Page 7 of Make Me Yours
The spotlight hits center ice as our announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “And now, please welcome the Baltimore Baddies!”
The visiting team skates out one by one as their lineup is announced. The crowd gives the standard mix of polite applause and half-hearted boos, all the while waiting for the real show to start.
The moment the last player takes position, the music shifts,the bass vibrating through my skates. Blue and silver lights sweep across the ice, and the volume inside the arena explodes.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Chicago Railers!”
I roll my shoulders, shaking out my limbs as my teammates line up. Knox bounces on his skates beside me, a cocky grin plastered across his face.
“Starting in goal, number thirty-five, Laiken Lennox!”
Laiken glides out, lifting his stick to the thundering chants of “Lai-ken, Lai-ken!”
“At right defense, number twenty-three, River Thompson!”
River takes the ice to whistles and cheers.
“At left defense, number four, Jaxon Wilder!”
The spotlight sweeps over our zone, catching Jaxon as he loops around. Six years of these introductions, and my gaze always settled on Lilah. She’d be on her feet with everyone else, but she’d be watching me, not the show.
“At right wing, number eleven, Knox McNichols!”
Knox throws me a look before heading out, like he knows exactly where my head is.
“At left wing, number ninety-one, the big O, Oliver Van Doren!”
The roar builds as Oliver skates forward, fist-bumping Jaxon as he passes.
One more name.
“And your captain, at center, number nineteen, Steele Sanderson!”
I push off, muscle memory taking over as I glide onto the ice. The spotlight follows, the crowd thundering the entire time. As I take my usual lap around our zone, my eyes automatically lift to the suite.
Lilah’s not there.
That’s all it takes for my calm to fracture.
Where the hell is she?
I settle into position at center ice as my teammates fan out around me.
Knox nudges my shoulder. “Get your head in the game, Cap.”
With a nod, I grip my stick tighter and force my expression into something neutral.
Captain’s face.
Game face.
The ref skates in, puck in hand.
I bend forward, ready for the drop, but my gaze lifts one last time to the suite.
My lucky charm is still MIA.
The puck drops, and I surge forward, stick colliding with my opponent’s. Normally, I’m locked in and focused on what needs to be done. But that’s not the case tonight.
