27. Tyson
twenty-seven
Tyson
Riding the team bus to the arena, I can’t stop replaying this morning with Ham. I left without getting a chance to tell Senator Halloway about Lottie and me. She’d dramatically insisted she and Lottie needed to take off the rest of the day to “prepare for the funeral.”
I didn’t even get to talk to Lottie, because her mom was panicking so much. I have no idea if Lottie’s even coming to the game tonight. Honestly, I doubt it. The only way it wouldn’t be a huge fight is if she drags Bodan, and he’s clearly not going to a game the day his grandpa died.
Following the guys, I step down from the bus and suck in a huge breath as a throng of reporters crowd the sidewalk, cameras ready.
It’s always nerve-racking, but I remind myself it’s an honor to be representing our country in this tournament.
I have a duty to appear friendly, and I wave as we file past the crowd.
Once inside, I exhale. It’s quiet here; the doors are still locked to the public.
Only arena staff and team members move through the hallways.
Imagine my surprise when I round the corner and nearly slam into Lottie. I do a double take and stop so abruptly that I almost trip over my own feet. “Lottie? How’d you get in here?”
She looks wrecked. Her hair is half pulled back, like she tried for a neat little bun but gave up halfway. Stray strands frame her face. Of course, I think she’s stunning, but this is far from her usual perfect hairdo.
She’s not crying, but her eyes are red, evidence of earlier tears. That scares me more than if she were crying now. My heart ticks up a notch as I step forward. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Ham’s friends with the security here, and I begged him to help me get in here to see you. I don’t have long,” she says so fast, I barely catch it. “I know you have a game.”
I reach for her without thinking. My hand brushes her wrist, then I pull back—remembering we aren’t public yet. My fingers twitch to touch her again. “Slow down.”
“I tried to tell my mom about us,” she says, throwing her hands in the air, “but she won’t listen. She kept looking at herself in the mirror, like she was imagining herself sitting next to celebrities at the funeral. She’s insisting she’s going to this funeral for PR, but there is no way I can go.”
Her mom is so infuriating that my jaw tightens, but I manage to keep my voice even. “Okay.”
Lottie’s words tumble out in a rapid procession, “She says I have to keep fake dating Bodan through the funeral, and even longer, or it will make me look heartless.” Her eyes lift to mine. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Slow down. I’m confused.” I step closer, as my heart slams into my chest with worry. I hope she means she can’t listen to her mom, but if she thinks she can’t tell her mom about me … I don’t think I’m ready to hear that. “What aren’t you doing anymore?”
“Lots of things, but for starters, I’m being honest, and I’m done apologizing.” She exhales hard through her nose. “For wanting my own life. For wanting you .”
That affects me more than any body check I’ve ever taken.
And her hands—literally shaking like she’s standing on the edge of a cliff—make it worse.
I swallow hard, aching to grab her and pull her close.
Her perfect sea-green eyes glint back at me, and I squeeze a fist in frustration.
Man, I wish I had time to do this right.
To hold her properly, to tell her everything I feel.
But I can’t be late for the game. I glance down the hall as the last of the guys disappear into the locker room.
I have two, maybe three minutes, to talk.
I’ve waited years for a moment like this.
I’m not wasting my chance now. She’s wrecked, and she needs to hear that I’m all in.
“I want you too,” I say with force. Since we’re alone in the hall, for now, I lift my hand and blot my thumb on her cheek, brushing beneath her eye.
No tears remain, just the faint stain of one, and it breaks me that she cried alone over this.
“Listen, Lottie, I can’t talk right now,” I say, hating it.
“But you need to know I’m not going anywhere.
Whatever happens with your mom, we’ll figure it out together.
But you are right. You need to do what’s best for you. ”
“I know.” Her expression smooths over, as if every worry is being carefully tucked away. “Thank you for … you know for—”
“Lane!” Coach hollers down the hall, cutting us off. My stomach plummets. I’m really trying to give this team everything I’ve got, but somehow the coach has perfect timing to catch me at the exact moment that makes me look like I’m slacking.
Gritting my teeth, I tear myself away from her. Clearly, she understands, as she turns and runs off, throwing her hand up in a wave. “Good luck!”
“Wait for me after the game!” I call over my shoulder, then sprint to the locker room.
I’ve played a lot of hockey in my life. Most of the time, I play for goals and trophies.
Tonight feels different. Tonight, I play for Lottie.
Like I’m meant to prove not only to Lottie that she isn’t making a mistake by choosing me, but also to her mom.
Tonight, I know exactly what I’m playing for.
Coach’s voice carries through the tunnel.
I nod like I’m listening, but my head’s still with Lottie, replaying how she chose me, risking everything in her life.
Her job, her relationship with her mom, and, if I really think about it, even the roof over her head.
Pressure surges to perform, not just for the team but for her.
I’m first on the ice tonight. Houli leans over the red line during warm-ups, grinning like he always does. “Well, are you ready to cry tonight?”
I shake my head. Normally a little jab from Houli would fire me up, but my chest is too tight.
It’s no surprise—he wins the opening face-off against Leinecker.
He’s untouchable. Everything he does shows his A game.
My team fights hard, firing shot after shot, but nothing goes in.
Jeremiah Precio cuts behind the net, and the puck comes to me along the boards.
I don’t even look at the net— Stone is already crashing the slot, pulling coverage.
That leaves the back side open. I snap the puck down low, and right at Precio.
A sharp thup— his backhand lifts—and the red light flares.
The crowd erupts, and I’m already pointing at him.
Normally I stay humble early in the game, but we take a moment to celebrate our first goal.
Adrenaline roars through my body. The next thought I have is of Lottie.
It’s crazy how suddenly I’m playing for us.
I scan the crowd and spot her sitting alone above our net.
She’s cheering, and when our eyes meet, she waves.
It gives me a boost of something I didn’t know I was missing.
Things get even better when Stone scores a second goal. Instantly my chest relaxes, and I breathe easier. We’re able to go into intermission with our spirits high.
When the second period starts, the East’s Jayce Brady scores just thirty-six seconds in, and the energy does a dramatic one-eighty.
I have no idea what they did in that locker room, but whatever it was, it’s working.
They look like a completely different team now.
It only gets worse when they quickly snag a second goal, tying everything up.
Tension is at an all-time high by the third period, and I’m sweating like a sieve. When Chase Sullivan gets the puck, my stomach drops straight to the ice. I can feel it in my gut—this isn’t good. He gets it into the net with no assist. Just like that, we are down by one.
I instinctively glance at Lottie. My mind drifts to the promise I made all those summers ago; to be a better man, one who deserves Lottie. As much as I hate to admit it, I yearn to be a man her mom will respect. My throat burns as I sink onto the bench, but I need to sit. My mind is reeling.
Thankfully, Dashiell DiFranco is on fire for our team, tearing up the ice to tie us back up. It’s a goal that will surely go viral, and with the tie, the entire arena seems to collectively hold its breath.
His snipe from a perfect cross-crease pass from Ted Powell is a beauty. My heart drops as the momentum slips through our fingers like sand. To add insult to injury, Jayce Brady scores another one for Stripes. I clamp my lips shut and resist the urge to shake my head.
The clock ticks down. Coach pulls our goalie.
My heart slams against my rib cage. We scramble at the crease, getting the puck loose for a fleeting moment, all the while the clock’s bleeding.
The crowd rises, chanting each number as it counts down.
Sullivan grabs the puck, steers toward our net, and buries it into the empty cage.
That’s it.
The buzzer sounds, and everything inside me explodes. All the thoughts I’ve been carrying—about earning my team’s respect, being the captain they can count on, proving to Lottie and her mom that I’m worthy—crash together. They pile up until the noise falls away, and my body goes numb.
Heading to the tunnel, I don’t look back. I can’t. Every stride feels heavier than the last, as if the entire arena is full of disappointed faces—all aimed at me.
Some captain I am.
I’ve been waiting my whole life for this chance to impress Lottie. She’s here in the stands, and I couldn’t get it together.
What a loser.
I failed my team.
I failed Lottie.
And I failed myself.