Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DONOVAN
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Air whooshes in and out of my lungs in slow, controlled breaths as I sit on the padded floor of the gym in the basement of the arena.
I’ve been here for the last ten minutes, breathing into the silence around me.
Somewhere behind the door my teammates are getting ready for the game, throwing on gear in the locker room and playing sewerball in the hallway.
Following their own routine as I follow mine.
Finding my zen.
Searching for focus.
I sit in splits, legs extended out to my sides to give my hips the stretch they need. There’s a slight pull to the muscles and tendons beneath my skin, but it’s not a bad feeling.
It’s good.
I’m good.
I inhale another long, slow breath, forcing it in through my nose and out of my mouth, narrowing my focus on the game ahead.
I’ve spent time working on hand-eye coordination with a tennis ball against the concrete hallway walls in the basement of this arena.
In a few minutes, I need to get up and start getting dressed.
I have to tape my sticks and take a moment to sit in silence with my good-luck skate lace in my hand as I do before every single game.
I have to follow this carefully crafted routine, even if it feels like everything is sharpened at the edges today.
I take another deep breath as I consider Shiloh and the words he spat at me earlier.
I don’t have time or space for them in my head with puck drop so close, but he never seems to care much about that.
Since we met, he’s barged into every single nook and cranny in my life and tonight it’s no different, even though I can’t get stuck thinking about what happened earlier.
I can’t be distracted, but the more I tell myself that, the more I think about him.
I sent him a text when I arrived at the arena, to let him know that a ticket with his name on it is at will call if he wants to come. There’s a pass there too, so he can sneak down to see me after the game, or grab some snacks in the guest lounge if he wants to.
I hope he wants to.
He didn’t reply, but I know he saw it.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m compelled to grab my phone and check, just in case he’s responded.
I turn the screen on and type in my passcode, but though there are a handful of notifications, there’s nothing from Shiloh.
I grumble under my breath as I swipe away email notifications from the smoothie shop I frequent and an offer for free vitamins from what’s likely some scam company.
I do have a new message on Instagram, though, and that catches my attention even though I hardly use my social media anymore.
Krystal is always on us to post frequently, but I think the last thing I sent was a snapshot of my skates at the beginning of the year.
I click the notification to find a message that reads:
Nice helmet. What do I win if I guess who the artist is?
All roads lead to Shiloh.
I’m tempted to respond with “nothing,” but instead I close the notification with a sigh and put my phone back down. It’s time to find my chill again, and I push all thoughts of gray eyes and green curls to the back of my mind where they can stay until after the game.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I take a few more deep breaths before the door to the gym opens and footsteps meet my ears.
Opening my eyes, I watch as Tucker wanders into the room, his cheeks a blotchy red and a backwards baseball cap covering what I know is a mop of sandy-blond hair.
He grins as he looks down at me where I sit on the floor.
“I don’t get how you can do that.”
“Practice,” I reply, pulling my legs in as I bend my knees. My feet come together at the center of my body and I lean forward to take hold of them, pressing down on my thighs gently with my elbows.
“Fucking goalies, man,” Tucker says, with a small laugh. “Like a bunch of freaky gumbies.”
He leaves me to my stretches and heads for the back of the gym where the treadmills line the walls, but instead of climbing on, he bypasses them to grab a long foam roller. I think he’s about to get some stretching of his own done, but he heads for the door with it clutched in his hands.
“Everything okay?” I ask, as he turns to grin at me from the doorway.
“Ball got stuck,” he comments, gesturing toward the ceiling.
I laugh slightly. Sewerball, or two-touch, is a favorite warmup in most hockey locker rooms before games, but in this arena the soccer ball the game is played with often gets punted against the ceiling and stuck in the metal railings high above.
I eye the long foam roller before turning back to Tucker.
“That probably isn’t long enough. Call facilities to come get it down maybe? ”
Tucker looks at the roller, then frowns a bit before he smiles again and looks back to me. “I’ll jump.”
“You’re gonna jump to the ceiling,” I comment, deadpan.
“Jump and like… whack it.” Tucker swings the foam roller like it’s a baseball bat and grins, before heading out the door toward the open hallway beyond. I snort a laugh as he goes, then pull myself off the gym floor because this is something I absolutely cannot miss out on.
Thank you, universe, for this tiny distraction.
Number twenty-four is pissing me off.
All night long he’s been in my face, skating too close to the edges of my blue painted crease and just being a general nuisance. He hasn’t scored tonight, but he sure as shit has come close, and I’d rather eat my own jockstrap than let him slip one past me.
He stands at the edge of the blue paint, smacking his stick on the ice for the puck, and I can’t see defense in front of me stopping any pass that might come for him. Like a hawk, I watch him beckon for the puck, moving to stand in front of me to block my vision.
“Fuck off, twenty-four,” I warn, raising my blocker.
“Fuck you,” he retorts, skating backwards into me. I see red as he tries to elbow me, scanning quickly for a ref but finding that attention is elsewhere.
I’ll handle it myself, I suppose.
I raise my thick blocker and place it on the numbers across his back, giving him a shove away from me. “Get outta my crease, you stupid fuck.”
He moves back into me once more, so I shove him again. Harder this time to send a stronger message. He doesn’t bother heeding my warning, though, and instead he feels around and throws his gloved hand out, catching my mask with a glancing blow.
Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, he’s gone from my sight and is down on the ice on his back, with Tucker standing over him, seething.
“Get the fuck off my goalie, asshole,” he spits out seconds before one of the opposing players skates over and grabs his jersey, throwing a punch at his face.
All hell breaks loose as the players around me grab a sparring partner and raise fists, grab jerseys, and knock each other’s helmets off.
I step back, watching from a safe distance as the fight gets going, but a whoosh of cheers from the crowd catches my attention.
A glance toward the other end of the rink quickly shows me the reason for the ramp up of excitement from the people watching.
The other goalie has left his crease and is heading toward me from across the ice, pulling his mask off and ditching it at centre ice.
“Let’s go,” he shouts as he gets closer, his eyes wide and wild but not uncontrolled.
I give him a single nod, pulling my mask off and setting it on the ice.
I’ll catch shit for taking it off, that’s not allowed, but I’ll be fucked if I let some meathead goalie do damage to the precious gift Shiloh gave me.
As he reaches me, I shake my hands, ditching my blocker and glove as he does the same, our equipment falling to the cold ice.
I’m fucking wired for this tonight.
I’m ready to go.
A goalie fight is rare, we’re usually stopped by the refs before we get this far, but tonight is the night.
The crowd vibrates as he skates forward, and I grab his jersey, throwing a punch toward his uncovered face.
It doesn’t connect, but it does throw him off-kilter, and gives me an opening to reset so I can throw another.
He reaches out and grabs my jersey, pulling me closer so he can try to return the favor.
We exchange punches for a few seconds, neither of us landing anything solid until I yank him forward, throwing him off balance.
My fist connects with his cheek, and he lets loose a frustrated noise but regains his balance quickly, throwing his fist toward my face.
My jaw aches as he lands a punch, his knuckles cracking against my skin and sending a ripple of pain radiating through my entire face.
It hurts, but it pisses me off more.
With a growl, I yank him off balance again, my fist cracking against his cheek as he falls to the ice. He throws another blow that lands on my cheekbone, but as I cock my fist back again, someone grabs my hand.
“That’s enough,” one of the refs says, dragging me back and away from the man flat out on the ice.
Around me, the crowd is wild, and I scan the faces behind the glass until I find the one I want.
Shiloh.
He came tonight even though he’s pissed off at me.
He’s in what has become his usual spot by the side of the net, but when I look at him after the fight, my stomach wobbles.
His eyes are wide as saucers, his mouth dropped open slightly in shock.
He blinks as he meets my eyes, his skin pale like he’s seen something utterly terrifying.
Well, shit.