Page 86 of Empty Net

“He collects them.”

“That’s cute.” Still grinning.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she believes me at all. If anything, it sounds like she thinks itisa big deal. A very big deal.

And worse? I think she might be right.

“Go, go, go!” I scream at the TV, knowing full well Lawson can’t hear me as he flies down the ice, the puck on his stick as he skates farther and farther away from the opposition.

He drags the puck back, and it goes right over the goalie’s shoulder and into the net.

“Yes!” I jump off my couch, stomping my feet in excitement as the camera pans over to Fox, who skates to the bench where the other players are going wild.

The Serpents are up three goals, the only one from Minnesota coming from a deflected shot that Fox had no chance to stop. Or at least that’s what the commentators said, and I trust their judgment more than mine considering I still don’t really know much about hockey, just that I’ve come to love watching it. I’ve found myself glued to my TV since Fox has been on the road, not wanting to miss a single minute of his games. I’ve tried not to read too much into that.

The players on the ice skate along the bench, high-fiving their joyful-looking teammates, and each one gives Fox a tap. Even with his nerdyTheLord of the Ringsmask featuring a drawing of Gandalf surrounded by “You Shall Not Pass” in elvish-styled font, you can see him smiling.

He’s having fun. He’s havingsomuch fun. It’s so different from the Fox I watched a few weeks ago. He looks relaxed, totally at ease. Even when the teams start battling in front of him,shoving their sticks anywhere they can get them, he still looks calm and collected, like nothing in the world can touch him.

I don’t know for certain if it has anything to do with our “relaxation” sessions, but I certainly don’t think they’ve been hurting things. We have video-chatted every night since he left. It all started when I sent him a picture of his sock, which he couldn’t seem to find the last time he was here. It was stuck behind my dresser, and I still have no clue how it got there since we didn’t even get close to it. Still, I sent him the photo one night after his game, and he called me immediately. One thing led to another, and I ended up with my clothes off, both of us panting into the phone.

They’ve won every game since.

The puck is dropped at center ice, and this time, Minnesota wins it back. They dump the puck into the Serpents’ zone, then chase after it, winning it in the end. It all happens so fast—Fox is calm, making save after save as they throw pucks on net repeatedly, then the next, he’s on his ass, and the goal horn sounds throughout the arena.

The crowd goes wild, and the Serpents stand there stunned. So do I.

“That was interference! That was goaltender interference right there!” the commentator for the Serpents says emphatically. “No way that goal isn’t coming back.”

The woman on the other mic agrees with him, and they begin talking rules and blue paint and even bring in some analyst who used to be a referee while the officials on the ice huddle by the penalty and watch the play over and over on a tablet. They show the clip on TV, the commentators breaking down exactly why the goal is going to be turned over, and I couldn’t agree more. There’s no way it’s going to stand.

“Oh, oh. We’ve got a decision. We have a decision,” the female commentator announces as the official skates to the middle of the ice.

“After reviewing the play, it was determined there wasnotgoaltender interference. We have a good goal.”

The arena erupts, and the camera pans to the Serpents’ bench. They’re pissed. Hell,I’mpissed, and I’m not even playing the game.

“That was bullshit!” I yell at my TV, again not caring that they can’t hear me.

But all of our arguing is pointless. The game continues, and even after conceding that goal, the Serpents manage to score on an empty net and pad their lead. They walk away all smiles because they’ve won their fifth in a row.

Not that I’d ever admit it to anyone—not even Auden—but I spend the next two and a half hours pacing my apartment, my phone in hand as I wait on his call. I’ve all but given up, tucked cozy in my bed and nearly asleep when my phone rattles against my bedside table. I flick my light on, grinning when I see the name on the screen.

“That was one hundred percent interference.”

Fox laughs at my greeting and sits back against the headboard in his hotel room. “Yeah? You a rules expert now?”

“Of course I am. I also have eyes. His own teammate pushed him into you. They should have called it back.”

He scratches at the stubble on his cheek, and I try to act like I don’t miss the feel of it between my legs. “Yeah, probably. But we still won.”

I smile. “You still won.” I settle into my own bed. “Where are you?”

“The Sinclair St. Louis. We just got in. It was a quick flight.” He lets out a yawn. “How was your day?”

My heart thumps in my chest. It’s such a simple question, but I like it all the same. I’ve never really had someone who cared about how my day was before.

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