Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
cameron
It’s late when I get to the practice arena.
The rink is closed, the parking lot empty, so I use my security access fob to gain entry.
I flip on just enough overhead lights to keep me from shooting blind, then take in the stillness.
The ice sits silent and smooth, the cavernous space quiet except for my breathing.
This is what I came for: the peace of an empty rink, no noise, no pressure.
I drop my bag at the bench and lace up my skates. I don’t bother with the rest of my gear since I’m solo. I only want to move, to do something with my body that will keep my mind occupied.
I drag a bucket of pucks to center ice, the skates on my feet already settling the agitation inside me.
Twenty-four years today.
I flip a puck onto my stick and fire it at the empty basket.
It flies in, hitting the back of the net with a muted whoosh.
The next puck skitters wide and hits the boards.
It’s fine. I’m not really aiming. I work through the bucket, shot after shot, until my arms burn and sweat drips down my back despite the cold.
The building creaks and settles around me. I should go home. Maybe eat or check in with Soph or try to sleep since tomorrow’s a game day. But I’m not ready to leave yet, because out here, alone in the cold and the dark, it somehow feels easier to breathe.
I collect the scattered pucks, the scrape of my skates on the ice the only sound in the world, then dump them back at center ice and line up another shot.
I’m halfway through the bucket when the rink doors open with a bang, followed by muffled swearing, then footsteps on concrete.
The entrance is anything but graceful or sneaky.
I know without looking up that it’s Kennedy.
Moments later, she appears in my sightline, dressed in jeans, one of my sweatshirts that she’s commandeered, and those god-awful earmuffs that she somehow looks cute in.
“Hey, baby cakes,” she calls out, voice echoing against the boards. Her breath makes small clouds in the cold air as she talks, but if the temperature bothers her, she doesn’t let it show.
“You’re not allowed to be here,” I say, but there’s no venom behind my words.
“Cole gave me his key fob.” She climbs up to sit on the penalty box, legs dangling. “And unlike you, I’m a badass who doesn’t mind breaking the rules from time to time.”
I stare at her for a second, warring emotions pounding at my chest. Then I turn back and fire off another shot. It goes wide and hits the boards with a hollow thud. “Badass, huh?”
“In comparison to you, yes. You nearly had an apoplexy when I made you eat a MetroMart bun before paying for it.”
The slightest hint of amusement seeps into me, mingling with the pain. With a breath in, I hit another puck, harder this time, and it sails into the net. I stand with my back to Kennedy, waiting for her to speak again. When she remains silent, I set up another puck, then glance back at her.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay, doesn’t try to make conversation, doesn’t fill the silence like she’s got to be itching to do.
She just sits there, arms wrapped around herself against the cold, watching me work through the pucks.
After a while, I stop keeping track of how many shots I’ve taken, focusing on the rhythm—the wind up, the shoot, the crack of the stick, the echo through the empty building.
I finish the bucket, collect the biscuits, and work my way through another.
Kennedy hasn’t left the perch of the penalty box, but her arms have disappeared into the warmth of my sweatshirt.
Eventually, I run out of gas and stand at center ice, chest heaving, stick resting on the surface beneath me.
“It’s a good thing you’re a goalie,” Kennedy muses, capturing my attention. “Because you’re low-key really bad at shooting.”
What starts off as a rumbling chuckle in my chest spirals into uncontrollable laughter that has me heaving over, resting my hands on my thighs.
“Thanks,” I call out, wiping my eyes. “That’s what every NHL player wants to hear.”
She tosses me a thumbs-up. “No problem. Someone has to keep your ego in check.”
Straightening, I shake my head. Her one tiny insult has somehow done what even dozens of pucks couldn’t.
The ache is still lodged somewhere behind my ribs, but it’s dulled now, pushed to the edges instead of consuming my every cell.
Like she took the volume of it and turned it down just enough that I can think past it.
I skate over to her and dig my blades in hard, stopping sharply enough to send ice shavings spraying. It’s more theatrics than necessary, but Kennedy’s told me she thinks it looks cool.
“You think you can do better, sweetheart?”
“Definitely not.” She shakes her head, blond hair shimmering like sunrays. “My talents lie with icing, not actual ice.”
I cock a brow. “Want to try anyway?”
Not one to back down from a challenge, she nods. “Do I need to wear skates, or can I stay in my sneakers?”
“Gym shoes are fine,” I tell her, using the proper Midwest term for athletic shoes, and hold out a hand to help as she wiggles to the edge of the box.
The second her feet hit the ice, her legs do this ridiculous Bambi thing, one going out to the side, one flying in front of her. She clings to my arm like I’m the only thing keeping her from certain death.
“Stand, sweetheart,” I direct. “Not whatever the fuck you’re currently doing.”
“This is what my standing looks like,” she snaps, clutching me tighter. She’s shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from cold or the effort of staying upright.
Without letting her go, I snag one of the sticks I left by the boards and hand it to her. “Here. Use this.”
She takes it like it’s a lifeline, plants it on the ice like it’s a cane, and carefully shuffles forward. It takes her a full two minutes to make it the fifteen feet to where I’ve set up my bucket of pucks, and by the time she gets there, she’s breathing like she just ran a marathon.
She adjusts her grip on the stick, plants her feet in what I think is supposed to be a hockey stance, and takes a swing.
The stick whiffs completely over the puck, and I can’t help but cringe.
“That was a practice swing,” she announces.
She tries again, and this time she makes contact, sending the puck drifting about five feet.
“I did it,” she says, wiggling her body like Goose when Cole brings him to the ice. “Did you see?”
“You absolutely did not do anything.”
She points to the puck as if I can’t see it from here. “I hit the puck and it moved.”
“Sweetheart, my grandmother could sneeze and move a puck farther than that.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, then winds up again and swings with everything she’s got. The stick connects with a solid thwack, and the puck goes flying. Directly into the boards about eight feet to the left of the net.
“Well,” she says, slightly out of breath. “At least it went farther this time.”
“That’s a generous description,” I tease.
She shuffles over to another puck, her expression one of intense determination. She gets the puck pointed in the general direction of the net, but it slides across the ice in a slow, sad trajectory that wouldn’t make it past a house league goalie. We both watch it like it’s the Stanley Cup finals.
It stops two feet short.
“Oh, come on!” She throws her hands up violently, and her feet nearly come out from under her.
I catch her before she goes down, chuckling at the look of pure defeat on her face.
“Wait,” she says. “You should get in the net.”
Cupping her shoulders, I steady her on her feet. “What?”
“Get in the net.” She pushes out of my arms and shuffle skates toward the blue line using the stick like a crutch. “I want to see if I can score on an actual NHL goalie.”
“Kennedy, you can’t even get the puck to the net.”
“I was farther away.” She peers over her shoulder, her eyes flashing with mirth. “And I was aiming at an empty net. That isn’t very motivating. Come on. You know you want to.”
She says the last part in a singsong voice, the teasing tone making me smile despite myself.
I skate over, step into the crease, and settle into my stance.
If any of the coaches saw me ready to protect the goal with not an ounce of gear on, they’d kick my ass six ways from Sunday.
Lucky for me, they’re not here and Kennedy can’t shoot hard enough to injure anyone but herself.
“All right, sweetheart,” I call out. “Let’s see what you got.”
She scuffles around, lining up a puck, her form still terrible, and to her surprise—but not mine—the rubber disk slides toward me at roughly the speed of a turtle. I’m more than ready for it as it inches toward my skates and knock it away with ease.
The curse that flies out of her mouth has me raising my brows.
I give her some feedback and direction, which helps marginally, her next shot moving minimally faster, but goddamn, my girl is meant for icing, not the ice.
For the next fifteen minutes, I have possibly the most fun I’ve had out here in years. Kennedy is terrible, but she’s determined. Or stubborn. Maybe a little of both. And I can’t help but appreciate her hustle.
She sets up another puck, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration. She winds up, swings, and—miracle of miracles—makes solid contact. The puck actually comes toward me with some speed. I could easily stop it, but I step aside and let it go past me into the net.
Kennedy’s scream nearly deafens me. “I scored and I don’t even care that you totally let me!”
She makes her way over and picks up the puck like it’s a newborn chick. Her face is flushed as she smiles up at me.
“You should sign it,” I suggest with a chuckle. “Commemorate your astonishing achievement.”
“Great idea.” Laughing, she peers around, then lets out a low whistle. “This is cool.”
I look around the practice arena, trying to see it through her eyes. “This is home.”