Nope. I can’t go there. Not this soon.
There are those whispers about moving the team, and I’m not sure if those are simply rumors, or if they’re actually strategic leaks that are supposed to soft-launch an announcement. Either way, my previous mild excitement about cheaper rent in Hamilton isn’t nearly as strong anymore.
I’m probably better off not thinking about it. There’s nothing I can do, and it won’t be this season, anyway. I think.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling and let my runaway mind focus on Luke.
I almost can’t believe he’s real. If I want to keep seeing him, I need to be careful and not scare him away, which is a tall order—I have no idea what I’m doing. I can’t be too quiet because that turned guys off before, but if I talk too much, there’s a lot that could go wrong, too.
Oh god, I’m a mess.
And I had to be weird and ask him to watch my game. Who suggeststhatafter meetingonce?
Still, he said yes. I can look forward to seeing him tomorrow instead of going deeper into a nervous spiral.
He’s coming to the game, we’ll hang out after, and I’ll see where things go with him. It’ll be fine.
The stands are half-full, which isn’t a bad showing for an AHL game in early September. I’m doing my usual pre-game ritual of staying silent and staring at the blade of my stick, but then there’s a sudden tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, Norsy, there’s some bench chatter about a mysterious hottie sitting in the team area. You know anything about him?” asks Evan, elbowing me in the ribs. He’s one of the guys who pushed me to go out on Friday, and he’s been hounding me for details ever since.
I swivel my head around, and my gaze lands right on Luke, who’s settling into his seat. Every player gets two free tickets for each game, which usually go to a pair of friends, or wives, girlfriends, and parents. A guy our age coming alone is going to be traced back to me, the only out player on the team. That hasn’t happened in the two years I’ve been here, but there’s a first time for everything.
Even though I’m at center ice, I still notice Luke’s tousled hair, his strong body, and the easy, sunshine smile that he flashes at me once we lock eyes.
I snap out of my trance. “He’s my friend.”
Evan smirks. “Just a friend, eh?”
“Are you interested? I can pass your number to him.”
“Ah, fuck off,” he replies, and that’s that. We’re left waiting to get started with the game, and I clear my mind.
We’re facing off against Naperville, a team from Illinois, so I stand through two anthems, skate back to the bench, and settle in since I’m on the third line. The puck drops and I lock my mind down, staying focused.
Two line changes later, I scale the boards and push off hard, chasing the puck down the left. My linemates Chad and Tim know where to go, and we’ve all developed a rhythm that works during the past few weeks we’ve shared a line.
Naperville doesn’t give an inch. Coach calls out for another line change and I’m back on the bench, breathing deep and keeping my head on straight. Both teams score twice in the first period, but the second is scoreless. The pressure is on, even though my time on the ice is short.
That limited ice time doesn’t stop me from taking a puck to my thigh. Fucking ouch.
The third period begins, and our coach signals for our line again. Tim is already hounding one of Naperville’s defensemen in the corner, and Chad taps the ice with his stick, calling for the puck. Tim passes and Chad races toward the blue line before shooting on net.
The goalie is quick, and the puck deflects cleanly off his glove, flying back out toward the center.
It’s intense, and I take a check against the boards, but Tim is there to scoop the puck up. My legs burn, my puck bruise pulsing hard, as Coach signals for another change.
During what’s probably going to be my final shift, Naperville has possession. I keep my stick ready as Chad sends the puck to Tim. The defense is on him, so I shift out into the open. Tim passes the puck across, giving me almost no time to react.
I’m working on instinct, and I snap a shot on net. The goalie kicks it out, but I recover the rebound. With a flick of my wrist, the puck flies under the goalie’s stick to land in the back of the net.
My teammates are on me in a second, slapping my helmet and yelling over the noise as we skate back to the bench. Adrenaline floods my body as I glance up to see Luke leaning forward, smiling widely at me. Even though I’m not one to let anything get to my head, I can’t help but get a tiny glow in my chest from knowing that Luke saw me score today.
The game ends 3-2, and the coach gives us a few animated words of encouragement in the locker room before leaving usalone. My whole body buzzes with a need to see Luke, but I’m not about to skimp on hygiene. The two times I’ve met him, Luke smelled put-together, clean, and hot.
Meanwhile, I’m a sweaty hockey player—that doesn’t do anything to help my swirling self-consciousness.
I take the fastest rinse-off I can while still hitting all the bases: shampoo, shower gel, and a comprehensive scrub with the special chlorhexidine soap I always carry with me. It’s a lot, but that third step is a solid silver bullet against the typical hockey smell.
