Page 21 of The Best Kind of Forever
There are a few prerecorded cracks of thunder that reverberate in the arena, and the lights mimic a flash of lightning, backlighting the glowing red eyes in the skull of the reaper. Cheers erupt all around me, and everyone unanimously clambers to their feet, clapping in collective elation. The lights still, and the announcer’s voice deluges my ears again, clear as day.
“Please welcome your Riverside Reapers!”
And one by one, tiny hockey players—well, tiny from where I’m sitting—exit the tunnel, skating around the perimeter of the rink and raising their arms up, rousing the audience. Some of the fans’ voices rise to decibel levels, and I think I momentarily lose hearing in one ear.
The players spend about thirty minutes warming up before any of the actual playing starts. The game commences at the sound of the buzzer, and streaks of jerseys all shoot out to their designated zones. The puck is placed in the center of the rink, and the jumbotron zeroes in on the two players hovering on either side of the puck. The guy on the Reapers is handsome from what I can tell—brown hair that curls under his helmet, honeysuckle eyes, and a perfectly sloped nose. I’m not granted much time to gawk before movement stutters past my vision in rapid afterimages. The puck ping-pongs between players at a speed I didn’t know was possible.
Number thirty-six, Brenner, careens across the ice, practically moving at the speed of sound, and he closes in on the opposing team’s goal, but he doesn’t take the shot. He passes to another player, number eighteen, Hollings, who does some kind of fake-out trick before wrenching his arm on a diagonal and sinking the puck into the net.
Everyone bursts into a hurricane of frenzied euphoria. Even Lila is at the edge of her seat. She’s all endearment and enthusiasm, the two folding into one another on the canvas of her face.
When the camera pans to the first scorer of the evening, my heart sinks into the soles of my shoes, and every contradictory emotion crashes into me like waves against a rocky outcrop. There, definitely not in a full-body cast from a life-threatening car accident, is Hayes, giving the spectators a smirk that spells disaster.
No. Fucking. Way.
10
WELCOME TO THE DANGER ZONE
HAYES
Holy shit. I’ve never scored the first goal of any game since the season’s started.
The crowd is absolutely insane. The puck is back in play, and this time during the faceoff, a player from the Colorado Caracals zips off with it. The burning in my legs is a welcome sensation, and as much as my lungs ache, I’d rather hurt the next day and know I worked my ass off than come away unscathed. I cut number fifty-five off, body checking him into the boards, allowing Fulton to scoop up the abandoned puck.
A chorus of cries rattles my eardrums, but the second Fulton gets an inch away from the goal line, a hulking defenseman smashes him into the plexiglass. The cries evolve into disappointed groans. I know my teammates can handle themselves. Hell, some of the guys are larger than I am, but when they’re on the receiving end of some brutal hits, my vision turns red. It’s some kind of weird, primal reaction inside of me that makes me want to rip my gloves off and scatter teeth all over the ice.
Some Speedy Gonzalez motherfucker flashes past me with the puck, and judging by the uptick in boos and slimy insults, the Colorado Caracals just scored a goal. The Caracals are good. They have some of the fastest skaters in the whole NHL on their team, which I thought was an exaggeration until now. A litany of swears ricochet from my throat, and I blink the sweat from my eyes, my heart probably hastening to a concerning rate. This is going to be a long game.
* * *
We’reon to the second period, and it’s 2-1. I skate alongside Kit, picking up speed to stay in his passing range, and the second he spies an opposing player bulldozing to get to him, he passes me the puck. I’m more nervous than usual, which unfortunately makes me less aware, and I cover a good portion of ice before someone egresses from my blind spot and rams into me with the force of a pickup truck.
I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to look up before I suffer a face-smashing courtesy of The Incredible Hulk, and my eyes gridlock with a pair of mocha-colored ones that I would recognize anywhere.
“Aeris?”
But before I can double-confirm it’s her, an overwhelming pain cocoons my entire body. My vision comes in tides, and my muscles groan from the force of the collision. God, I forgot how much it hurt to be bitch-punted into the boards.
What is she doing here? Aeris didn’t strike me as a sports fan, much less a hockey fan. I texted her back before I left the locker room, but I don’t know if she saw it yet. The timing of my responses could definitely use some work.
I don’t know why I expected to keep my day job a secret from her. Of course she was going to find out. It’s kind of hard not to, especially since Riverside prides itself on its hockey team.
The third period goes by in a flash, and before I know it, the Caracals have evened the score. It’s 2-2 now. We’re down to the last five minutes. Whoever scores the next goal wins, and I’m determined to end the night on a high note.
Anticipation wrestles with my guts and ties them into ribbons. Bristol has the puck, but he’s flanked on either side by red and white jerseys, and he’s a second away from getting kebabbed. He flings the puck in my direction, and I dance around with it before ultimately deciding to pass it to Casen. Relief funnels through me when Casen gains some distance, nearing the Caracal’s goal. There’s a swarm of players on his tail, and if he doesn’t make this goal, there won’t be enough time for a redo.
I bend over, dropping my gloved hands to my knees, squinting through a sheen of sweat. Casen’s silhouette dwindles to a six-inch-tall version of him, and I see the goal lights flash red just as the buzzer signals the end of the game.
We won. My teammates hightail it over to Casen, pumping their sticks in the air and roaring their superiority over the opposing team. I should be over the moon, but I haven’t even lifted off the ground. Something—or someone—is preventing me from riding out my postgame high.
* * *
The cold outsideis no match for the blizzard in my chest. The air shrouds my arms, raising hair and gooseflesh in its wake. The crescent moon blocks out all light from the nursery of stars in the sky, with only the haze from the high-power lamps to guide me through the endless dark.
I need to find Aeris. Why is she here? When I told her who I was, she didn’t seem to have any idea I played hockey. And now, out of nowhere, she shows up to the one place I least expected to see her. Did she know who I was this entire time? Was she putting on a show?
My teammates are probably already at Beer Comes Trouble—the bar we always hit up after games. The place is teeming with puck bunnies, and I’ve been grateful for the easy accessibility a few nights in particular. But the last thing on my mind right now is celebrating.
