12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Tate
Game nights at Ballad Arena don’t just start.
They build.
The air outside is sharp and cold, fans in Green and Gold pouring through the glass doors like a tide.
Playing in Boston, where the fans live, breathe, and even sometimes fight for hockey, is a lot different than what it was like back in California.
The smell of popcorn and beer hits you before you even step onto the ice.
Music thumps through the speakers during warmups, bass vibrating through the boards.
The lights are blinding when they dim the house and spotlight the ice.
I usually love it.
Tonight, my stomach feels different. It’s turning in a way I can’t even put into words. I never get nervous before games. But tonight, it’s different.
Because she’s here.
Because he’s here.
I told her she didn’t have to come.
She hesitated on the phone when we spoke earlier.
“It’s loud, Tate.”
“I know,” I say casually to try to ease her nerves.
“It’s crowded.”
“I know, I told you, if you are not comfortable with coming, that is okay.”
“And if his numbers—”
“I’ll come up there if you need me,” I’d said. “Mid-game. I don’t care.”
There had been a pause.
“You’d get benched.” Her voice was firm, and I would be lying if it didn’t turn me on.
“Worth it,” I say with a smirk that falls onto my face.
Silence. Then softer: “Okay.” I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face with that one little word. They’ll be in the stands cheering me on.
Now I’m tapping my stick against the ice during warmups, pretending I’m stretching, but I’m scanning the stands like an idiot.
“Looking for someone?” Preston skates past me, shoulder-checking lightly.
“No.” But yet my eyes don’t move from the stands, swiftly moving back and forth from section to section, seat by seat.
“Liar.” He huffs out. He has been more grumpy than ever, and he’s been spending more minutes in the box than on the ice at this point.
Something is going on with him, and I’m not sure what exactly.
I know he’s been annoyed about having to keep an eye on Gemma for Chiral, but I mean, how hard could it be?
“I said no.” But my eyes are still scanning, moving quickly from section to section. Looking for two brunettes with matching curls and eyes.
“Section 114.” He mumbles, “Your girl is sitting three rows up.”
I freeze. My girl. Damn fucking right she is. I haven’t made it official yet, but God do I plan to. We’ve been inseparable. I meet her at the diner, then bring her back to her apartment, where we picked up Ro from Suzie’s, her neighbor, who was kind but definitely cautious of me.
Section 114.
Third row.
And there they are.
Rowen is standing on the seat even though Celeste’s clearly telling him not to. He’s wearing my extra hoodie I gave her last week, sleeves rolled up three times, the bottom practically at his knees.
“Momma! That’s him!” I can see him yell, even from here.
Celeste laughs and pulls him down. Her hair is down tonight, loose over her shoulders.
She looks smaller up there. Softer. But fuck, does she look damn good in a tight green sweater and jeans.
Don’t get me wrong, girls who get all done up for games are nice looking too, but the simplicity of Celeste is my fucking kryptonite.
She scans the ice and finds me.
And when she does, she smiles. Not careful. Not guarded.
Just proud and warm and all fucking mine.
“Okay,” Preston mutters beside me. “Yeah. You’re done for.”
“Shut up.”
“The kid is wearing your hoodie.” He leans side to side, warming his body up. Preston isn’t the mushy type, but with Parker disappearing all the time, and me with Celeste and Ro as often as I can be, I do feel bad for him.
“I know, and I fucking love it.”
“You’re cooked.”
I shove him lightly with my glove.
The whistle blows.
The arena is electric by the third period. The crowd is loud; most of them are on their feet. The other team is playing competitive as shit, most players on each team have had minutes in the box tonight, myself included.
We’re down 2–1. The crowd’s getting restless. You can feel it, that low rumble of expectation.
Coach slams the whiteboard. “Stop playing cute. Move the puck. You want to win or not?”
“Yes, Coach,” we echo.
I skate back out onto the ice and glance up.
Rowen’s sitting now, but he’s gripping the railing like he’s about to jump in himself. Celeste’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees, completely locked in. You can truly see how much she loves the game, and I get an idea.
I don’t know what flips in me.
But something does.
The puck comes loose at center ice.
I intercept it.
I skate hard. Pumping my legs faster and harder with every stride.
The defender closes in. A big mother fucker too, but he’s too slow.
“Drop!” Preston yells behind me.
I fake the pass.
Shift left.
The defender bites.
I pull the puck back and fire.
Top fucking shelf. Right over the Goalie’s left shoulder.
The sound in the arena explodes.
It’s not just loud, it’s physical. It hits me right in the chest.
I don’t even think.
I just turn toward Section 114.
Rowen is screaming. Arms straight up. Hoodie sleeve flopping dramatically.
Celeste’s laughing, shaking her head like she cannot believe me.
And I point.
Right at them.
Parker crashes into me from behind. “OH, HE POINTED!”
“Shut up!” I’m grinning like an idiot.
“You’re in love!”
“I will body check you right into your fucking goal.” I say jokingly. The rest of the guys join in on our celebration huddle, but my eyes don’t move from them. I give Celeste a quick glance before skating back to the neutral zone for the next shift.
We win in overtime.
The locker room is chaos; music blasting, someone spraying water bottles, helmets flying into stalls.
Loud chants from everyone. Guys half undressed, swaying their hips in suggested ways.
I pull my jersey off, staring down at the gold stitched number 44, I've worn this number for as long as I can remember.
It was randomly given to me one day during Pee Wees and I've never switched.
Coach walks in, smile big on his face. I can feel Preston tense beside something I've noticed whenever Coach is close by. Coach claps his hands loudly together “Good work. Keep it up next week. You can have the weekend off, but remember; don’t call me from jail, don't add or take away from the population, and don’t make me or this school look like idiots or you riding the bench the rest of the season.” His grey eyes scan the room, the fine lines in his forehead growing deeper, he pushes his dark hair off his forehead.
Then he adds, casually, “Jackson, you’ve got visitors. Make it fast!”
The room goes silent for exactly half a second.
Then, “OOOs” start to echo around me.
“Is it Hoodie Kid?”
“Bring them in!” Parker yells from his stall, where he’s still fully dressed in his goalie gear besides his helmet and gloves.
I roll my eyes, but my pulse jumps.
They’re waiting near the end of the tunnel.
Rowen spots me first, the smile he gives me spreads so fast across his face, I swear it might split him in two, but fuck does it do something to me. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve stepped foot into his life. Even in that short amount of time, I can’t imagine my life without him or his mom.
“TATE!” He breaks into a sprint, which is immediately stopped when Celeste grabs his hood.
“Walk,” she scolds gently.
“I can’t walk, I’m too excited!” He’s jumping up and down in place now.
I crouch down in front of him. His bright green eyes meet mine, and I swear I see only the best in them. “You saw that goal?”
“That was insane!” he yells. “You tricked him!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! He thought you were gonna pass!”
I grin. “You’re smart. I think we need to get you into a pair of skates sometime.”
He beams like I just handed him a trophy.
Celeste steps closer.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to point at us and make a big show,” she says quietly, but I can see the hint of a smile form on her face.
I shrug. “Had to shout out my good luck charms.”
She huffs a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Did you like it?”
Her cheeks pink slightly. “Maybe.”
Rowen pokes my arm.
“Ew, you’re really sweaty.”
“That’s what happens when you play hard.” I grin. I love how blunt he is.
“And you smell bad.” I laugh before I pick him up, careful not to bump his devices. Maybe I don’t always love how blunt he is.
Parker and Pres appear over my shoulder. “That’s what they call hard work, kid,” Parker states
Rowen looks up at him. “You're big, too.”
Celeste laughs outright now.
“This is Parker, and the grumpy one over there is Preston; he doesn’t bite, I promise,” I tell them both.
“The Parker?” Celeste teases.
Parker smiles, “What do you mean by the Parker? My buddy here tells you how amazing and cool I am?
“Actually, the opposite," Celeste states.
Parker clutches his chest. “I’m wounded.”
“You leave your gear everywhere,” I say flatly.
“I do not!”
Rowen looks between us. “Do you guys fight a lot?”
“Yes,” the guys answer in different variations.
“No,” I answer at the same time.
Rowen nods seriously. “Okay.”
He tugs on my jersey. “Can I see where you sit?”
Celeste hesitates.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Just for a second.”
She studies me, then nods.
Inside the locker room, the guys visibly tone it down.
Someone quickly tosses a towel over an unfortunate situation.
Rowen’s eyes go wide.
“Is this where you change?”
“Yep.”
“It smells worse in here.” He’s not wrong, a bunch of sweaty guys and equipment that needs to be washed, but no one will do that till the end of the season, bad luck!
The entire room laughs.
“Hey!” someone protests.
I set Ro down on his feet, and Kent instantly kneels in front of him. “You play?”
“Not yet.” He says confidently.
“You should. We need someone faster than him.” He jerks his thumb at me.
“I’m fast,” I protest.
Rowen studies me critically. “You’re okay.”
The guys lose it. Everyone starts to chirp me about my speed, but when Lyle drops the F bomb, I give him a look that must have scared him cause he pipped right up.