Chapter 4 #2
“Your shit is totally together, man,” Parker assures him with a thump on the shoulder. “It’s not your fault Frederica cheated on your ass.” He winces. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, should I? But you know that we all know, right?”
Dean exhales a tight laugh. “Oh, yeah. I know how you fuckers gossip.”
Parker nods seriously. “Like teenage girls at a slumber party.”
I laugh.
Parker flinches and shoots me a look.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Guess I’m still getting used to the Blue who laughs. And talks.” He lifts his hands, fingers spread. “But I like it. So, don’t go changing back or anything. Talking and laughing with your bros is good.”
It is good.
Better than the moping I sometimes give in to when I’m alone, anyway.
And then, just like that, it’s time for the season opener, and I’m back on the ice. An entire summer has passed, and I’m no closer to getting in touch with Bea, let alone getting a second chance.
Or closure.
Closure is probably as good as it’s going to get.
I’ve started to come to terms with that, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a pall hanging over the season that’s never been there for me before, which is a shame.
The Voodoo fans are really showing up for season three.
Not just in numbers—eighteen thousand fans packed into the arena, all the way to the rafters—but in enthusiasm.
The pre-game songs and chants are loud enough to make the locker room walls vibrate, and when we take the ice, the cheers are flat-out deafening.
I skate a lap past the cameramen, feeling the familiar bite of cold air in my lungs, waiting for the “zing” to arrive.
My teammates call me the Zen master, but I’m not immune to the rush of competition.
As much as I pride myself on keeping a level head on the ice, I enjoy outplaying the opposing team as much as anyone.
But tonight, the fire isn’t there. In fact, the only thing that seems to put a blip in my steady blood pressure is the thought that Beatrice might be watching the game from wherever she is right now.
It’s being broadcast on one of the main sports channels, not even the ones you have to pay extra for.
And if she is watching…
Well, maybe she’ll be able to see that the fire isn’t there. That the only fire burning inside me now is the one that burns for her.
Nix circles past, tapping his stick against my shin guards. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just opener nerves.” It’s a half-truth. I’m actually nervous about not being nervous, but that’s the kind of thing a good captain keeps to himself.
Grammercy skates backward past us, muttering beneath his breath as he stares at the other team in their blinding new gear. “Maybe it’s the dad in me, but I feel like I’m about to take on a flock of Big Birds. Anyone else?”
“Yep. Same,” Dean says, laughing as he joins us. “Almost feel sorry for the poor bastards.”
“The Dallas uniform division did them dirty,” Nix agrees.
“So dirty.” Grammercy shrugs, grinning as he adds, “But we’ll certainly be able to see them coming. No Big Birds getting a clear shot at our net tonight.”
Murmured ascents rumble through the others as we join the line-up for final pre-game drills. We’re hungry this year. Last season’s playoff exit left a bitter taste in our collective mouths. We’re determined to make it all the way this time.
I’m determined, too. I’m just not on fire. I’m cool, calm, and even when the national anthem finishes and the puck drops, it still feels like training camp practice.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to affect my game.
The first period is a chess match, both teams testing defenses and probing for weaknesses.
Dallas is fast. Their top line flies up the ice in a blur of blinding yellow, forcing us to backpedal, but our defensive structure holds strong.
Our line is in peak condition, and after two seasons, Nix and I communicate without words, seamlessly covering each other’s gaps as we box out their forwards.
Seven minutes in, their center breaks through the neutral zone with speed. I pivot, skating backward, keeping my body between their fastest bird and the net. He tries to deke inside, but I stay with him, forcing him wide. He shoots anyway, but the angle is shit, and Capo gloves it easily.
Nix gathers the rebound, a blur of movement as he feeds it to Jean-Louis on the wing, and just like that, the machine is in motion.
We transition to offense, but I’m still skating on autopilot.
By the third period, we’re up 2-1. On paper, I’m having a perfect night—every pass tape-to-tape, every check delivered with cool efficiency. But I’m not even close to fully present. Half of me is here, the other half is wondering if Beatrice is watching and if so, what she’s thinking, feeling.
I wonder if she misses her brother enough to come home for a visit soon. A visit would be good enough. All I need is a day, an hour, just a few minutes of her undivided attention to prove to her that I won’t fuck up the way I did before.
Two minutes left.
Dallas pulls their goalie, the extra attacker creating a swarm in our zone.
I settle into my stance, knees bent, eyes scanning the yellow blur. I’m looking for the open man, searching for the threat. Instead, I catch sight of long brown hair in a loose braid halfway up the bleachers in section 108…
My heart slams against my ribs, my mouth filling with acid as adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream.
I almost instantly realize that the woman isn’t Bea—she’s too tall, too young—but it’s too late. My focus is already so compromised that I have no business being on the ice.
Apparently, the Dallas center agrees.
“Blue! Watch your back!” Nix shouts, but it’s too late.
The hit comes a split second later, two hundred pounds of Dallas muscle catching me from the right before I can turn my head, let alone anything else.
It’s dirty as hell, but there’s no time to shout about that, either.
My skates lose their bite on the ice, and suddenly I’m weightless, hurtling through the air, all my mass and muscle reduced to physics and momentum.
I hit the boards shoulder-first with a sickening thwack that vibrates through my teeth. My skates go up as my head goes back, the ice rushing up to meet me with an unforgiving crunch. My helmet does its job, but the brain inside is still just soft tissue, vulnerable to impact.
The world goes blinding, sterile white, the arena lights expanding until they swallow the rafters. The roar of the crowd turns into a high, thin whistle, like a teakettle left on in an empty house, screaming for someone to come back and put it to use.
I so desperately wanted to be put to use…
As I lie flat on my back, my lungs locked in my chest, regret dances through my head. If only I’d had the right words when it mattered. If only I’d had my shit straight months ago, when the woman of my dreams gave me the one shot, I will forever regret missing.
Now, my head is all…
Well, who the hell knows if my head is going to come out of this in one piece.
I hope Bea isn’t watching, I think.
It’s my last coherent thought before a gray tide pulls me under.