Chapter 2
Jefferson
The tattoo on the inside of my bicep burns, a steady throb that flares every time I move.
The boys and I each got an ‘M’ inked to represent the last four years of Wittmore, living in the Manor, and becoming more like brothers than team or housemates.
A few more days, and our days playing hockey at Wittmore will come to an end.
A few weeks after that, we’ll graduate, and we’ll each split off toward our future.
Both Reese and Axel are free agents, hoping to get a spot on a professional roster, while Reid is already locked in with a contract in New York as well as a successful side hustle in design.
Me? Like Reid, I drafted early and have a spot waiting for me down in Florida, which meant I’ve had two primary focuses in college: playing my best and having as much fun as I can before life gets serious.
The air has a warm edge tonight. Spring is close enough to taste, even up here in the North East. Streetlights buzz overhead, casting golden halos on the sidewalk.
Students pass in packs, laughter echoing down the brick alleyways that cut through this town like veins.
I’m going to miss Wittmore. The past four years have been epic.
We were so close to winning the Frozen Four a year ago, but didn’t quite have what we needed to secure the trophy.
We were all a lot wilder back then. Reese’s relationship with his ex was rocky as hell.
Axel spent more time focused on partying, rebelling against his preacher father, than he did on the ice, and Reid…
well, Reid just needed to catch a break.
The three of them are all in a better place, settled down with the kind of girls you lock down with a ring on their finger. Me?
Well.
I’ve spent the last four years having a killer time. Frat parties, sneaking into sorority row, puck bunnies, and dominating the ice. Unlike the others, keeping a balance isn’t a problem for me. I play, I fuck, I win, and do it all over again the next day.
A couple heads my way: the girl in an Ingrid Flockton t-shirt, little silver feathers hanging from her ears.
And the guy? He’s wearing a Wittmore jersey.
Number 23. It never gets old seeing my name and number on the fans, but I keep my hoodie pulled low.
It’s too close to the championship, and I don’t feel like talking about it.
They pass, too into each other to notice me. He’s got his arm around her waist and kisses the side of her neck. I’ve got my hands shoved in my pockets, my bicep aching beneath the fresh ink.
I like feeling that little tinge of pain. I get why Axel is addicted to getting tattoos. There’s definitely a dopamine hit that comes with it. Most of all, it was a distraction from facing the idiot move I pulled earlier in the day.
The note to Ingrid Flockton.
Yep, the Ingrid Flockton
I’ve been listening to Ingrid Flockton since I was fifteen years old and hiding in my brother’s beat-up Jeep.
She was already famous back then–this untouchable, ethereal voice coming through the speakers, singing about sneaking out of bedroom windows and broken hearts.
I didn’t know what half of it meant, but God, it hit hard.
Now she’s twenty-two, like me, almost a decade into a career most people couldn’t even dream up, and she’s somehow only gotten sharper.
Bigger. Wilder. Her third album, Holy Feral, broke records like they were glass under her lace-up boots with five number-one singles, two sold-out world tours, including one she just extended for a few additional shows.
She’s won Grammys. She’s played Glastonbury barefoot in the rain.
There’s a fan theory that her fourth album was a coded love letter to a popular celebrity.
I believe it. She makes everything sound like a secret you’re lucky to hear.
And yeah, I get that it’s a little weird for a guy like me to be into a pop star like this. I’m a hockey player. I get in fights, lift weights, drink beer, and fuck sorority girls, but Ingrid Flockton?
She’s a fucking goddess. Gorgeous with her long, shiny hair usually tinted pink or blue, whatever she’s feeling at the moment. She’s tall, at least five-eleven, and the way she carries herself on and off the stage looks strong. There’s no fragility there. Other than in her words.
I want to meet her. Kiss her. Give her a few moments of bliss in an otherwise crazy life.
She’s been on the top of my list–yes, an actual list–of people I want to have sex with since I made it.
I’ve crossed off a few others: the captain of the cheer squad, the Easton goalies' (now ex) girlfriend.
That hot mom who always hung out at our neighborhood pool.
Yeah, when I want something, I go for it.
That’s why I left the note on my locker door after Coach told us to clear everything out for the show tomorrow. The show I’m missing because I’ll be in Chicago prepping for the Frozen Four. Every player knows the motto of Wayne Gretzky. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
Ingrid Flockton is coming into my house?
Yeah, I’m taking my fucking shot.
I’m halfway down the strip when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
I ignore it at first. Could be anything. Could be Coach. Or a teammate. Or my brother telling me not to do something dumb in Chicago.
But something nudges at me.
When I finally pull it out, I see the notification.
ChattySnap: New message from IngFlock.
My heart actually stutters. Like missteps. Like when you hit the boards a little too hard and lose your breath for a second.
I stare at the screen.
Got any suggestions for a really good hamburger?
I read it twice. Then a third time.
It’s her.
Ingrid Flockton. The Ingrid Flockton.
I exhale, almost laugh. Her profile icon is a falling feather.
She got my note.
I never expected her to actually read it. I wrote it half as a joke. Folded it up and stuck it to the vent of the locker room on the way out the door. Figured someone would throw it away or her security would toss it before she even saw it.
But now…
Fuck. I swipe my thumb over the keyboard, thinking for a second. Then I type:
Best burger in town’s at the Badger Den. If you want the Jefferson Parks Special, you’ll have to show up in person. Comes with fries and zero paparazzi.
I stare at it for a beat, a thin coating of sweat beading on my neck. Jesus, since when does Jefferson Parks get nervous about sliding into some chick’s DMs? I suck it up and hit send.
A slow grin pulls at the corner of my mouth.
It could be nothing. A bored pop star looking to fuck around with an idiot fan. Someone on her team who gets off on catfishing.
Or maybe Ingrid’s ready to play.
Either way, I pass the pizza place and make my way to the Den. Reese, our captain, gave us specific instructions not to go out tonight. Zero fuck-ups because the bus leaves early as hell, and the next few days are the most important ones in our lives.
But now I’ve got something just as interesting as a win.
I’ve got her attention.