Page 15 of The Trade Up

She nods. “Okay. Good luck tonight.”

“Baby, you being here is all the luck I need.”

* * *

We’re six minutes into the second period and down by one goal when Clark and I are close enough during a face off in Boston’s defensive zone that he’s able to start talking shit. We haven’t been on the ice at the same time much during this game, so it’s no surprise he’s running his mouth now. He’s pissed off about Ashleigh, and I know he’ll be coming for me. I also know that Drew will try to slap the puck to me so I can take it behind our net and hopefully pass it back to him on the other side.

The minute the puck hits the ice, Drew gets control of it and backhands to me. I take it behind the net as planned, but Clark is waiting for me. It’s a classic opportunity for a turnover, but I easily send it along the boards past him because he’s not trying to get control of the puck, he’s skating straight toward me. I manage to move out of the way so that the body check he’d intended for me ends up with him slamming himself against the glass and looking like a damn amateur.

Clark turns back toward me, throwing his gloves to the ice. His hands are fisted and the adrenaline makes his whole body shake like he’s about to explode. Normally I’d have skated away before it could get to this point, but we’re here now and we’re doing this.

I drop my gloves before he reaches me, and when he takes his first swing I turn slightly so that he misses. Ten years of Aikido training and a fifth degree black belt means I know better than to fight—the damage I could do to my opponent, even on skates, is too substantial. One of the foundational practices of Aikido is using your opponent’s momentum and strength against him, and Clark’s inability to make contact with me twice in a row is escalating his rage.

He spins back toward me, throwing a punch that has his entire body weight behind it, which I easily block with my elbow. When his fist makes contact with the hard pads covering the area, the cracking sound of his finger bones is audible over the cheers of the crowd watching us fight. His face pulls back in a grimace as he draws his hand back to his body, and I swivel so I’m behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest and immobilizing him.

“If you ever speak to Ashleigh again,” I tell him, “I’ll break your other hand, too.”

I want the threat to linger in his mind, preventing him from going anywhere near her during the month or so until she moves. I’ll talk to her about getting a security system installed, just in case, though.

Clark doesn’t even protest as the referee pulls him away. He’s cradling his hand to his chest and I should probably feel bad, but he literally did this to himself. I hope he enjoys his six weeks off while his hand heals.

I bend to scoop up my gloves and stick and happily accept my time in the penalty box.

* * *

Our team leaves the arena triumphant. Not only is that another win and two more points toward the playoffs, but it solidifies our early-season lead in our division. The Rebels have had some bad luck over the last couple years, always starting the season strong and then not quite making it to the playoffs or being eliminated in the first round. The players insist this year feels different, even while our coaches tell us not to get too cocky.

There’s a mass of people outside the arena, held back by metal barricades lining the path to the bus that will take us to our plane. There are more Rebels fans here than I’d expect for an away game, and far more of them calling my name than usual. I guess that’s what happens when you take out one of the most hated players on the opposing team.

But I’m not reveling in the attention—my eyes are busy scanning the crowd, and anyone who isn’t Ashleigh hardly registers. And then I see her…she’s standing near the end of the barricades closest to the bus, one hand holding back her long hair as the wind picks up and the light snowflakes swirl through the air. My first thought is how beautiful she is. My second is that I wish it was enough snow to strand us here for the night, but I know it’s not.

I pick up the pace, leaving my teammates behind as I beeline straight toward her. Dropping my bag on the ground at my feet, I take her hand and pull her up against the metal bars, pressing my lips to hers quickly. I have no idea how she feels about public displays of affection, so even though I want to kiss the shit out of her right now so I can tuck that feeling away in my memory until I see her again, I pull back.

“Meet me by the bus?”

“Aren’t there security guards there to prevent that?” She gives me a knowing smirk.

“There are security guards there to prevent fans from trying to board the buses, not to stop us from saying goodbye to people we care about.”

Next to Ashleigh, her friend sighs as she watches us together.

“Thanks for delivering that package to Ashleigh earlier,” I say, turning toward Blake. “Will I see you when I’m here again? I feel like I at least owe you a drink.”

“Depends,” she says, glancing at Ashleigh and then back to me. “When will you be here again?”

I look at Ashleigh and ask, “Christmas?”

“I think we can probably work that out,” she says.

“I’ll be back in a little over a week, then. We’ll take Blake out for a thank you drink,” I say. “Also, I’m bringing my mom because it’s the holidays and she’ll want to meet you.”

“Does your mom even know I exist?” she laughs.

“She sure does.” I love the way her eyes widen in shock at this admission. “And she’s going to adore you. We’ll make plans as soon as I get back to Boston,” I glance over my shoulder and almost the whole team has boarded the bus. “I have to go. Meet me by the bus?” I nod my chin toward the open door, a few yards to my left.

She nods, so I grab my bag, carry it over to the driver loading bags in the undercarriage, and then meet her at the end of the barricades.

“I hope you’re not mad about my fight with Clark,” I say once I’ve pulled her close again. It occurred to me during my time in the penalty box that she might be upset, but I couldn’t let myself worry about it until now. “I know how you feel about fighting, and it’s not my norm.”

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