Page 27 of Jaded

Chapter 7

Nat

TheDingoes’newplayer—theone slated to replace our current fucking captain—is the boy from the bar. My ghost. The one I shouldn’t want, the one I can’t seem to banish into the ether where he belongs.

The one I can’t stop tasting on my tongue.

How much more impossible will it be to forget with him in that locker room, his smooth, dark skin on full display. That wide slice of white smile beaming out, those dark eyes sparkling beneath the steep arch of his brows. His scent—like strawberries and faded coffee—just brushing my senses.

Maybe that’s why, when the team takes the ice, I follow the telltale scrape of blades and crash of pucks and climb the stairs into the bleachers. To say I’m curious what he looks like on the ice would be an understatement.

It doesn’t take long to realize that Olli James reads hockey the way I read music—from the very depths of his soul.

Coach runs the players through passing and positioning drills with their linemates. And even though Olli’s never played with Charlie or Devereaux before, he integrates seamlessly with their style.

The way he moves, the way he reads the puck, the players, the way he anticipates the movement of every person on the ice—teammate and opponent alike—it’s almost otherworldly, uncanny. Like he inherentlyknowswhat’s going to happen.

I haven’t seen anybody skate like that since Jesse.

When Coach starts dividing players up for a scrimmage, nerves clutch my stomach. I’m realizing all over again how much rides on this team.

On the young man who now crouches at the center face-off dot. The one who was brought here to fill the void my brother left when he fucked off to Boston with barely a backwards glance.

This man, and Charlie and Devereaux on either side of him, Andy Everton across the face-off dot. All of these people control my destiny, but it’s Olli James who leads them.

And this moment will determine how well. My eyes trail across his broad shoulders as he and Everton crouch on either side of the center dot. Coach lifts the puck between them. Everton’s tensed, ready for that puck to drop, but Olli?

Calm.

Maybe his calm seeps into me, because I relax, watching him, drinking in his confidence, his surety. The world narrows down to a beautiful stop-motion of precise movement.

The puck twitches from Coach’s fingers. It barely breaks inertia at gravity’s beckoning before Olli surges forward into Everton, holding him back.

Clearing a path for Dev to dart in behind him to swoop up the puck.

Dev breaks forward, and Olli flits away from Everton to follow his winger. He leaps forward as Dev sweeps over the blue line and into the zone—perfectly timed to receive Dev’s pass and leave the opposing defenseman looking in the wrong direction.

Olli’s wrist snaps.

Goalie Adyn drops—too late.

The puck sails past him into the net.

Shit, he’s phenomenal. Even wrapped in my own worry, I can appreciate how he excels at everything having to do with this game—his feet on the ice, his hands on the stick, his eyes reading the play, his entire being weaving through the game like a dolphin through an ocean, like he owns this ice and everything on it.

How is he still in this league?

And how have I never noticed him before? I can barely tear my eyes away as he skates for the bench, as he hops over, light as air, to squirt water onto his face from one of the bottles tucked against the boards.

From my invisible place in the stands, I force my eyes from the water beading down Olli’s cheeks with almost physical effort. Why can’t I stop fucking looking at him, watching him?

He’s magnificent on the ice. And he, Charlie, and Dev put on a breathtaking display of synergy—like his every move complements theirs. They weave through the defense, Olli flanking Dev’s strides for a drop pass, or Charlie cutting in for a one-timer Olli delivers directly to his tape.

It’s like art. Like poetry. Like fucking music.

I feel like I’m struggling to catch my breath as the team files off the ice and I head back to get the Zam ready.

“Taylor.” My name drifts down the hall, and I know who it belongs to without turning. Coach Ethan hustles to catch me as I slide into the back room.

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