Page 70 of The Puckable Playbook

His eyes spark when he looks at me, and I pray I’m not being a hopeless romantic, finally looking into the gaze of the guy whoshould’ve been hers all along. I’m obsessed enough to imagine things when they aren’t there.

This past week has been nothing short of amazing. Zaiah sees me. He wasn’t mad that I didn’t tell him face-to-face about her cheating. In fact, he understood. Turns out, we have similar stories about Trish. And it was like looking in a mirror when I told him about my dad and why hockey is such a sore subject.

He got that, too.

The feelings for him that had been growing inside me solidified, anchoring to my bones. I’m so far gone for Zaiah James.

If I’m all wrong about this, it’s going to be devastating. I’m willing to take the leap off the cliff, though. Dive so hard and so fast that I subject my own body to possible injury I may never recover from.

I hand over my ID to the person at will call, and they hand back tickets. A quick peek inside the envelope says Dad was very good to me.

Zaiah’s eyes round as I angle them toward him.

“Am I wrong or is that on the boards?”

“On the boards,” I confirm. His eyes light up, and I laugh. “You know you usually watch games from much closer, right? Like, actually on the ice.”

He bumps his shoulder into mine. “But I don’t get to enjoy them. This is going to be awesome.”

I hand him one of the tickets, and we get them scanned and head inside. The announcer is still introducing the players, the sound reverberating around the stadium like the big man himself is a hockey fan, his booming voice ricocheting off my ribs.

“We didn’t miss puck drop. Come on.”

He takes my hand, sliding his fingers through mine. I already knew watching a hockey game with Zaiah was going to be oneof the better experiences I’ve had in a place like this. As of right now, it might be tied with watching him play.

When we get to the lower level, Zaiah leads me down the steps, and I peer up into the suites, wondering which one my father is in. Afterward, we’ll go to dinner. I told him I brought a plus one. Didn’t tell him it was a male, though, so that will be interesting. The first ever time this has happened.

Zaiah holds my seat down, offering up the aisle. This front row allows him to spread out his legs, which is the first thing he does. Immediately, he brings out his phone as I place my bag on the floor and then I’m being dragged up and turned around. “Selfie,” he says, and I have just enough time to take in the fact that he has his arm around my shoulders and our faces are close together before the camera flashes.

“You two look adorable,” a woman with an opposing team’s jersey on coos from the row behind us. “I’ll take a picture if you want?”

“Please,” Zaiah says, handing her his phone.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach. I couldn’t be any more awkward. I’m more nervous about this than when I straddled his hips on the couch and touched myself in front of him.

Zaiah leans down to whisper in my ear, “Put your arm around me, sweetie.”

I do as he says, smiling. The lady takes a few pictures, oohing and aahing. I’m sure it’s all Zaiah. Everyone probably thinks I’m his sister. Or his cousin. Or some sort of platonic friend he’s taken pity on.

She offers up the phone, but before Zaiah grabs it, he kisses my temple. I swallow at the contact, my throat dry like brittle leaves on the ground in winter.

We sit, and Zaiah fiddles on his phone while the players skate onto the ice.

I nudge him. “Tell your sister I say hi.”

He grins back at me. “Tell her yourself.”

At the same time the crowd starts to cheer, I feel a vibration in my bag that rests against my ankle. I lean over, taking my phone out, and my jaw slacks when I read the screen. Zaiah added me to a group chat…with his family.

“You—”

He jumps to his feet, and I quickly peek up as the puck lands on the ice. The game has started, which is entertaining in itself, but my phone keeps vibrating in my hand, and what’s more fascinating to me is each time Zaiah’s family responds.

Mom James: You two!

Dad James: Pair of fine-looking young people.

Iz: I’m dying!!!!

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