattle with a restless energy I can’t explain. Not ten hours ago I was threatening to push him into the ocean, and now I’m seconds away from storming the locker room and demanding to see him.
“You good?” Tess asks, putting her hand on my thigh.
“No,” I say before I have time to censor my answer. “I mean—I’m—”
“A concerned little girlfriend?” Tess teases.
Ten hours. That’s how long it’s taken me to go from “I’d like to kill Cole” to “Touch him and you die.” It took what? One brush of his mouth against my knuckles and a goal scored in my honor (it was a really good freaking goal) and suddenly I’ve caught feelings?
No. I’m not going to be that girl again—I refuse to fall for questionable men just because they give me attention.
The final horn sounds. Tess grabs my hand and pulls me along. “We’re going to go congratulate the boys and check up on Cole.” She yells over her shoulder to my mom.
The closer we get to the area where moms, girlfriends, and other friends and families are waiting, the more I feel like I shouldn’t be here. I never checked with Cole if this was okay. I didn’t check to see if he had someone waiting for him he’d rather not introduce me to.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper to Tess. “Cole might have someone he wants to see and I’ll be intruding.”
“He never has anyone here, it’s fine,” she says, fixing her hair in her selfie cam.
“It’s too girlfriend-y.”
“Natalie, your hands are still shaking from the hit. You can lie all you want, but I know you want to see him, so stay. It’s fine.”
Slowly, Cole’s teammates trickle out of the room and down the hallway to meet their significant others with open arms back near the rink.
One by one, the person waiting for them flings their arms around the player’s neck and lands a kiss or two on them.
Okay, now I know I really shouldn’t be here.
“Oh, there he is,” Tessa says. I pick my head up, but the man coming down the hall isn’t Cole.
It’s Moose. Tessa bounds to him, and he picks her up and swings her around, burying his mouth into her neck.
Someone else approaches shortly after, one of the team assistants, I think.
He stands to the side of the embracing couple and looks at Tessa like she hung the freaking moon.
Because, well, she does and apparently this guy has good sense about him. Moose and her aren’t an official couple, but he holds her in a similar fashion—like she’s precious and he doesn’t want to let her go.
What is it like to be held like that? To be looked at like you’re someone special?
I stand to the side as more and more teammates trickle out and the area gets crowded. I never waited here for Dillon. I met him at the car after the game. Looking back now, that should have been a very large red flag, but I was a very dumb, na?ve teenager.
A trait that still gets me in trouble from time to time.
Tessa said Cole doesn’t have anyone who waits for him here, but considering there are at least three people here with “Sinclair” on the back of their sweaters, I think she might be wrong.
Maybe I can just loom in the shadows. Make sure he’s okay from afar when he emerges, then leave.
Yes. That’s a good plan.
Multiple members of the Sinclair Fan Club suddenly perk up. I follow their eyes and find Cole emerging through the sea of players coupled up with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. A white bandage bisects his eyebrow like a slash mark. His thick brown hair is still damp from the shower.
His eyes lift up. A woman with his jersey steps in front of him, and my heart actually hurts—which is awfully dumb of it.
We’re not dating. She’s beautiful. I should feel nothing.
Instead, I want to give her an oatmeal raisin cookie but tell her it’s chocolate chip and then watch from a distance as she bites into it and is horribly disappointed. Heinous, I know.
A soft smile appears on Cole’s face as he touches her shoulder. Then, he steps around her. Okay, so I guess he’s picking another of the girls. That’s fine.
He keeps his eyes down like he’s trying not to make eye contact with anyone else.
I keep my stare locked on him, trying my best not to be a creep, but failing.
Suddenly, his cerulean eyes snap to mine.
They widen, slightly—and then a slow, cocky smirk crooks his lips as he detours his path over to me.
“What are you doing here? Did you hire a hitman for me and wanted to make sure he finished his job?” Cole’s voice says in a low gravel, half-exhausted, half-amused.