Chapter One #2
“Last year, we had thirty minutes and lower billing than this year.” Gavin’s head shoots around Everett, and he pins Layne and me with a glare that screams he’s not in the mood for our bickering.
“We didn’t get the set length until two weeks before the show, so can we not argue about this yet, please? ”
I shove my phone back in my pocket and hold up my hands in surrender. “Sorry. Anyone want a beer?”
“Hell, yeah.” Layne jumps up from his seat. “I can get it.”
“No. You’re the birthday boy. Drinks are on me.” It’s a tiny apology, but he smiles so I know I’m forgiven. After climbing over Layne, I head up the steps with Gavin at my side.
The concourse is crowded and perfumed with the scents of pizza, pretzels, fries, and nachos. I find what might be the only kiosk selling coffee along with beer on this level and wait in line for it as Gavin joins the line for fries.
When I join him with the coffee and beers, he tucks his phone in his pocket. “Do you think Layne will be mad if I skip the pub after the game?”
We both know the answer to that. “Mad? No. Hurt? Yes. Can you join us for one drink, celebrate him turning twenty-six, and head out after that?”
“I guess so.” Sighing, he rubs his hands over his eyes. “I had a long day of doing inventory at the store, and I have to be in early again tomorrow.”
I feel that. After giving tours all day at the museum, band practice, and keeping up with laundry, groceries, and the basics of life, all I want to do is fall into bed and sleep for a week.
“One drink, toast Layne, then make your goodbyes. I’ll even make them for you if things get crowded, so you can sneak away. ”
“Thanks.” Stifling a yawn, he claims the boxes of fries from the counter. “I kind of hoped we’d make it big enough that I could quit the day job. Maybe someday… Can I have some of your coffee?”
“I got you one.” I adjust the tray so he can see the small cup of espresso nestled between the other brews.
“You’re my hero.” He stifles another yawn. “Hey, do you think it’s possible to fall asleep at a hockey game?”
“Knowing you, yes. Just try not to snore.” Smirking at him, I dodge two kids wearing jerseys with Gio and Sage’s numbers on the back.
I’ve been tempted to buy a jersey of my own. But doing so and getting Soren’s number feels like I’d be staking a claim on something—someone—when I don’t have a right. Plus, the guys would just tease me about my “crush.”
We return to our seats and pass out the snacks. On the video board over center ice, a list of fan names and the sections they’re sitting in scrolls over a screen filled with balloons and confetti, and the Birthday Song plays.
Everett has his phone out, recording it. I share a smile with him and Gavin, and wait.
Toward the end of the list, Layne’s name appears. He beams at the screen, and everyone in our section applauds and cheers. Turning in his seat, he gives everyone a wave, and as he faces the ice again, he brushes his knuckle against the corner of his eye. “Thanks, guys.”
I toast him with my coffee. “We love you.”
No matter how late he makes me, or how my geeking out over natural history might bug him, or the little annoyances that creep in between the four of us, we’re always there for each other.
Intermission ends as our conversation turns back to discussing the songs we should play at Winter Fest. Between downing fries and coffee and the pretzel bites Everett snagged, we watch the second period unfold, and control of the puck go back and forth.
The teams are evenly matched, play is tight, and the pace is intense.
Gio fans on a pass to Phil, his husband and defensive partner, and a Stallion steals control, racing up the ice. A Slash player flies in and they battle before he sends the puck careening around the boards. Leaning forward in my seat, I suck in a breath as they barrel in my direction.
The Stallion arrives first and gets smashed into the boards right in front of me.
Wincing at the sound of the impact, I’m captured by a set of wide shoulders, dark hair, and a strong jaw.
He’s startlingly handsome. His brown eyes lock on mine, and my breath catches again.
In an instant, he’s gone, heading for the goal, where Soren falls on top of the puck to keep it out of the net.
The whistle blows as Soren covers the puck. He lifts his pad and stands, and I catch the way he and the Stallion look at each other.
There’s something there. Maybe Soren isn’t as available as I’d hoped.
I steal another pretzel bite and remind myself that being alone isn’t so bad. Not that I’m lonely. I have my bandmates. It’s comforting knowing I can count on these guys. But the hollowness in my gut taunts me that all the pretzel bites and fries in the world won’t come close to filling it.
“Last minute of play in the third period!” The PA announcer’s voice booms across the arena.
The Slash are ahead three to two, but are down a player, with Gio sitting in the penalty box.
Five Stallions versus four Slash players, for the remainder of play.
Soren’s all but standing on his head, and the penalty-killing unit is fierce.
I, and the thousands of other people here are doing our part to keep the puck out of the Slash net—Soren’s net—by sheer will.
There’s a scuffle of footsteps and coats dragging behind me. People leaving early as though a sixty-second head start will be much of an advantage.
The handsome Stallions player I discovered during the second period gains control of the puck, and his teammates fan out.
He skates in fast, closing in on Soren, who scrambles from the butterfly position on one side of the net, but one of the other Stallions screens him as he tries to get a better view.
The pit of my stomach clenches, and I clamp down on my bottom lip as I watch. Tension fills the arena. Layne sits on the edge of his seat, legs bouncing, and clutches my arm. And I hear Everett mumbling, “Come on, come on, come on.”
Sexy Stallion raises his stick and swings it toward the puck.
An icy blast of liquid and cubes slams into the back of my neck and shirt, jolting me out of my seat. With an involuntary yelp and jerk of my arms, I smack the glass, rattling the boards.
“What the fuck?” Whirling around, I spy three guys exiting the row behind us, pushing each other to move faster. The cold, wet sensation lingers on my skin and slides lower, soaking into my shirt.
The ping of the puck hitting the crossbar followed by a collective sigh of relief from the crowd fills the air.
Layne pulls me down by the back of my shirt, but he’s glaring at the space behind us. “Those assholes were in such a hurry to leave, they kicked over their drink in the rush. You okay?”
Shuddering, I nod and swipe stray ice cubes from my seat. Beer bottles, soda cups, and empty wrappers litter the floor of the row behind us. “Except for smelling like cherry cola, I’m fine.”
The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the game, and the roar of the crowd swells over us like a tidal wave.
On the ice, the handsome Stallions player leans on his stick, standing apart as his teammates file off.
His frown is wreathed in sadness, and the slump of his shoulders tugs at my heart.
As much as I wanted the Slash to win, there’s something about seeing him so upset that has me wishing it was possible for the game to end in a tie.
Soren turns our way and points to me. I don’t know what he wants, so I wave. Then he mouths, or maybe shouts, “Pub?” The din from the crowd is too loud for me to hear him.
“Is Soren coming to the pub with Sage and the rest of us?” My pulse kicks up in anticipation, and I don’t wait for an answer from my friends before nodding and giving him a thumbs up.
Soren’s grin widens. But there’s no time to bask in it because his teammates fly in to celebrate, stealing him from my view.
“Maybe?” Layne shrugs. “Sage said most of his housemates should be there. So, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Everett and Gavin collect our trash and usher Layne and me out of our row. Gavin nudges me with his elbow. “You want to buy a shirt at the fan shop? Or are you stopping home to change?”
I know he wants to go to the pub, down that drink, and get home, and while I hate the thought of frustrating him, I can’t stay like this. “Sorry, but I need to change.” I tug at my jeans. “My pants are wet too.”
Stifling another yawn, he nods. Since we all drove together, if I’m stopping home, they’re all coming too. “All right. But if your version of five minutes turns into Layne’s version of five minutes, we’re leaving without you.”
“I would take offense at that, but you’re right.” Layne pulls up the collar of his coat.
Laughing, and shivering at the frigid air making my wet shirt feel even colder, I take one last glance at the ice.
Soren is the last Slash player out there.
Instead of following his teammates through the door, he turns and skates toward the opposing team’s bench.
The handsome Stallions player sits alone, his head bowed, seemingly unaware of the world around him.
Soren pats him on the shoulder, and they tuck their heads together. Maybe he’s offering comfort or commiseration. Maybe there really is something between them.
I press my palm to the glass. I’d give anything to hear their conversation. The cold seeps into my fingertips as a wave of yearning washes over me, settling in my chest like a lead weight. I’d give anything to hear their conversation, but I’d give even more to be a part of it.