5 #2
“Deal.” I laughed, loving that I got to share this with her. I’d only been to a handful of games while living in Chicago—always too focused on work to make time—but that was going to change. From now on, I’d be at as many games as I could.
“Let’s get going, Empires!” a booming voice rang out from a few rows behind us, snapping my attention to the scuffle unfolding in front of the Toronto goalie.
“Yeah, let’s go!” someone else echoed, and that was all it took.
The crowd sprang to life—clapping, chanting, stomping in unison. A huge smile spread across my face as I joined in. I’d missed this—the rush of camaraderie that came with supporting the home team, the electric buzz that filled the air.
Beside me, Sammy was practically glowing, her grin stretching from ear to ear as she bounced up and down, wide-eyed and soaking up the atmosphere.
There were only about five minutes left in the first period, and Toronto was leading two to one.
The team made a line switch, and Nash was on the ice.
The entire atmosphere shifted. The crowd perked up, as if just seeing him could turn the game around.
He moved with the kind of grace that came from years of practice. I watched intently as he picked up speed, weaving through the defenders with the puck on his stick like it was magnetized there.
“Come on, Nash!” I yelled, surprising both Sammy and myself.
Then, suddenly, he was open. Wide open. My breath caught in my throat.
Time seemed to slow down as Nash wound back and tipped the puck straight into the net behind the goalie in one impossibly smooth motion.
The buzzer blared, and the entire arena erupted.
Everyone jumped to their feet—me and Sammy included—as the lights flashed and music blasted overhead.
The crowd roared as Nash’s face lit up the Jumbotron above the ice, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as they announced his goal.
His teammates swarmed him, slapping his helmet, tapping their sticks.
The tightness in my chest eased. Nash had needed that goal.
His career had needed that. For a moment, he looked like himself again.
The version of him I’d grown up with, who lit up rinks everywhere he went.
Not the overrated, overpaid pretty boy the media kept trying to turn him into but the real Nash.
The one who played because he loved it. Because he was good at it.
Because it was who he was. After that, Nash was everywhere, skating like a man possessed.
When he scored the game-winning goal in the final period, the crowd completely lost it.
People jumped, screamed, and pounded the boards. It was wild.
“That was some freaking goal,” I muttered in awe. “Holy freaking shit.”
“Yeahhhhhh!” Sammy screamed beside me. “I freaking love hockey!”
I laughed and started to collect my things as the crowd began to thin out and the arena lights brightened. Sammy checked her phone and winced. “I’ve gotta go. It’s later than I thought.”
“Go,” I said, getting up and pulling her into a quick hug. “Thanks for coming. And for freaking loving hockey.”
She grinned. “Duh. You better text me after you see Nash.”
“I will.”
I watched her disappear into the sea of people before making my way toward the family and friends waiting area outside the locker rooms. The hallway buzzed with postgame chatter, media shuffling back and forth, the occasional team staffer weaving through with purpose.
I stood off to the side, fiddling with the strap of my bag as I waited, heart still thudding from the game—and maybe a little from the anticipation of seeing Nash again.
That’s when I heard my name.
“Hey, Kennedy.”
I turned to see Josh approaching, freshly showered and dressed in a suit.
“Hey, Josh,” I replied.
“The jersey looks great on you,” he said with a playful smirk. “Even if it is the wrong number.”
I laughed a little awkwardly.
“So, what are you up to? Are you coming out with us?” he asked, the hopeful tone in his voice hard to miss.
“Not tonight. Actually, I’m not sure what the plan is. Nash and I are supposed to catch up—we haven’t had time yet.”
“Oh.” Josh’s smile faltered for a split second, but he quickly recovered. “Well, if I don’t see you later, have a good night.”
“Thanks, Josh. You too.”
“Kenny.” Nash’s voice rang out above the hum of conversation, drawing attention. A few of his teammates trailed behind him, laughing and looking ready to celebrate.
“Hi, Nash,” I said with a smile as he walked straight toward me.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing.
His scruffy cheek brushed against mine as he pulled me in close, his body radiating warmth.
He smelled incredible—clean and masculine—and I tried not to make it too obvious as I inhaled his familiar scent.
“That was an incredible game,” I said, my voice catching slightly. “I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you play.”
“All thanks to my good-luck charm,” Nash said with a low chuckle, setting me back on my feet. His teasing green eyes met mine, a smile playing on his lips. He looked relaxed. Happy. Like the weight of the world had finally eased off his shoulders.
“Yo, Reed,” one of his teammates called out, interrupting us, “see you at the bar.”
Nash turned toward the voice, a flicker of hesitation in his expression. “Not sure, man. Think I’m skipping tonight.”
“Oh, come on, Nash,” Larsson said as he strolled over, clapping a hand on Nash’s shoulder. He gave me a once-over, his grin widening. “She’s cute. Bring her along.”
My eyes widened slightly, but Nash just laughed, running a hand through his still-damp hair, messing it up.
“I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
I’d been around long enough to understand how superstitious these athletes could be. “You should go, Nash,” I said, nudging him gently. “You had an amazing game. You should celebrate with your team. You deserve it. We can catch up another night.”
Nash’s forehead creased as he studied my face. “I’m not going without you. We need to celebrate your new job.”
“Bring her,” Larsson whined, “but let’s go. It was a fucking awesome game, and I’m thirsty.”
“What’s going on?” Mitch asked, glancing between Nash, me, and the rest of the guys, who were watching us with amused grins.
“Convince Reed to bring the lady,” Larsson said.
Mitchell’s eyebrows shot up. “Lady?” he repeated, clearly amused, before turning back to me. “Where to? The bar?”
“Yeah,” I said with a half shrug.
“Let me see what I can do,” Mitch said, schooling his expression into mock seriousness.
The other guys drifted off toward the exit. Mitch turned to Nash, dropping the act.
“So . . . where were you going?”
“Out for dinner,” Nash admitted. “To catch up.”
“Oh.” Mitch looked between us then made a dramatic shooing motion. “Just go. Larsson will survive.”