Chapter 29
NOW
Bennett
I’m not a fan of flying in general, but flying with the team isn’t so bad. Maybe because everything is taken care of—I just show up, other anxieties easily expelled once I’m seated, all my things arranged correctly in and around my seat.
But I’m more calm than usual—and it all dials down to the blond girl traipsing down the aisle toward me.
The grin on my face is unstoppable, even at the set of her furrowed brows and beautiful frown.
I pull my headphones down to circle the back of my neck, daring to reach my hand to graze her arm and gather her attention. She doesn’t jolt, only takes a steadying breath. Does she know she’s leaning toward me, like she wants to be closer?
Don’t make this something it’s not.
It’s impossible to crush the hope I have when it comes to Paloma Blake—so I stop trying.
“Hey, P.”
Her brown eyes seem a bit lighter in the overhead fluorescence, her bag slipping off one sweatshirt-clad shoulder.
“Hey, Bennett,” she says, soft and quiet.
Biting my lip, I look around. “Do you need somewhere to sit?” Fuck my usual routine—I don’t even care if it means we lose, if she will sit next to me.
Her features soften, mouth pulling into a slip of a smile. “I’m okay—I’m sitting with Lily.” She nods behind her, where Lily is traipsing through the aisle unsteadily, Coach LaBlanc just steps behind her.
A long pause sits heavily between us.
“All right, well—I’m just gonna—” She nods her head forward, gesturing toward the back of the plane. “See you at the game, Bennett.”
“Yeah. See ya, P.”
I slip my headphones back on just in time to half drown out the sounds of my teammates tossing pickup lines and flirting with her as she heads to find a seat.
· · ·
“Reiner! Reiner!”
I close my eyes, preparing for the inevitable rest of their god-awful sieve chant.
“You suck! It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault! It’s all your fault.”
But I’ve played against this particular Michigan team before, in this particular arena. I’m used to it. I’m used to the sieve chants in general. They don’t really bother or distract me. Though I can tell from here that Paloma’s keyed up and furious. It makes me smile.
Tensions have been high the entire game, our teams neck and neck. Rhys, Freddy, and Toren have managed to make goals, but I’ve let in two, so closing in on the last few minutes of the second, the score is too close.
Right now, the Mt. Hart forwards are rushing my net, Toren and Holden both doing their best work while Rhys tries his hand at stealing the puck—one of the many things he’s shockingly good at.
He just manages to snatch the puck from between the forward’s legs, poking it toward Holden in the corner.
Head on a swivel, I keep my body pressed to my left post, leg extended to the right just in case I’ll need to slide.
Holden misses his pass across, swept up by another towering Mt. Hart player coming in quick off a change. Too fast—he takes a shot I try to block, sliding into butterfly, before bowling over backward as the player knocks fully into me.
A muffled shout leaves my lips at the tearing sensation zinging up my inner thigh. Fuck fuck fuck.
The net has been tossed backward into the boards and my body is collapsed. Turning on my side, I put my hands up to protect my head where my helmet has snapped loose.
At first, I only hear yelling—Rhys, I’m sure—before my best friend appears over me, ripping off his cage. He looks terrified.
“Fuck, Ben—are you okay?”
I nod, but groan. “Fuck, I think I pulled something. Or a groin tear, I don’t know.” At least my words sound normal. He nods, turning and signaling for someone.
I move my head up, looking over to where Holden and Toren are locked in an all-out brawl.
Kane is laying into the guy who hit me, gloves dropped, black hair sweat damp and half in his face, snarl still present.
It’s strange for a moment—I’ve seen the violence of Toren Kane close up and personal, relived the hit on Rhys in my brain like a nightmare more times than I can count, but not like this. Not in defense of me.
Holden is chirping as much as he is fighting another Mt. Hart player, both with their cages off, hands gripping each other’s jerseys. It’s a mess as the refs try to stop them all—I know heavy penalties and fines are coming, but maybe it’ll be equal all around.
“Hey, Ben?” Rhys grabs my attention. “They’ve got the trainers for you. Can I help you skate off?”
I nod, letting them help me up so that I can take pressure off my groin even while balancing.
Rhys slips a hand around my back, hooking my chest pad in his grip just in case I slip, before we all start slowly skating off together.
The arena breaks into applause for me, as usual with an injured player.
Head ducked, breathing harsh, I wade through the pain.
“Let’s get you the fuck out of here,” Harris says when I arrive at the bench, before slapping Connor Mercer on the back and sending him to the net to warm up. “Get checked out. And then go back to the hotel and fucking rest, Reiner. Okay?”
I smile at his unusual doting. “All right, Coach.”