Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’m not the type of girl who goes through outfit changes, trying to figure out what to wear to an event. My wardrobe consists mostly of black staples with some statement pieces—my style comes from city living and salon work.
And when my mother emerges from her room wearing not black, I realize two things at once.
One, while she’s been outfitted in black clothing as a sign of mourning, I’ve been donning the color for most of my life.
Have I been grieving something?
Two, I see distinctly what I’m going to look like in about twenty-five more years. It’s a strange kind of mirror.
But what’s more is that she’s wearing a Knights hoodie.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Carlotta.”
“Why?”
In Italian, she replies, “To show support for the team.”
I sputter. “You’re going to the game?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t understand how the answer to my question is of course.”
“To support Miguel. He’s family.”
“What happened to the feud?”
Mom takes my hand and pats it. “Once more, my oldest friend and I find ourselves in a new land. We have to stick together. We had a heart-to-heart. We should’ve left our feud back in Italy. Now it’s in New York and that’s where it’ll stay.”
“But you hate each other.”
Mom frowns as if contemplating that. “No, we are like sisters.”
I snort. “You have a fierce rivalry.”
“Think of it like sibling rivalry.”
A staggering thought makes me go still. “If you’re sisters, then Miguel and I can never ... ”
“I said we are like sisters. There is no blood relation.” She wears a sneaky smile like she plans to meddle again. “And we realized we were setting a poor example.”
Does this mean she and Carlotta see me struggling with my feelings for Miguel? His for me?
She says, “Finish getting ready. We don’t want to be late.”
Like a sulky teenager, I return to my room.
Mom calls, “And don’t wear your Kings jersey. We want to fit in ... and hurry. The Cruzes will be here any minute to pick us up.”
With the ceiling cave-in at the salon, uncertainty about the building permit, and relying on that particular family for anything, I want to protest. However, my mother is more animated than she’s been in months, and if mending fences with Carlotta is helping her move out of grief and into a new normal, I won’t put up a fight. For now.
Thankfully, Miguel will already be at the arena, so I don’t have to squish into the car next to him. Not that it would be the most terrible thing. At the salon earlier, my traitorous body wanted his touch, desired his lips on mine more than anything—even an intact ceiling.
I begrudgingly tug on the jersey with the number ninety-four and the name Cruz emblazoned across the back, then pull a plain black sweatshirt over it to keep warm.
Miguel got the six members of his family, plus Mom and me, access to the VIP box.
I see Margo, Gracie, Delaney, Whit, and a few others, but no sign of Leah.
In the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve come to think of her as my fellow single sister.
Though I noticed her staring at Hudson earlier at lunch.
The ladies and kids cheer for the guys as they take to the ice, some of them waving with sticks lifted, others straight-faced and focused as they shut out the noise and get into the zone.
Then there’s Miguel Cruz, who is somewhere in between.
He wears a smirk and pumps the air for the fans as he gets into position, but his dark eyes are on the hunt.
He doesn’t spend much time searching the crowd until his gaze lands on me.
There’s a flicker of recognition, a moment of contentment as if he’s pleased to see me in the arena.
But his attention doesn’t leave me. Not when the announcers give their spiel.
Not when one of the guys from the Kings hocks a loogie onto the ice in Miguel’s direction.
It may as well only be the two of us here with the intensity of his gaze on me. Pinned in place, my heart flutters and my hand lifts as if on a puppet string. My lips gather into a perfect pucker as I blow Miguel a kiss.
I want to say it’s a reflex, an old habit from when we were together. But I’ve been to multiple games where he’s playing—though he didn’t know I was in attendance—and I did not blow him a kiss.
My instinct is to look around, hoping no one noticed, but the entire arena roars as my face appears on the jumbo televisions suspended over the ice, replaying that moment. The commentators say something about the new center as the women surrounding me flock over, twittering about what I just did.
I’m stunned speechless. All I can say is my body and heart know what they want, even if my mind fights it.
But social hour quickly comes to an end when the puck drops. Both teams are hungry for it. The gameplay zigs and zags across the ice. Miguel seamlessly switches between offensive and defensive roles, depending on where he’s needed, but the real show happens when he’s in possession of the puck.
Right now, he runs it down the ice, and at the last moment, he gets T-boned by the Kings’ right-wing player, but not before he drop-passes the puck between his own legs to Redd, who’s open.
If the Ice Palace weren’t a new arena, I’d fear the Knights fans are going to blow the roof off with the thunderous cheering.
With few exceptions, for most of the NHL games I’ve attended, I dress for the weather. In other words, being bundled up with layers is key. But the VIP suite is heated, and I am sweltering halfway through the first period and I tear off my sweatshirt.
Play hasn’t resumed, so it takes me a moment to realize why Margo, Gracie, Whit, and Delaney are cheering.
I’m wearing Miguel’s jersey.
As if blowing him a kiss wasn’t enough, my heart slams against my ribs like I’ve just revealed my crush to the entire school. But I’m an adult and we were once engaged. It’s not that big a deal.
No, it’s a huge deal because I’m admitting something to the world, er, the hockey world, but also to myself.
Only two minutes into the second period, Beau blocks a goal and the defensemen are on fire, drawing me back into the game. Even though the “D” are largely well-spaced on the ice, they’re somehow everywhere at once. The wingmen support the center. In turn, Miguel sets them up nicely for a few plays.
Never mind taking up the ice, he somehow takes up all the oxygen in the arena. And in my lungs. He is lightning and I’ve been struck.
But the Kings are nasty. Hockey isn’t a gentleman’s sport where players say things like, My good sir, after you and then let the opponent take the shot.
There aren’t any professional sports like that.
But this one is especially cutthroat. However, from what I’ve seen, the Knights rely on skill rather than penalties to win.
It’s honorable. Seeing things from this side, maybe I want them to be my team.
We’re partway through the second period and it’s still tied up one-one, until Grady gets ahold of the puck just outside the net and launches it up the ice as Redd breaks away, chasing it.
Seconds before he crosses the blue line, he makes contact, and as if anticipating what’s coming, Miguel intercepts and then rushes home, slotting the puck into the goal.
We go wild.
The Kings come back, scoring a goal, with mere minutes to go at the end of the period, leaving one remaining for the Knights to pull ahead and break the tie.
For once, I’m not fully immersed in the game as I try to distract myself from a certain player.
In a sea of silver, black, and red—the Knights’ colors—Margo, my previously hockey-ignorant friend, is wildly animated as she cheers the guys on.
Mr. and Mrs. Cruz lean in, their full attention on their son and I’m pretty sure they both hold their breath.
Tony, Paulie, Charlie, and Joey—the Cruz crew—are rowdy, hollering even though no one can hear them through the glass. Then there’s my mother, who’s on her feet, arms in the air as Miguel chops up the ice on the way to the Kings’ net again.
Possibly for the first time in my life, I remain quiet ... waiting to see what happens. Of course, I want my guy to score. At this point, I want the Knights to win.
But what about this game that Miguel and I have been playing? The cat and mouse, back and forth, hot and cold? I hate him, I hate him not?
By the time the game wraps up with a four-two score, favoring the Knights, I still haven’t answered my questions, but I already succumbed ... by blowing him a kiss, by taking off my hoodie to reveal that I’m wearing his jersey, to the very familiar notion of claiming him as mine.
Miguel was powerful and imposing out there—showed up for the Knights. It gets my pulse racing and I’m overheating. But that’s not all. These last weeks, he’s shown up for me.
The two of us have exchanged words, lots of them, but our actions tell a different story. Maybe, the true one.
In the hubbub of the win, my mother and Margo insist we attend the after-party. I can’t find my sweatshirt. I think Mama kicked it under the chairs. That stinker. I guess it doesn’t matter because my temperature hasn’t returned to normal.
When we get to the party room, I make a plate of snacks for Mom, including a small soft pretzel with maple mustard dip, a cinnamon sugar mini doughnut, and a little penguin figure made out of olives, cheese, and a carrot for a beak.
In fact, there is a general penguin-related theme—Penguin is a Knights’ defenseman and it’s his birthday.
I sense a presence behind me that’s warm and scented like cologne and ... home. A hand lands on my lower back and Miguel whispers in my ear, “Mine.”
A shiver runs through me and my heart flutters. The word, Yours is on my lips, but I don’t say it, but I do whip around and plant my lips on his.