Chapter Eleven Game Day
JAYCE
I can hear the hum of the crowd as I move with the team out of the locker room to the tunnel that will take us to the ice.
My heart is hammering and my blood is rushing through my veins in anticipation of the game.
This isn’t unusual for me. I always feel a rush right before we face off with whatever team we’re playing against. It’s like a dose of adrenaline has been shot straight into my veins.
I’m used to it and it’s a reminder of just how much I love this sport and why I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am.
Tonight, though, there’s something else. It’s not only the thrill of hockey making me buzz.
Sutton’s here, and that means, I have a second chance at convincing her to join in on my plan. I managed to get the guys to confirm that she would be here.
“Did Sutton get to town all right?” I’d asked Jensen when we first arrived at the stadium earlier.
“Huh?” He’d looked a bit confused. “Uh, yeah, she did. She’s with Grace and the girls right now at Stacey and Owen’s.”
“And she’s coming to the game, right?”
He’d arched a brow. “Yeah, dude. I didn’t realize you two were so friendly.”
I’d shrugged. “We run in some of the same circles. You could say we’ve… gotten to know each other.”
I’d left it at that, not going into any detail, especially about the fact that we hooked up less than a week ago.
Now, as the team makes our way onto the ice, the crowd is roaring and the arena is echoing with cheers, but I zero in on the press benches. Grace usually lets the girls sit there with her when they come to games.
I scan their faces until I lock with a pair of honey brown eyes.
Sutton stares back at me, her lips parted slightly and her cheeks flushed.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her long hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, showing off the teal underneath, and…
she’s wearing my jersey. The number 32 is so big and bright on her chest. Just like when we were in Estes Park for the group’s Friendmas gathering in January.
I’d been a day late, but when I’d arrived at the vacation house we’d gotten for the weekend, the guys wanted to scrimmage on a nearby frozen pond.
All the other girls had jerseys with their guy’s number, but Sutton didn’t have one.
I’d given her mine, not really thinking about it, so she wouldn’t be the odd man out.
Fuck… it still looks good on her. Is she wearing it to get my attention? Make a statement of some kind? Whatever the reason, it actually fits into my plans perfectly.
I force my eyes away from her and focus on the game. It’s easier now that I know she’s really here.
I skate to my position on the left wing, legs loose, pulse steady, stick tapping lightly against the surface. Across from me, Jensen readies himself at center ice, eyes locked on the puck about to drop between him and the opposing team’s center.
Carson is crouched in goal behind us, tapping his stick as well against the post twice before stilling.
Mike, Owen’s sub while he’s on leave, and Zander line up behind the circle, heads tilted forward, poised and ready.
To my right, Wilder rolls his shoulders, stick angled, restless energy practically vibrating off him.
The whistle blows.
The puck drops.
Jensen wins the faceoff clean, snapping it back to Mike. Mike wastes no time, sliding it across to Zander, who takes a quick look up the ice and fires it forward along the boards. Wilder catches it in stride, slicing through the neutral zone.
“Go, go!” Jensen shouts, skating hard down the middle.
I push off the line, blades cutting into the ice, matching his speed. Wilder cuts right, pulling a defenseman with him, then flicks the puck across the crease toward me. I reach, angle my stick, but it glances off the toe and bounces wide.
“Next one!” Jensen calls as the opposing defense clears it out.
We reset. The other team pushes back, rushing down the ice, but Zander steps up and meets their forward hard against the boards. The hit rattles through the glass, and the crowd erupts. The puck shoots loose. Jensen scoops it up and sends it across the ice.
“Heads up, Jayce!” he yells.
I catch the pass, feel it snap against my tape, and start the breakout. Wilder mirrors me along the opposite wing, Jensen cutting up the middle for support. I deke one defender, slide the puck under his stick, and hear the collective inhale of the crowd as I accelerate toward the net.
I fake the shot, pull right, and dish it across to Jensen. He takes it cleanly, winds up, and lets it rip.
The goalie just barely gets a piece of it, deflecting it wide.
We change lines. My lungs are burning as we coast to the bench.
By the second period, we’re settled in. Carson’s a fucking brick wall tonight.
He stops a breakaway with a quick flash of his glove, earning a roar from the stands.
Owen blocks a slapshot that sounds like a gunshot, gritting his teeth as he clears it with a backhand.
Zander’s in full lockdown mode, stick-checking everything that comes near the crease.
“Nice save, Monroe!” someone yells as Carson freezes another rebound.
“Thanks,” he mutters, flicking the puck to the ref before tapping his post again.
When our line’s called back, adrenaline floods my veins. Jensen lines up again at center, crouched and focused. The ref drops the puck, and he wins it back to Zander, who fakes left and passes up to me. I’m already skating hard, cutting past one of their wingers, the ice spraying behind me.
I see the gap. It’s barely there, but it’s enough.
“Middle!” Jensen calls.
I feed it to him, he draws the defense, and flips it back at the last second. The puck hits my stick… bang! Top corner, just under the crossbar.
The red light flares. The horn blares.
The crowd explodes.
Jensen grabs me in a half-hug as we skate toward the bench, Wilder thumping me on the helmet with his glove.
“Hell yeah, Vaughn!” he laughs.
Carson even smacks his stick against the goalpost in approval from across the ice.
I glance over to Sutton, who’s smiling and cheering and I feel a strange thrill that she’s watching me own the ice tonight. My head is clear and I’m focused. In the zone. Maybe more locked in because she’s here and I want her to see just how badass I can be.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted to impress a girl the way I want to impress her. Have I ever felt this way?
We finish the period strong, blocking shots, fore-checking hard, every line playing like it’s the finals.
My lungs ache, my thighs burn, but I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.
The thrill of the game and bone-deep satisfaction when the team is in sync and our plays come together almost flawlessly.
When the horn sounds for intermission, we’re up by two.
The bench erupts in high-fives as we coast toward the tunnel.
I’m grinning, helmet in my hand, the echo of the crowd still pounding in my ears.
I trail behind the others, still riding the high of that first goal.
When I make it out of the tunnel and start for the locker room, though, I hear a soft voice somewhere nearby and freeze.
I recognize that voice.
It’s Sutton.
I pause for a moment, then slowly ease my way down the corridor. Sutton is leaning against the wall, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp with emotion.
“No, Mom, I told you. I can do this. I don’t need Leon’s help, okay? Just… please, stop saying that. I’m not helpless.”
She pauses a moment, listening to whatever her mother is saying in response. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her jaw, as if she’s struggling to hold back what it is she really wants to say.
“Mom, hold on a sec, I need to do something.” She taps the screen on her phone, presumably putting her mother on hold.
She lets out a long, unsteady breath, pressing her back tighter against the wall.
For a second, she just stands there, shoulders rising and falling as she tries to keep it together.
Her fingers tremble. She bites her thumbnail, eyes squeezed shut.
When the tears start, she tries to blink them away, but one slips free and down her cheek.
I want to step in. To say something. Offer some sort of comfort, though I have no idea what that would look like.
Just as I’m about to move, she suddenly glances my way, as if she can feel my eyes on her.
Our gazes meet and it’s like time freezes for a moment.
We just stare at each other, neither of us speaking.
I raise a hand and give her a little wave.
She blinks and her eyes go wide as her cheeks flood with color.
She straightens, wipes her face, and draws in a shaky breath.
It’s like watching her slip a mask on, and the bright, composed smile that fools everyone else is back in place.
Giving me a quick wave in return, she squares her shoulders and quickly walks away, heels clicking lightly on the concrete.
I stay where I am, heart pounding for a completely different reason now.
She’s tough as hell, but she shouldn’t have to be. Not like this. She shouldn’t have to pretend she’s all right when she’s falling apart, and she shouldn’t have to put up a front for her parents, or for anyone, just to keep them happy.
I know my plan is the right move for both of us. It’ll grant us both the freedom we so desperately crave—freedom from our family’s weighty expectations.
I turn to make my way to the locker room to rejoin the team and grab the little velvet box waiting in my locker.
I’m more confident than ever that my plan is going to work.