Page 57 of Get Me to the Starting Line
Thecrowdroarsinmy ears. A white noise I could fall asleep to—that’s how relaxed I am. I skate out to my net to begin my pregame ritual, cutting up the ice in the crease and settling into the only place that’s ever felt like home.
People pound the glass behind me. They know what’s coming. I sigh, wondering if another video of me stretching will circulate on social media. It does after almost every game.
But there’s no helping it—the groin stretch is essential. Sure enough, the cheering gets louder as I get down on my hands and knees and spread my legs.
A woman holds a sign reading “I need stretching out too!” Heat crawls up my neck, and I’m forever grateful to my mask for hiding my embarrassment. Tuning out the catcalling, I focus on my warm-up. This is my least favourite part of a game.
I block it out so I can listen to my body. I feel good, better than normal. Running with Leah has helped my body recover during these last few weeks, and I’ve felt the effects of slow running inmy workouts, proving more cardio at a lower heart rate improves performance.
I’m ready for this game.
We haven’t lost all season. We’re on a streak—ten games in a row. Six of those have been shutouts. When the horn sounds, the team makes its way over to the bench for the last pep talk and instructions from Whyatt.
I’m zoned in. Nothing else matters as we listen to him yell at us to give them hell. The coaching staff nod, slapping us on our shoulder pads, and I’m ready to be back at home, in my net.
Before I make it there, I need a word with my trainer about having more electrolytes in my water bottle in the second period. But Adam is standing beside him and when he turns, I’m distracted.
I follow his eyeline and notice Paige sitting right behind the bench, cheering and blowing a kiss to her fiancé. But that’s not who I’m focused on.
Leah sits beside her cheering as well, and I swear she catches my hesitation before I turn around and skate to my net, forgetting all about proper hydration.
Forgetting everything but Leah sitting there, behind my bench.
Irrational anger and wounded masculine pride surge in my blood as the game begins. It’s all heightened by the adrenaline of the game playing out in front of me as I track the play down the ice.
There’s a quick turnaround, our forwards losing possession, and the puck comes flying down to my end. I’m lasered in, focused on the game, everything else falling away.
Everything but that unreasonable outrage. I see the play happening in front of me. Our players leave an opening for a cross pass, back to their defence for the one-timer ...
The puck lands with a loud thud in my glove and the stands erupt. My teammates give me some love taps, but I don’t care. My eyes flick over to the bench, to the women sitting behind it.
To Leah, with her plain white shirt and green jacket. She’s not wearing any Whales logos or jerseys. Not even our colours. Nothing to suggest she’s cheering for us.
I seethe as I turn back to the play, realizing the puck dropped without me noticing. Fuck, I have to get my head back into it.
There are some close calls, but I manage to block every shot sent my way in the first period. It does nothing to quell the urge to fling her over my shoulder and drag her out of the arena.
As we walk down the tunnel, heading to the dressing room for intermission, I can feel her eyes on me. I don’t know how I know, I just do. But I don’t look at her. I can’t.
If I do ... I don’t know what I’d do at this moment. It’s not like I can rip off my jersey and give it to her.
No one notices how quiet I am in the dressing room. I hardly ever speak outside of games, let alone during them. Whyatt tells me to get my head in the game, and I can’t even scoff.
He’s right—some of those shots almost went in because my focus was on the woman behind the bench and not on the puck.
My mind whirls as the second period begins. Even the break from the ice and trying like hell to focus cannot centre me. The moreI watch her, the more possessive I feel. I tell myself it’s the game adrenaline, it’s irrational, it doesn’t make sense.
Why would she wear my jersey? Would it be worse if she was wearing someone else’s jersey? My jaw clenches. Even Paige doesn’t wear a player jersey—she’s got a Whales jersey sweater with ASHFORD written on the back.
GOAL.
The buzzer goes off loud in my ears and the lights above me flare.
Goal.
On my net.
What the fuck?
