Page 75 of Jaded

“Damn straight!” says Everton, and I offer him a grateful smile.

“All right, enough yapping.” I clap my hands, all Captain James and whatnot. “Let’s get out there for some warm-ups.”

We buckle down to change into our drylands clothes—matching Dingoes-branded shorts and T-shirts—and I turn towards the door. Nat’s gone. Fair, if disappointing.

But, head on straight.

I lead the team through warm-ups—jogs, sprints, some stretches. Coach pops in for some gameplay review. Bores half the team with video replays of Elks games—hey, look, there’s Olli James, out there with the Rays!—and tells us to keep our heads out of our asses, our hits clean, yadda yadda yadda.

And then we’re dressing.

Good.

I need to lose myself to the familiarity, the rhythm. Need to feel my gear against my skin, my fingers on the laces, smell the cool of the air and the fermentation of sweat.

I slide into my cubby seat. Around me, the locker room dissolves into its normal pre-ice chaos. Just like every team I’ve ever played with, that’sfamiliar too. As is the rough scrape of Velcro as I pull on my shorts. The softness of socks and stiffness of pants.

Beyond our door, the low hum of the Zamboni tells me Nat Taylor’s out on the ice, andthatis something new to fixate on that I shouldn’t fixate on.

I shouldn’t be thinking about how good we were out on that ice last night.

I need to stoprememberinghow it felt after, standing so close to him. Inhaling hints of spicy-sweet cologne and cigarettes.

I tug my laces so hard the cloth might have burned my fingers if they weren’t so callused.

I need to stayfocused. Concentrate on here and now, on the breath in my lungs and the fingers on my laces, the team around me. Someone’s switched the stereo to Nickelback’s “Rock Star”—okay I can’t actually hate Charlie for that.

The door creaks, and my head swings automatically as Nat slides in. The lines of his face hang slack with shock. “It’s a huge crowd out there.”

Nerves swoop in my stomach, like butterflies taking flight. Damn.

It’sworking.

“Jerseys!” One of the assistant coaches nudges in behind Nat to shove a pile of jerseys into his hands. “Ethan’ll be back in soon.”

I velcro my shoulder pads on as Nat moves around the locker room distributing our game sweaters. When he’s emptied his hands of all but one shirt, he arrives at my side.

“Number Eleven. And here I thought you’d be Twenty-Three.”

So much meaning behind those words. I take the jersey, glimpsing my last name on the back above the blocky numbers. “I owe you a thank you.”

“No.” He plops down in the vacant cubby beside mine. “Not yet you don’t.”

I tug my jersey over my shouldies. “You saved my ass in here, sothank you. It’s my job to save it out there.”

“Are you going tounmask?”

My stomach clenches, but my voice stays light. “I ain’t saying crap. Keep ’em guessing. Comparing notes. Taking bets.”

His brows lift, and his mouth curves into a smile. A real, genuine smile. “You know, I think you might be a genius.”

“Genius is definitely a stretch.” I unfurl a cocky grin to hide how those gut butterflies start turning aerial somersaults. “Marketing major at U Maineis probably an apter term.”

He chuckles, and my butterflies start flipping doubletime. Why does his laugh make me feel like that?

“Well, I’m gonna go find a seat before there’s none left. Which would be a first in a long, long time.” He holds out his fist, and I tap my knuckles against his. “Good luck, Eleven.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me a fluttery mess with a dopey grin plastered across my face. Hopefully the rest of the team’s too busy to notice, ’cause man, I must look like an idiot.

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