8. Payton
The roarof the crowd is deafening.
It’s the last home game of the season, and twenty thousand screaming fans are here to watch the Hawks face off against their biggest rivals— the Miami Ice Rays.
The Rays are assholes with the reputation to match, both on and off the ice. Their win-at-all-costs attitude and penchant for dirty plays have catalyzed more than one NHL controversy. From doping accusations to violent public outbursts, the Rays make even our wildest players look like choir boys by comparison. Most recently, a nasty blow from one of Miami’s d-men put Emerson off the ice— and almost ended his entire career.
To say that tensions are high tonight would be an understatement.
There’s a palpable energy in the arena. It’s frenetic and hot with the violent expectations of bloodthirsty fans. The playoffs are on the line, and it’s clear that both teams are out for blood.
It’s also Erik’s first time back on the ice since his injury.
Trying not to think about it is like trying not to breathe. I knew what I was getting into when I fell in love with a professional athlete. Erik’s job is dangerous and exciting. He’s never going to wear a suit and tie or work in an office. The fact is, I’ll probably worry a little every time he gears up. But loving Erik means giving him the space to do what he loves.
And there’s no question that this is where he belongs.
Erik is a force to be reckoned with on the ice tonight— quick, strong, and decisive. There’s no sign of pain or hesitation now. Watching Erik move with purpose and focus is enough to send relief flooding through my system. He’s a brick wall, guarding the net with the same single-minded determination that first made me fall in love with him.
“Let’s go, Mita!” I shout through cupped hands. “Protect the damned slot!”
I’m pacing the length of the coach’s box, watching every play with my heart in my throat. The box is spacious and well-appointed. Currently, it’s also crammed tight with staff, photographers, press, and video equipment. Emerson Stone, the Hawks’ former forward and newest AC, is pacing alongside me.
His eyes follow the puck’s every movement, missing nothing. The third period is ticking to a close and the Hawks are up by one point. It’s going to take a miracle— or some dirty hockey— to keep the Rays in the game. Emerson knows better than anyone what this team is capable of, and he looks ready for the worst.
Kai slices past us, the slash of his blades sharp enough to cut through the crowd’s screams.
There’s a loud grunt, followed by the crush of padding against the glass. For one desperate moment, my view of the ice is cut off by the struggling forms of two angry defensemen. Then the window clears in a flash of black and white stripes.
“Can someone get the ref new glasses?” Emerson gestures wildly as Kai is dragged off to the penalty box. “They were cross-checking him!”
If the official hears, he doesn’t seem to care. Emerson frowns down at the tablet in his hand, tapping angrily at the screen to bring up video footage of the last play. Armed with evidence, he stomps off in the direction of the refs. On his way through the box, Emerson looks up to see Sawyer skating past us.
“Cycle the puck!” He points over my brother’s shoulder at the new left wing. “And tell Fernandez to get his shit together or he’ll be running drills until I get tired.”
Sawyer salutes in response before skimming across the ice to deliver the message.
Emerson slipped into the role of assistant coach like it was made for him. His transition from player to AC was a smooth one. It helps that the team already respected and looked to Em for advice. With his help, the Hawks are set to finish tonight with a record-breaking season.
But I’m willing to bet that there’s more than just a career move and potential title responsible for the swagger in Emerson’s step lately.
According to Skylar— who was there— Yasmin came home from her medical conference on Friday and spent the rest of the weekend moving into Emerson’s place. Their relationship may be new, but I’ve never seen either of my friends so happy. It’s clear that Yas and Emerson are destined for their very own happily ever after.
My gaze moves instinctively to Erik at the thought.
He’s hunkered down in front of the net, using every inch of his considerable size and strength to keep the Rays out of the net. Erik’s face is obscured by the cage on his helmet. But I don’t need to see his eyes to know they’re flashing with determination. Even beneath layers of padding and protective gear, I can still read his body language like a book.
Erik bolts to the left, easily slapping away another attempt to score by Miami’s forward. Then he slides back into position, resuming his defensive stance without missing a beat. The crowd erupts in a frenzy of screams at the move.
So does my heart.
“Miss Lawson—” a microphone appears in front of my face, snapping me back to reality. “A real-time poll of viewers agrees that this is the most aggressive game of the season. How do you feel about the Rays’ strategy on the ice tonight— especially in light of Emerson Stone’s recent injury?”
It’s a loaded question, of course.
I recognize the face attached to the arm at the end of the recorder. Frank Neal is the online correspondent for one of the major networks. Sports journalists like Frank are responsible for 90% of Monday morning water cooler conversations. They’re also the cornerstone of my career.
The Rays have always skirted the line of unsportsmanlike conduct. Hockey is physical by nature— the definition of a contact sport. Add in some big players and even bigger egos and you have the ingredients for a volatile game on ice. But there’s structure to the madness. That”s why safety rules and regulations are sacred among teams and players alike.
Mostteams, anyway.
I’ve been scouring Internet polls and monitoring online comment sections all night. The overwhelming consensus among fans of all demographics is that the Rays crossed that line tonight in more ways than one. Diving, slashing, tripping— Miami is playing dirty and they don’t care who knows it anymore.
But bringing up the obvious without coming across as a petulant tattletale can be tricky. I know better than anyone how a careless comment made in the heat of the moment can follow you forever. Words can take on a life of their own, especially when taken out of context. The last thing I want is to tarnish the Hawks’ sterling season now.
“Every team in the league has something they excel at.” I keep my voice casual, my tone neutral. “Those differences— that competitive edge. It’s what makes this sport so damned exciting.”
I stop, waiting as a handful of cameras flash in an explosion of crisp white light. When they’ve settled down again, several other microphones have materialized in front of my face. The game rumbles over my shoulder, loud and intense.
My pulse kicks and doubles before settling into a steady rhythm. Above our heads, the clock counts down to the end of the game. I take a deep breath and give the cameras a trained smile.
Erik isn’t the only one in the zone tonight.
This is what I do. It’s where I shine. I may not be able to stop a 100-mile-an-hour slap shot or coordinate a successful dump and chase. But what I can do— what I do better than anyone else— is understand social media and publicity. The Snowhawks are my team, too. And just like Erik, I’ll do anything to protect us.
“After all,” I shrug one shoulder before giving Frank and all the other reporters the soundbite they want. “What’s the value in a win if you have to cheat to get it?”
Laughter rumbles through the cluster of journalists and photographers. Then, as if to punctuate my point, the shrill blast of a ref’s whistle grinds the game’s final moments to a halt. The cameras shift in unison, following the Rays’ captain as he’s forcibly ejected for game misconduct.
I grin to myself, watching the scene unfold. Right on time. Light bulb flashes explode around me as the crush of reporters shifts their attention to the display playing out across the ice. The expelled captain isn’t going quietly— his litany of curses and expletives can be heard clearly over the roar of the crowd.
I keep my stance casual, but inside? I’m doing a happy dance. It was a calculated risk that could have gone wrong a dozen different ways. But the Rays can always be counted on to pull at least three questionable moves in a game. They were due another tantrum before the night was over. All I had to do was time my press quote just right and wait for them to play into my hands.
They did.
And the payoff was more than worth the risk. The coach’s box empties in a hurried rush around me as reporters and photographers file out in search of a quote or picture to splash atop the sports page later. Across the ice, Erik pulls his helmet off. He turns toward the coach’s box, scanning the crowd.
I know the moment he spots me. He smiles, and my world stands still. Warmth spreads through my chest, a thick lump of emotion forming in the back of my throat. There are a dozen hockey players, a handful of officials, a box of journalists, and twenty thousand screaming fans between us right.
None of it matters.
This is my smile— the one he saves for me alone. Erik may be the strong and silent type, but that smile tells me everything I need to know. He’s mine, just as much as I belong to him. The fire in his eyes as he skates across the rink toward me says he knows it too.
And just like that, it hits me. For the first time in my life, all of the puzzle pieces are in place. I have a job I love, friends I adore, and a place to call home. And now, I have the man of my dreams, too.
I didn’t need romance in my life to feel complete. But I can’t imagine a life without Erik by my side ever again.
Tomorrow morning, the Snowhawks will be the most popular sports team in America. There will be interviews to schedule and playoffs to prepare for. Tomorrow, Erik’s face will be plastered on front pages across the country. But right now?
Right now belongs to us.
Tonight, Erik and I have each other. And that’s all I’ll ever need again.
“Hell of a game, Nordstrom.” I smile as Erik skates to a stop in front of me. “Good to see you back on top.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up at that.
“Don’t worry,” he leans in to whisper dramatically. “You’ll be back on top as soon as this game is over.”
I snort an indelicate laugh at that. But despite his teasing tone, Erik’s words send a shiver chasing along my spine. It doesn’t matter what’s going on around us, my body always responds to his.
I glance over his shoulder, at the empty ice and screaming crowd beyond.
“Couple more games like this and you’ll be clearing out mantle space for a Stanley Cup.” Pride drips off my every word. “You ready to be on the front page tomorrow?”
Erik looks at me and for once, I’m having trouble reading his placid expression. Then he breaks into a smile, undeniable mischief sparking behind his amber eyes.
“Are you?” He asks with a predatory grin.
Before I can question him, Erik’s big hands have nipped me around the waist. In one smooth motion, he lifts me high enough for my heels to barely skim the ground. My surprised gasp is drowned out by the hum of photographers standing a foot away. There’s no time to think.
Erik’s mouth crushes mine in a passionate kiss that leaves little question as to the nature of our relationship. He smells like sweat and fresh ice— a heady combination that shouldn’t turn me on the way it does. I’m lost in the moment, lost in Erik and the kiss.
Until the shrill sound of a buzzer slices through my hazy thoughts. Reality slams into me as Erik skates off to join his teammates for the last few minutes of the game. My face is still flushed when I turn around—
And a dozen camera flashes go off at once. Microphones are shoved in front of my face as a barrage of questions are volleyed at me. It’s the first time I’ve ever had to answer questions about myself for the cameras. The game roars on behind me as the Snowhawks smash their way to a victory. It doesn’t even matter what the scoreboard says anymore.
I’ve already won.