Page 84 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
She tosses me a glance—one transient in nature but lasting in effect, living as a core memory in the hub of my brain despite being so mundane.
“When did you get so wise?” she quips.
I stretch my arms over my head. “Oh, I’ve always been wise, baby. It’s just taken you this long to realize it.”
“Oh, please. The only wise thing you’ve done is taken your PT’s advice and stumble into my dance studio.”
“Best decision of my life,” I concur, my lips lifting into a lovestruck smile—one that never existed before I met Cali. One that I didn’t even know I was capable of. And now one that I can’t seem to stop wearing.
Her cheeks steam with an infectious blush, and even though Cali’s confidence is tangible, she always grows shy whenever she receives any type of compliment. It’s like she knows what I’m saying deep down about her is true, but she isn’t used to hearing it. And I’m determined to be the only man in her life to hail her with compliments until the day I die.
“Thank you for making that poster for him,” she says, changing the subject.
I shrug. “It just felt right. This is a win for all of us. I know I’m not, like, his dad or anything. I just wanted to make sure he knows I support him. And that I’m here for him. And that I’m proud of him.”
Cali reaches up to subdue an unruly curl of my hair, fingering it before tucking it back behind my ear. “He knows, Gage. He adores you, and you don’t have to be related to us for him to look at you like a father figure. You’ve done more for him than our dad ever has. And I never even asked you to.”
“Every second of it has been worth it. You guys are…”
My family? My world? My everything? Three months ago, I was a sad, self-pitying loser who thought he was going to die if he didn’t get playing time. I was a loser who always joked about having a multitude of women knocking down my door, when in reality, I was beginning to believe that my person wasn’t out there.
If I hadn’t been late for practice that day, if I hadn’t been a complete asshole and boxed Cali in, I never would’ve found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. The world gave me an angel when I was least deserving of it. Okay, possibly an angeldisguisedas a demon, but still. I know this is long overdue, but I want her to be my girlfriend. Officially. I want the entire world to know she’s mine, and I want the entire world to know what an incredible human being she is.
I don’t like sharing Cali, but maybe this is one exception I can make. Hiding her is like trying to hide the moon—impossible, fucking idiotic, and a disservice to those who’ll never witness her inner and outer beauty.
She’s staring at me with those big, Bambi eyes, her brow slightly wrinkled with nervous expectancy, but before I can man up and come clean, the ambience of the rink changes on a dime. A few parents in my peripheral clamber to their feet, peppering the air with rowdy shouts of encouragement, and the ground beneath me begins to shake with the renewed liveliness of the crowd.
My attention barrels to the rink, where a tiny player has the puck and is moving at immeasurable speeds. It’s only a second later when I realize that it’s Teague.
“Holy shit. He has the puck!” I yell, shaking Cali by the shoulders while simultaneously keeping my eyes on his swerving figure.
Cali’s head whips around upon my observation, and shesprings to her feet, hauling me up with her as we both watch Teague narrowly dodge an incoming opponent.
“Come on, Teague! You can do it!” she screams, fear and pride grappling for ultimate traction over her face.
I force myself to glance at the clock. There’s exactly thirty seconds left.
He’s going to do it. He’s going to score the winning shot.
My stomach roils with anxiety, and my legs feel like pillars about to crumble, the gravity of the situation laying heavy on my voice box and restricting words from taking shape. He’s doing everything I taught him. He’s staying by the puck, keeping his eye on it, and remaining confident.
He’s a few feet from the goal, and the low defensive position the goalie’s in tells me he’s not expecting a high slap shot. It doesn’t even really look like he’s expecting Teague to get a shot past him at all. And that’s a fatal mistake to make. Never underestimate your opponents.
Cali grabs onto my arm like she’s determined to rip it from its socket, and Teague swings back just in time to make a shot before he’s swallowed up by the wave of offense riding his tail.
His stick arcs slightly off the ground, he smacks the puck with the surface of his blade in a full-force slap shot, and the disc heads directly for the upper corner of the net. The frenzied arena stills. Everything silences around me, like the distant garble of sounds when you’re underwater. My heart stops beating. My breath stops flowing.
And then, even before I hear the audience erupt into ear-bleeding chaos, I see the net billow back from Teague’s winning goal, and the goal lights flash that perfect fucking red color, just as the buzzer signals the end of the game with a ringing drone.
I can’t believe he did it. Oh my God. He fucking did it! I knew he could do it, but a shot like that is—it’s insane. I know world-renowned players who haven’t even accomplished something like that. Do you know how much confidence it takes to carry the responsibility of the last shot of the game? How if you miss it, even if your teammates don’t say it to your face, they probably blame you for the loss? And Teague never faltered once when he was up against those intimidating, post-growth-spurt opponents.
“He did it! He did it!” Cali cries, bouncing on the balls of her feet and clapping her hands.
Teague stands in shock, as if he can’t believe it himself, and the rest of his team swarms him, chanting his name and pumping their sticks into the air. Their war cries and victory screeches harpoon the glacial atmosphere, intermixing with the applause of proud parents and the protesting groans from sore ones.
“He did it,” I whisper under my breath, pride and admiration re-energizing the organ in my chest to resume its pounding rhythm.
Cali hugs me, still jittery with that rush of adrenaline, squeezing me in her arms as a silent gratitude for helping Teague.
