One month later
December twenty-third,I’m geared upfor our last game before the Christmas break. I’m ready to hit the ice, but this is my first game in Nashville since the season started, and I’m wondering how I managed to avoid it until now. With my four-game suspension and my shoulder taking another hit in Dallas two weeks ago, this is my first time facing off against the Preds this season. Coach gave me a pretty stern talking to before we left Calgary last night, and I told him he had nothing to worry about, but I lied. All I can think about is her. I didn’t know until the bus ride to the stadium that Stella would be singing the national anthems. I was pretty sure the world was going to have something to say about that. After those red-carpet interviews at the CMA awards, there’s already been talk on TMZ and in the tabloids about the two of us meeting up in Nashville, but it’s all bullshit. I’m here to play a game and win. So when I take to the ice, the lights dim, and a commentator says, “Please welcome Stella Hart to the ice to sing the national anthems,” my chest gives a pathetic little flutter, but when the cameras pan to her and then across my face before showing the rest of the players with their hands pressed to their hearts, I stare ahead as blank-faced and as emotionless aspossible.
When she sings “Oh Canada,” I’m taken back to the night in my living room, where she’d saluted my dick with the national anthem. I wince and remember too late that my face is likely being telecasted into every house between here and the middle of Australia right now. I exhale and clear my mind, and when the puck drops, I’ve forgotten all about StellaHart.