The camera finally pans away to assault more unsuspecting crowd members when my phone buzzes with a text from Jessica.
JESSICA: OMG, we just saw you on the jumbotron! You bitch, I'm so jealous!
LEXIE: Wonderful. So glad my humiliation has made it all the way home.
JESSICA: Please. You're glowing and your lips are swollen. Let me guess… steamy new pregame ritual?
LEXIE: SHUT UP, JESS.
My face is red hot as I close my phone and prepare to focus on the game before Jessica can respond with more inappropriate, if startlingly accurate, speculation.
The game starts with the kind of intensity that sets my nerves off like horses in a race. Vancouver comes out aggressive, clearly hoping to establish dominance early on their home ice. But the Grizzlies are ready for it. More than ready. They're hungry.
Darren's on the ice for the opening face-off, and I find myself tracking his every movement. There's something different about watching him play now that I know what those hands feel like on my skin, now that I've seen him vulnerable and tender in my bed. On the ice, he's a solid wall of violence and strategic brilliance, reading plays before they develop, shutting down Vancouver's offense before it can even start.
The VIP box is filling up as some latecomers join in, and even though I don't recognize any of them from back home, we all develop a fast camaraderie that makes it a little less nerve-wracking than watching alone.
"Your boyfriend's having himself a game," the man next to me comments, and I realize I've been leaning forward in my seat, hands clenched.
"Which one?" I ask without thinking, then feel heat flood my face as he gives me a strange look.
"The defenseman. Number forty-seven. You're wearing his jersey, so I figured..."
"Oh. Yes. Right." I sit back, trying to look less like someone who just admitted to dating an entire hockey line. "He's... they're all doing great."
They are. By the end of the first period, the Grizzlies are up 2-0, both goals coming from beautiful plays that started withDarren and ended with Zayn putting the puck in the net with his signature style. The Vancouver crowd is getting restless, their team frustrated, and I can see the other team starting to play dirty. Little hooks and holds the refs don't catch, trying to get under the Grizzlies' skin.
"Cheap fuckers," I mutter when one of them catches Aidan with an elbow after the whistle. The man next to me laughs.
"First away game?"
"Yeah." I accept the fresh glass of wine the attendant offers, needing something to do with my hands. "It's more intense than I expected."
"Wait 'til the playoffs," he says knowingly. "This is nothing."
The second period is even better. The Grizzlies are in complete control now, passing with the kind of ease that makes it look like they're telepathic. Jax scores off a pass from Dmitri that's so pretty I actually gasp. The Vancouver goalie never had a chance.
But something's wrong.
I notice it first in the way Darren shakes his head after a whistle, like he's trying to clear it. Then in how he's skating. Still effective, but not with his usual grace. By the middle of the second period, I'm sitting forward again, that anxious knot reforming in my stomach.
Then I remember the locker room. That strange little hitch in his voice. Maybe I wasn't imagining things.
"You okay?" the man next to me asks, and I realize I've been gripping the armrest hard enough to leave marks.
"I... something's wrong with Darren," I say, tracking Darren as he goes for a change. He practically collapses on the bench, and I can see Jax leaning over to talk to him, concern evident even from this distance.
"Forty-seven? Looks like maybe equipment issue?" the woman on my other side suggests. "Or he tweaked something. Happens all the time."
But I know it's not equipment. I know it's not a minor injury. Because I can see the way the other Grizzlies are reacting. The way Aidan keeps looking over at the bench even when he's in net, the way Zayn's usual swagger has been replaced by sharp attention. Jax and Dmitri are equally on edge.
They know something's wrong too.
Darren goes back out for his next shift, but it's worse now. He's sweating more than he should be, his movements increasingly erratic. He manages to break up a play at the blue line, but when he turns to pass, he stops mid-motion, doubling over slightly.
The whistle blows over an icing call and I watch Jax skate directly to Darren, grabbing his jersey. They're having an intense conversation, Darren shaking his head, Jax clearly insisting. The refs are getting impatient, wanting to drop the puck, but Jax uses his captain privileges to call for time.
That's when I see it. The way Darren's hand goes to his stomach, the flush on his face that has nothing to do with exertion, the way he's breathing through his mouth like he can't get enough air.
