His a cappella performance of the American national anthem was beautiful in his rich tenor voice. It rolled over the silent arena where men had removed their hats, and some held hands over their hearts in a show of respect.
The whole time, I couldn’t stop watching the players. Not a single one of them could stay still. The ones on the blue line were shifting back and forth on their skates, some with heads bowed, others with their eyes trained on the flag hung in the rafters. Even Sasha was kicking his feet backward, one at a time. It reminded me of little boys in a classroom, unable to contain their excited energy.
I guess it made sense that they were similarly amped up since they were about to play a child’s game—one they were paid handsomely for.
The final note of the anthem trailed off, and there was a round of applause. The lights came on, and players went to the bench to retrieve their helmets in preparation for the start of the game.
Sasha’s helmet rested atop the net, and he skated toward it.
I held my breath, knowing I was in his direct line of sight. An undercurrent of anticipation buzzed beneath my skin, waiting for the moment he realized I’d come to see him play.
Instead of donning his helmet, Sasha grabbed the water bottle set into a holder behind the net. Turning to the side, he raised the bottle above his head, looking toward the ceiling before squirting water over his hair. Using a hand, he smoothed the golden strands away from his forehead before slipping the mask on, his face hidden behind the cage.
Scanning the rest of the team, I realized he was the only one with that kind of facial protection. I understood he would see more pucks shot in his direction than any of the others, butweren’t they at all concerned about an errant shot catching them in the face? Hockey players were notorious for having teeth knocked out. Why wouldn’t they want to do all they could to prevent that?
When Sasha turned his back to me, shuffling his skate blades against the ice in a way that marked up the smooth, shiny surface, disappointment settled over my heart. In my mind, I’d built up this beautiful moment where he flashed me that cocky grin he got when he knew he’d gotten his way—which happened far too often.
Maybe it had been a mistake to opt out of wearing his jersey. Surely, he knew the location of the ticket he’d had sent to me and was expecting that flash of red to catch his eye. Instead, I was dressed in black from head to toe—black boots, black jeans, black bodysuit, black leather jacket. Even my hair matched my ensemble’s theme; the raven-colored strands weaved into a braid over one shoulder. My aim had been to blend into the crowd, to attend without attracting notice, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be invisible to Sasha. He was the whole reason I came.
I allowed myself to sulk for a moment before shaking off the mental pity party for one. Once I did, it was easier to convince myself it was better he hadn’t noticed me.
Knowing Sasha, my presence could prove to be a distraction, and that was the last thing I wanted. This was his job, after all.
There were two things I realized during the first period.
The first was that Sasha was massive. He was a big guy on a typical day—tall and muscular but not in a bulky way—but in his full goalie gear, the man looked enormous! The skates gave him a few extra inches, so he towered over the red metalrailing outlining the net, and whatever lay beneath the red jersey covering his torso had his chest appearing twice as wide. It was no wonder he was the league leader in shutouts; he took up all the available space in front of the net, making it damn near impossible for anyone to get a puck past him.
The second was that he had jaw-dropping moves. The man had cat-like reflexes, moving his body with lightning-quick speed to reach out and snag a puck out of mid-air with his gloved hand or deflect it with the shaft of the stick held in the other. And thesplits? Holy hell, that kind of action should have been enough to pull something, yet he popped back up quickly, repeating the move again when the situation warranted.
I was mesmerized watching him. Until tonight, I’d assumed goalie was the lazy option. They stood around most of the game while the rest of the team busted their butts, skating at full speed.
Boy, was I wrong.
Yes, the skaters worked hard, but they swapped out with others every thirty seconds or so, earning themselves a rest—a chance to recover before their next shift. There was no one to give Sasha a break. He was out there the entire game.
There were stoppages in play that allowed him to remove his mask and take a drink of water. Not that I didn’t already recognize how hard he was working, but it became more obvious in those moments. His face was dripping, needing to be wiped off with a towel, and he no longer required the aid of water to keep his hair back; sweat had plastered it to his skull.
I screamed when players slammed into the glass in of me front so hard that it shook violently enough to knock the beer of the man beside me off the thin ledge he’d perched it on. The open container tipped over, and liquid soaked the fabric of my jeans.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered.
The guy didn’t even bother to offer an apology, cursing, “Shit! There’s ten bucks wasted. Gonna have to get another one.”
Irritated, my snarky side came out to play. “Well, guess that’s the price you pay for not having any common sense.”
He reared back, narrowing his eyes as the insult sank in. “Excuse me?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I popped a hip, ready to go to battle. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to feel bad foryou, when I’m the one covered in beer due to your stupidity?”
“S-stupidity?” he blustered.
“Yeah. Only an idiot would try to balance an open container on a ledge that wasn’t half as wide as the base of the cup.” I cocked an eyebrow, challenging him to argue my point.
We were packed into this arena like sardines, so it didn’t take much to have his chest pressed to mine as he gritted out, “Listen, lady, I don’t know who you think you are—“
A sharp bang on the glass had me yelping, my feet levitating off the ground. Placing a hand over my racing heart, I found my sparring partner’s head had turned toward the ice, his skin visibly paler as his eyes grew comically large.
Swallowing, I dared to peek at what had scared this macho man into silence. Darting my eyes to the side, I fought the urge to smile.
