Page 87 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Annoying…

My eyes seek out Luca—number twelve!—following his movements openly. What’s the point in hiding it? He’s out there being fast and focused and unfairly hot, his jersey clinging to his shoulders like it was made just for him.

Which, I guess, it was.

He skates backward, head on a swivel, and I wait for him, wanting to see the exact second he notices me.

And wait…

And wait.

My brother notices first, lifting his stick from his place in the goal box, oblivious to the fact I am not here to watch him, specifically.

I give him a lazy wave.

The puck drops and the Baddies explode into motion, charging down the ice with a lethal combination of power and grace that makes it impossible to look away. I don’t bother to pretend I’m not homing in on Luca and the way his helmet frames his stupidly handsome face.

He hasn’t noticed me yet.

Why would he? I did not tell him I would be here…

I watch him in a way I never have before; this is different. More meaningful—he has been in my home, my bed, my body. I’m learning more about him and haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since he sat in my kitchen eating that lemon chicken.

Luca is beautiful like this.

He slashes past a defender, feints right, then flicks a pass across to the goalie who catches it in his glove before it hits the net. Baddie fans boo. My brother throws both fists in the air, grinning like the teenage kid who spent all his free time on the ice.

I clap with the crowd.

Cheer.

My eyes, however, are glued to Luca.

The play crashes toward our end of the rink, fast and chaotic, and then?—

Boom.

Luca getsleveled.

The hit slams him straight into the glass,right in front of me. The boards rattle under our knees. I gasp, heart in my throat,hand flying to my chest. His body is pressed up against the plexiglass, face twisted in pure instinct and adrenaline. He blinks hard, breath fogging the inside of his helmet.

And then he sees me.

His eyes go wide. Likeactuallywide.

For a split second, he juststares—completely frozen—like the sight of me knocked the air out of him harder than the hit did. There's shock written all over his face, like I’m the last person he expected to see this close, in this crowd, inhisworld.

Then the moment cracks.

His brows tug together, confusion melting into something else—something sharp and burning and real.

The guy who hit him peels off. Luca doesn’t follow. He’s still looking at me like I just changed the score of the game without touching the puck.

Poppy leans in and whispers, “Oh shit—he was not expecting to see you.”

No, he wasn’t.

“The look on his face was all, ‘oh mygawd, my secret girlfriend came to watch me.’”

---