Page 212 of Make the Play

That night, I get another photo. It’s a blurry shot of her TV, with me skating across the screen, my number 68 sharp and clear. I'm not sure what game it’s from, but it’s me she’s watching.

***

I don’t plan to get the tattoo. I just wake up one morning, still full of words I haven’t said and things I can’t fix, and drive downtown without thinking. The shop is mostly empty, which is perfect. I show the guy a photo from my phone and tell him exactly where I want it. Left side, just under the ribs.

He raises a brow when I say white ink. “You sure? White ink isn’t very visible.”

I nod once. “It’s not supposed to be for everyone to see.”

It takes an hour, maybe more. Hurts like hell, but I sit through it with my jaw clenched and fists tight, because some things are supposed to hurt. And when it’s over, I press my palm to the bandage, heart pounding.

One carnation.

One promise I don’t know how to say except like this—etched into my skin, buried beneath the surface, where only she’ll ever find it.

The tattoo is still tender when I take the ice for warm-ups later that night. Every time my gear shifts, it stings.

The locker room is buzzing before the game. Coach lays into us during the strategy meeting. Logan’s chewing through his second protein bar, and Jake’s already muttering about how dirty these Chicago players can be.

But me? I’m just staring at my phone. Because she’s sent me a text. No emojis or fanfare, but it’s one that she sent me first, unprompted.

Zoe:Good luck tonight, Walton. Try not to lose any teeth.

Me:No promises, but I’ll keep my face pretty just for you.

She doesn’t respond, but that’s fine. I’ll take it.

Out on the ice, the cold hits first, sharp and clean when I step onto the rink. I exhale hard and roll my shoulders. The tattoo stings under my pads, tight and raw against the wrap I shouldn’t be wearing. Warm-ups didn’t help, either. Every time I twist, it bites.

Good. Let it hurt.

“Yo, Walton,” Logan calls as we circle past each other. “You skating weird, or did you finally admit your hips are geriatric?”

I smirk. “You wish you moved like me, Pookie.”

“Pretty sure you grimaced getting off the bench.”

“Pretty sure I’ll still outpace your ass in a sprint.”

He laughs, shoulder-checking me lightly. “Only thing sprinting is your delusion.”

Puck drop comes fast after that, and I lock in. I move like I’ve got tunnel vision, eyes on the puck and nothing else, pretending I don’t feel the sting under my jersey or that my whole fucking heart lives in someone else’s chest.

We’re at home, but the other team’s loud. Scrappy and chirpy. The kinda team that likes to hit first and ask questions later, but I manage to stay out of it for the most part.

First period, I keep it clean. No retaliation. No chirps back even when their center cheap-shots Reid at the crease.

But a brawl starts near the boards, all heat and fists and half-missed punches. One of their guys drops gloves with Logan, and it spills fast. Reid’s already yelling at someone from the crease, and half our bench is on their feet.

Then I see it—one of Chicago’s rookies is down and not moving. Took a hit weird or landed wrong, I don’t know. He’s flat on the ice, right in the middle of the chaos, and no one notices because they’re too busy swinging.

I don’t think, I just go. I skate over, cut in, and plant myself between the worst of it and the kid on the ground. I get clippedon the side of the eye and wince as I throw one arm out toward the boards to hold space, using the other to shield his head. I don’t say anything, just hold the damn line while the refs come flying in.

By the time the trainers reach him, the guy’s starting to come to. Still woozy, still out of it, but I back off once I know he’s okay.

Eli notices.

“You planning to marry that guy or what?”

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