Chapter Four #3
The ref skates out with the puck and goes over his usual spiel.
Everything is mechanical at this point. In one ear, out the other.
I’m honed in on the plays. On the fans. On the cool air hitting my face and the burn of my muscles as I crouch down into position with my stick gripped tightly in my palms.
I hear the whistle and drown out the announcers as soon as the puck hits the ice.
Everything is a blur from there. A blur of every tactic we’d gone over during practice.
Moskins gets put in the penalty box the first period for shoving one of the right wingers on Pittsburgh’s team.
I nearly get put there during the end of the second period for defending one of our rookies against an aggressive forward who tried tripping him during a backcheck.
And then the third period comes down to its last two minutes at a 2-2 score with the Penguins at an advantage.
Nothing any of my teammates can say can prepare me for the remaining twenty seconds on the clock. Or the way the crowd screams for us to make the goal when they see Alexander O’Conner, the Penguin’s left winger, break past the block we set in place.
Nineteen.
Eighteen.
Seventeen.
Sixteen.
Each passing second is drowned out by the drumming heartbeat in my ears. I can feel it pounding as sweat drips down my face.
Fifteen.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.
Twelve.
The puck gets passed from one member of our team to the next to the next. I rush to the opening for Moskins to pass, when I’m slammed out of the way last minute by O’Conner who steals it and rushes to our goal.
Eleven.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Hodgkins, our goaltender darts down to block it from hitting the net.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One—
The puck slips past him.
The Penguins win 3-2, and the home crowd roars out their protests as Pittsburgh celebrates the victory.
And everything else falls away.
The handshakes.
The pats on the back.
The murmured words of congratulations to the opposing team.
O’Conner skates up to me at one point and grips my hand, apologizing. There’s a shine in his eyes, though, and I’m happy for him. He deserves the glory of this win. So, I shrug it off and pretend like it means nothing.
But the emptiness is back, along with it the ringing in my ears that swallows the world around me.
I blink it away and force myself to be present. To get through the defeat of the night. I look up toward the box where my father, stepmother, and stepsister are all still standing.
Nora and my dad are hugging.
Belle is staring straight at me.
Even though we’re far away, I can practically feel the sorrow there. It soaks into me like a warmth that pulls me just enough out of my head to get off the ice and peel off my helmet.
Dawson murmurs, “Sorry, Cap,” to me on the way to the locker room. I shake it off and ignore the other ‘sorry, Caps’ that I get as we strip, shower, and change.
That crushing defeat washes away in the hot spray of water and swirls down the drain. I have no time for pity or sympathy or sorrow.
I look at the team after I’m finally dressed, swiping a hand through my damp hair and say, “There’s always next time.”
Bodhi Hoffman grips my hand in a sturdy shake and gives me the same half hug that we used to exchange as opponents before he took on the coaching position for the Fireflies.
It’s familiar enough to ease what tension remains in my muscles. But nothing, and I mean nothing, relieves that pressure like seeing Belle leaning against the wall just outside of the locker room.
As soon as she sees me, she pushes off it.
I pull her in for a hug before she says a word, resting my chin on the top of her head. I inhale the scent of her shampoo and close my eyes for a moment, letting it be only us. I’m grateful that she doesn’t apologize for the loss. I’ve heard it too many times already.
Instead, she pulls back, reaches into her bag, and pulls something out. My brows pinch when a secretive smile tugs at her mouth as she drops something into my palm.
For the first time in an hour, I smile.
“Heard they were your favorite,” she tells me as I stare at the pink wrapped Hershey kiss in the center of my palm.
I let out a soft chuckle and unwrap it, popping the chocolate into my mouth and letting it melt against my cheek. “It’s better than a fucking Sour Patch Kid.”
She laughs, pinching my side. “I agree.”
I drape an arm over her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Bells.”
Her arm hooks around my waist as we begin walking toward where I can see my dad and Nora waiting by the side exit. “I wouldn’t have missed it, Jess.”
I can tell she means that, no matter what’s transpired between us. And it’s the first time in days that I think we may actually be able to move past things.
I don’t know why I do it, but as we’re walking, I lean down and press a kiss to the crown of her skull. Her arm twitches around me as though she’s surprised by the moment of affection, but she doesn’t say anything.
Then again, I don’t think she needs to.
Her fingers dig into the material of my shirt as our parents greet us with a smile.
And I wonder if they ever suspected that I feel for her what they feel for each other.