Chapter 3 #2
I blink slowly, unable to tear my gaze away as she spins in a circle. I guess that’s a sufficient answer because Mikey goes quiet. Either that or his wife scolded him again.
The bottom of Nina’s dress flares. She smiles a faraway smile, but it’s there, nonetheless. I wonder if she’s cold in that dress, or if the stage lights are keeping her warm.
Her straight blond hair is shiny and her gray eyes seem to sparkle like stars even from this distance. I don’t notice a ring on her finger, but her arms are strong, like she works hard.
“Go, Nina!” someone in the crowd calls out.
A bunch of the women cheer.
But she doesn’t respond. Either she didn’t hear them, she’s trained to ignore the audience as part of the act, or she really is in a trance.
The hypnotist—Lucian Little—is asking her questions, and her answers make me smile despite my foul mood. She’s honest to the point of being funny, talking about yeast and butter temperatures like they’re the most important things in the world.
Maybe they are, in hers.
Lucian says, “Earlier, I asked you about true love. You told me that you want to believe in the kind that lasts. Is that correct?”
She nods like she’s in a daze—the kind of movement an actor would make when they’re directed to pretend they’re hypnotized. Fitting, I suppose. Then again, I’m a skeptic on both accounts. At this rate, the guys would probably call me a cynic.
“A forever kind of love?” Lucian asks.
“The kind that chooses to stay.”
Not the kind that bolts the second things get complicated, like—I shut that thought down before it can take root.
“You’ve already met your true love, haven’t you?”
My stomach rolls.
“That’s right,” Nina answers.
Even though the audience isn’t under any kind of spell, I look around, noticing they’re all rapt, desperate to know where this is going.
Nowhere. That’s where—along with the unbidden and unwanted attraction I’m feeling. My life is a mess and there’s absolutely no reason for me to be interested in Nina. Shutting that down, too.
The hypnotist continues, “I need one more volunteer. Someone willing to join Nina on this journey into, well, we’ll call it forever.”
Before I can process what’s happening, Grady’s hand lands on my back with enough force to send me shooting from my chair, across the ice, and into the boards. No wonder he’s one of the most dangerous defenders in the league.
“Our boy Lane volunteers!” Pierre shouts.
The rest of the team immediately picks up the chant. “Lane! Lane! Lane!”
“What the—?” I start, but Liam and Jack have already grabbed my arms and are propelling me toward the stage. To their credit, they are formidable on the ice and off. There’s no way I’m getting out of their clutches unless I make a scene.
“This is what you get for sulking and brooding all night,” Pierre says with a grin.
Liam winks. “Consider it team bonding.”
“I’m going to—” Words promising revenge are on my lips, but it’s too late. The hypnotist is already beckoning me forward, and the crowd is applauding like they’re all too pleased to see me.
Yeah, see me ruin my career. Get farmed out. Make a fool of myself.
Just before the blazing stage lights glare so I can’t see the individuals on my so-called team who did not mind their own business, I notice they all wear smirks that practically shout This is what you get for being in “a mood.” Good to know they’re all a bunch of jokesters.
Coach Badaszek is somewhere out there and told me he doesn’t tolerate drama. That the Knights are a family.
Some family.
Then again, I never had much of one, so what do I know?
I’ve also heard that the man is a secret matchmaker. Some kind of hockey love connection Cupid, who has a “no puck bunny” policy while playing dating coach and coaching arguably one of the top three teams in the NHL.
Are the rumors true? Far be it from me to find out.
I take a few tentative steps forward, ready to bolt if necessary.
Okay, I’m calculating how many strides I can take toward the exit before breaking into a run, then possibly getting tackled.
We don’t play football, but my teammates are rough when they want to be.
I’ve played against them to know that all too well.
Lucian holds his hand out for me to shake.
“As you know, I’m tonight’s entertainment.
Though that’s but one way to think about it.
Some people call me a miracle worker, but I don’t take credit for that.
Others, a change agent.” He shrugs as if humble.
“I prefer to think of myself as a psychological professional.”
Probably a quack. After all, this is an entertainment showcase. There was an illusionist and contortionists earlier. What’s next, an improv group?
The spotlight finds us. When in a packed arena, I don’t so much as flinch at the thousands of eyes watching my every move. But here, this quickly becomes unnerving.
Unlucky me, I’m on stage with a so-called hypnotist. Lucky me, I’m also with the beautiful blond woman I noticed earlier across the room. I suppose it could be worse. I still have a pulse—one that repeatedly trips in her presence.
Lucian says, “And whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“Lane Sheridan.” My voice is rougher than I intend.
From the crowd, someone shouts, “LSJ.” Then people take up the chant like at hockey games.
A bunch of people clap and cheer. But it’s nothing to the sound of fans, a sound I didn’t realize I’d miss until I didn’t hear it for several months straight. I was so close to the Stanley I could practically feel its weight in my arms.
A rough penalty brought me to the new team doctor and she noticed how jacked up I was—joints, muscles, ligaments. It wasn’t that big of a deal. I could’ve ignored it until after the finals were over and the Cup was in my hands. Truth is, it was something I’d been coping with for years.
Not on her watch.
In addition to having to get surgery followed by a lengthy recovery, my fiancée dumped me. Looking back, dating Xoe was like being a human social media filter. I made everything look better until I was deemed no longer relevant.
It never fails, every time I hear her name in my head, her voice is also there, reminding everyone that it’s pronounced Zoey. Then why not spell it like that?
She wanted a man who was part trophy and all perfect. Oh, and let’s not forget a mind reader. Wouldn’t doubt it if one of those stepped on stage next.
If Lucian recognizes my name, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he positions Nina and me facing each other, and I get my first good look at her up close in the disco ball strobes of the dance floor.
She’s even more stunning than I realized. Her gray eyes are the color of the northern sky in the summer. Tiny laugh lines at the corners suggest she smiles more often than she doesn’t. Her skin has a glow that speaks of time enjoyed outdoors. I notice her hands are slightly callused.
Working hands. Real hands. A real woman.
She looks at me without wavering. For a moment, I think I see a crack in the veneer. Like, she comes out of whatever spell she’s under or can’t remain in character. Her cheeks turn pink.
From where I watched from the sidelines, happily alone, until the guys forced me to the seating area, her friends also volunteered for her to come up here.
Some friends.
She made it clear she doubted this whole charade, so maybe she’s just being a good sport.
Lucian makes introductions between us and then asks, “Nina, have you ever met this man before?”
Her smile is like a sunrise after a long winter. “Formally? No, I have not.”
This is technically true.
He repeats the question for me, fully conscious and not about to pretend to be hypnotized. “Nope.”
“Perfect,” Lucian says, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality. “Now, both of you, I want you to look into each other’s eyes and focus on your breathing.”
I let out an annoyed huff, but knowing everyone who will impact the tatters of my career are watching, I opt not to be difficult … for now.
Lucian follows with the same line of questioning from earlier. “Lane, would you be willing to help me demonstrate the power of belief?”
I sense the crowd holding its breath, waiting to see if I blow this like I did my shoulder in the finals or play along.
With a shrug and a wave of my hand, I say, “I don’t really believe in this kind of thing.”
Lucian smiles kindly as if he’s heard these very words hundreds of times. “All the better. How about this? Do you believe in the power of suggestion? In the way our minds can surprise us when we let our guard down?”
“I’m not a fan of surprises.”
“I can see that,” Lucian replies.
The crowd laughs.
“Tell me something you believe in.”
I lightly clap my hands together. “The power of hard work, dedication, focus, and not giving up when things get hard.”
I hear some manly claps from the audience.
Then I add, “God.”
“I assure you, this process and your faith are not incompatible. This is a science, which many believers would argue is, in fact, created by God. What will happen next is a temporary activation of one part of the brain and a deactivation of another part.”
Someone hollers, “Don’t shut off the section that’s required for hockey.”
Another adds, “Turn up the volume on it while you’re at it.”
I do my best to ignore how this makes me feel like I’m grasping at sand as it sifts through my fingers.
Rather, my focus is on Nina’s eyes. They’re pure sparkle up close, framed by thick lashes that are definitely real.
In them is intelligence, kindness, and something that looks like trust despite the fact that we’re practically strangers.
However, if this whole thing is real, it could be that her brain is half asleep.
Lucian continues as if he senses I need reassurance, “During our time together, you remain fully conscious. It’s just that your focus is amplified and shifted elsewhere.
It’s that simple. Most people describe it as a feeling of deep relaxation, as if you’ve set aside inhibitions and fears, letting your true desires come to the surface. ”
“Got it,” I grumble, wanting to get this over with.
“Very good. I’m going to ask you to trust me. Can you do that?” he asks.
To this, I almost laugh. Trust him? With what? My career is hanging by a thread, my future is uncertain, and I have trust issues that could fill a psychology textbook—have a look at Chen’s notes if you want the nitty gritty.
Lucian says a few more things, directing me to gaze at Nina. Ordinarily, staring at someone like this would make me—both of us—uncomfortable, but she either deserves a staring contest Emmy award or she truly is in such a deep state of relaxation that it doesn’t occur to her to look away.
In fact, as Lucian continues, the content of what he’s saying fades. All I hear is the steady, comforting hum of his calming voice. I find myself taking a deeper breath than I have in a long time.
Then a question cuts into my thoughts. “Lane, please tell me, do you believe in love?”
At least, I think that’s what he says, but the inquiry catches me off guard, even though he asked Nina the same thing earlier.
My automatic response would be to deflect, to make a joke about believing in playoff hockey and sharp skates.
However, feeling at ease as I look into Nina’s eyes, something honest slips out instead.
I hear myself say, “I want to. I want to believe it exists.”
“Excellent. Now, I want both of you to go to your happy place. The place where you feel most yourself, most alive.”
Without having to contemplate it, my mind drifts to the ice.
Not the pressure-filled arenas of professional hockey, but the outdoor rink behind my childhood home in Utah.
The scrape of skates on a fresh surface, the bite of cold air in my lungs, the pure joy of moving fast across something smooth and endless.
“Now, take this lovely young woman with you to that place,” Lucian’s voice seems to come from very far away—from another time, another life when I still felt free. “Show her what makes you happy.”
In my mind’s eye, I’m lacing up my skates, but instead of being alone, Nina is there beside me, laughing as she tries to find her balance on the ice. The crowd in the ballroom chuckles at something—maybe Lucian made a joke about hockey—but their laughter sounds distant and unimportant.
“That’s it,” Lucian murmurs. “Let yourself sink into that feeling. Let the world around you fade away until there’s nothing but this moment, this connection, this possibility.”
Nina’s breathing is shallow, and I can feel my own slowing to match hers. The ballroom, the crowd, and my teammates’ ridiculous stunt all start to blur around the edges like heat shimmering on hot asphalt.
“Three ...” Lucian’s voice is hypnotic, rhythmic. “Two ...”
The world is going soft and golden, like looking through a jar of honey. Nina’s eyes never leave mine, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I think this might be the most honest I’ve ever been without saying a word.
“One.”
Everything fades except the gray of Nina’s eyes and the surprising steadiness of her hand in mine—when did we start holding hands?—and the strange certainty that something important is happening.
Something that will change everything.
Lucian’s voice drifts through the golden haze, talking about commitment and partnership and choices that bind two hearts together. The words flow over me like warm water, important but not quite registering in any concrete way.
I have a vague sense of movement around us, ritual and ceremony, but it all feels like watching a movie through frosted glass. What’s real is Nina’s trust, the way she’s looking at me like I’m someone worth believing in.
I can only hope that the way I’m looking at her reflects the same.
My thoughts slide between the ice rink of my childhood and this moment on stage, between the player I was and whoever I’m becoming, between the cynical man who walked into this party and someone who might actually believe in second chances.
Or first chances.
Or whatever this is.
The last coherent thought I have before the golden haze takes over completely is that my teammates are never going to let me live this down.
Somehow, I’m not sure that I care.