Page 28 of Power Play

“FTD?’” I ask. He laughs.

“‘Fuck the Drifters,’” he says. “Storm fans chant it whenever we play them. Although, they typically spell it out.” I laugh and nod.

“Damn. Tyson really hates them, doesn’t he?” I ask. He shrugs.

“He’s just protective.” Levi smiles. I raise an eyebrow.

“Of what? You?” I ask, laughing at the idea of my brother trying to “protect” the solid rock of a man in front of me. Like he’d need protection.

But his eyebrows knit together, and instantly, I feel a shift in his mood. I take a step closer to him, looking up at him, begging him with my eyes to tell me.

“Leray and I have been going at it since we both came into the league. But that hit…he boarded me. It was a cheap fucking shot, and it cost me everything.” I see his jaw twitch, and he lifts a hand to his head, pressing it against the faint scar that’s just below his hairline. And I realize how deep this is. How it’s not just a game. And the deal with this Leray guy isn’t just a friendly rivalry. I reach my hand out instinctively, letting my hand rest on his forearm. I feel his muscles twitch beneath my touch.

“Hey,” I say, and he raises his eyes to mine slowly. “FTD.” His expression softens, and a huge smile spreads across those perfect lips. He nods, reaching his other hand up to squeeze mine.

“FTD,” he says.

I thought I’d be more into the fancy finger foods than the game, but it turns out, hockey is actually pretty fun to watch. The Drifters are playing Boseman Bandits tonight, and they are slaughtering them. Tyson is sitting in one of the theater seats, chomping away at his third plate of food and screaming like a maniac at the game, as if they can hear him. Levi has been going back and forth between watching and talking to people all night. Some man named Ray introduced himself to him earlier on in the evening and has been talking his ear off for hours. But every time someone approaches Levi for a picture or a hug, he pauses the conversation for it. And then, every few minutes, he pauses to watch the ice. His eyes move at the speed of light, following the players up and down the rink with such intensity that, for a moment, he looks like a different person. The light leaves his eyes while he watches, and he’s zoned in, so serious that I’m not sure he can hear anything else that’s going on around him. The Drifters score again, beating Boseman by two goals, and his eyes snap back to attention as someone tugs on his sleeve. He turns and smiles, and I am fascinated.

I’m enjoying the game, but I’m also enjoying a front-row seat to Levi. He’s sitting in a suite with a bunch of family members of an opposing team—the rival team, at that—and yet, he’s the star of the freakin’ show. And you’d never know by looking at him. He’s just easy and breezy, smiling and laughing—unless he’s watching the game. And I could watch him like this for hours on end.

Finally, the clock runs out, and the buzzer goes off. The suite starts clearing slowly, but a few people hang back, most likely to see their player. Some people are still chatting, others are taking photos, and after a few more minutes, the suite door opens, and a flood of giant men pour in. I see Coach Dumond make his way through the suite, making a beeline for Levi, and I smile as he wraps him in a bear hug. For so many sports fans, this would be a dream come true. But for me, it’s an awkward social situation that I’m ready to be done with.

I try to make myself invisible, shuffling to a corner of the suite and sipping on the same beer I’ve been nursing for two hours, staring out at the Zamboni clearing the ice. I feel a hand on the small of my back, and I bite my lip. I turn around, expecting to see Levi, but to my surprise, it’s another tree of a man. And I’m no pro at, well…pros—I can’t name more than ten professional athletes—but I do recognize this guy. He was on an “All Star Reader” poster that Harper brought home from school. He’s a defenseman for the Drifters, but for the life of me, I can’t remember his name. He’s tall with boyish blond hair and green eyes. He’s not hard to look at. It’s just that he wasn’t the hockey hunk I was hoping for.

“You waiting for someone else, or am I just lucky?” he asks, and I feel myself blush. I giggle nervously and look up at him.

“Oh, I’m, uh…”

He sticks his hand out to me, and I take it.

“I’m Eric,” he says. “And you are?” But as soon as I hear the name, it all clicks. And then I’m pulling my hand out as quickly as I put it in his.

“Her name is Lola, and she’s a Storm fan, Leray,” I hear Levi say, and instantly, my stomach is in knots. He walks up behind me, and I feel his arm slink around my waist, pulling me in close to him.

Oh, fuck.

I’m looking around the suite frantically, trying to find my stupid brother so that he may intervene. Although, with as much passion as he was FTD-ing earlier, maybe it’s better that he doesn’t see what’s going on here.

“Seems there’s been some sort of mistake, then, Buck,” Eric says with a smug smile. “We don’t let Storm fans in here,” he says, looking back to me. “I’ll have to try and convert you.”

He smiles, but I notice that Levi doesn’t. Instead, he tightens his grip on my waist, and I let him. I turn my body so I’m facing him more.

FTD.

Levi looks down at me.

“What do you think, Lo? You converting to the home team?” he asks, his hand sliding down from my waist to my ass. My lips curve up into a smile.

It’s not a friendly gesture.

It’s territorial.

And Ilikeit.

“Nah,” I say, turning back to Eric Fuckin’ Leray. “I’m a Storm fan for life.”

Eric’s eyes drop down to Levi’s hand, then slowly move back up. He looks at me, then back to Levi.

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