21. Tyson
twenty-one
Tyson
It’s game time, and the second my skates hit the ice, nerves fire through me.
Instead of fighting them, I let them fuel me.
When the puck drops, my team quickly takes control of it.
Within moments, it comes my way, and I don’t even have to think.
I’m open, and I shoot a clean wrister with an easy release. It goes exactly where I want it to go.
For a split second, the arena goes silent, or maybe that’s in my head. I have tunnel vision as I watch the puck slide across the ice and into the net. When it hits the back of the net, the crowd explodes.
Stone is on me first, slamming his glove into mine.
Kingston jumps on me next, and it’s knuckies all around as the horn blares.
That does nothing to silence the crowd as it continues to lose its mind.
I can’t hide the fact I’m relieved we got the first goal.
I’m even more relieved I finally did something that might make it look like I actually deserve to wear this C.
This is how respect is earned, and I’m here for it.
The pressure in my gut doesn’t release though.
Unstoppable , my goal song, plays as I skate back to the bench with a niggling thought popping into the back of my head.
Is Lottie watching? Yeah, she said her mom would never allow her to come in person.
Maybe she’s at home with the game on? My chest tightens, but I don’t have time to overthink it, because the game gets chippy fast. Houli gets into it with Leniecker behind our net.
I sort of want to laugh, because Houli has it coming with all the pranks he’s played this week.
Shoves are exchanged. Even though no calls are made against either side, my stomach knots anyway.
Stuff like that has a way of boiling over later.
Then Jeremiah Precio gets called for holding Baptiste Marchand, and suddenly we’re a man down. The Stripes team gets a power play and keeps the puck moving around our zone. I count every second until we finally survive the penalty.
I breathe, but only enough to maintain consciousness.
We get lucky when DiFranco snaps a shot past the Stripes’ goalie. It’s clean and fast, and now the scoreboard glows a beautiful 2–0. The arena erupts again, but I don’t celebrate. It’s too early, and too much can happen.
Next, Otto Stagmeier trips Jake Twiles, which gives us a power play. We set up, but they kill it off like it’s nothing.
With a minute left in the period, the East presses hard. The puck gets jammed in the corner. Every player piles in. They manage to dig it free, and it slides to Ted Powell, who takes off like a maniac in a breakaway.
It’s him and Blake Davis that I skate after. Everyone crashes the net, and I have laser focus as I dig for the puck until the whistle finally blows, announcing the end of the period.
As I skate to the bench, my lungs burn. I glance once more toward the stands and then toward the cameras.
I don’t know if she saw any of it.
But I felt her the whole time.
“Undefeated!” I announce as I bust through the locker room door. That earns a chorus of cheers. Someone lobs a roll of tape at my head. I’m in such a good mood, I burst out laughing.
Heading straight to my stall, I listen to all the side conversations about blocked shots and busted plays.
We won in a blowout, and I couldn’t be happier about my goal.
Still, I don’t kid myself—something is bugging me.
I didn’t see Lottie in the stands. Sure, she doesn’t really care about hockey, but the smile she gave me when she took my jersey meant something.
Now I’m hyperfixated on my phone, and I quickly pull it out to check.
Nothing.
I’m still holding on to hope that she’ll be randomly outside when I leave, and I’m craning my neck in every direction, willing myself to see her.
Does it work?
Nope.
It isn’t until I’m on the team bus, heading back to the hotel that my phone finally buzzes, and my heart actually skips a beat.
It’s not Lottie. It's Ham.
Dude, this is going to wreck you, but I talked to Lottie tonight. She heard us the other day, and she knows. I don’t want to get in the middle of your business, but you guys need to talk.
I don’t know what I’m doing faster, blinking or typing, but both are happening simultaneously.
What do you mean, she knows? She knows! She knows what? She knows I like her.
Yeah, she heard your butt dial, and you need to call her before the fake date gets real.
I reread his text, trying to decipher what he means. He didn’t exactly come out and say she likes me too, but he’s also not telling me to stay away from her. I’m about to reply when another text comes in, and my heart stops—it’s Lottie.
Hey. Sorry I couldn’t come. My mom had another donor dinner at the house, and you know how she feels about hockey. I couldn't escape. But I watched as much as I could on my phone under the table. Congrats on your goal. You were incredible.
I stare at the text. I picture her surrounded by people in suits while she’s hiding her phone in her lap. Too funny. It’s not the same as her being in the stands, but it probably took twice the effort. My thumbs are moving before I can overthink it.
Thank you. The win feels pretty amazing, but it’s just the start. We have to win two more times.
I take a breath and Ham’s words about needing to talk to Lottie echo.
It's seriously now or . . . never. Swallowing, I let my fingers do what my words could never have the courage to do.
I was wondering if you want to hang out. I can squeeze an hour off after practice tomorrow. Maybe somewhere a goat can't eat my clothes?
The typing bubbles appear, then vanish for a long beat. My gut drops all the way to the floor. When they finally return, I hang on to them.
I want to, but my mom's been watching my schedule like a hawk since I announced my fake relationship. She doesn’t want me to do anything that could expose her lies. If someone saw us together, that would really upset her.
I lean my head back against the seat. I’m not losing to her mom's schedule. I think about her stupid fake date. Well, not that Bodan is stupid. He works at the Smithsonian. He’s probably brilliant, especially compared to me. The situation is stupid.
What if you tell her you’re going to the museum to meet up with Bodan for a lunch break? If the press or any of her friends see us together, you have a built-in excuse. You’re hanging out while you wait for him to get a break. Totally innocent.
I hold my breath while I send it.
Using Bodan to our advantage, huh? It could work. I’ll text Bodan and see what time works for him, and we can meet there.
I exhale in relief and grin. Tomorrow just became the most important day of my life. It’s the day I finally tell Lottie exactly how I feel.
If everything goes well, we’ll finally be together.