Page 108 of Lucky
But I’m not broken.
How can I be when I have Lucky on my side?That man looked into the camera and announced to the world that he loves me.And I have so many others shouting love and kindness that I probably won’t stay scared for long.
I wipe my face, breath catching.I check my watch.I have to get going soon or I’ll be late for school.“Okay,” I say, staring myself down in the mirror’s reflection.“Time to get your shit together, Win.”
Something absolutely has to be done first, though.I grab my phone again and swipe open my camera roll.I find the clip I almost posted last week—the skin care one with the goofy lighting and my dumb voice cracking in the middle of it.I hit edit.I add a caption:Still here.Still average.Still me.
Then I hit post.
CHAPTER 35
Lucky
The locker room’salive with the usual pregame hype.The guys are amped to take on the Nashville Badgers at home.Music’s pounding from the corner speaker, the usual bizarre playlist Kace swears gets him into “elite headspace.”
Me?I’m trying not to keep checking my phone like a teenager waiting on a text from his crush.
Because… yeah.That’s exactly what I am right now.
Winnie hasn’t messaged me today.Not after the TikTok.Not after Foster told me the team videos were going live.Not even after I sent my Tahoe and a tow truck to her house to pick up her vandalized car.
But she asked for space, and I’m giving it to her, even if it’s killing me in the process.
“Still nothing?”Atlas asks, sliding onto the bench beside me and taping his stick.
“Nope.”
“She saw it.She had to see it.”
“I think so,” I murmur, pulling on my gloves, the motion automatic now.“But I don’t know what that means yet.”
Foster walks by with his helmet under one arm.“She’s not the kind of woman who ghosts.She’s probably just taking it all in.”
Kace chimes in from across the room.“Bro, I’ve seen some of the stitches coming through under the #BeKindLikeWinnie tag.We’ve got schoolteachers in Iowa talking about anti-bullying clubs.Some little girl made a puppet show.”
Anders yells from the far side, “My sister posted one of our clips to her Facebook and her PTA shared it.We’re basically viral in suburbia.”
That gets a laugh from the whole room—even me.For a second, the tension in my chest eases.This campaign… it’s more than a gesture.It’s become something real.Something good.
But still…
I want to see her.
“All right, ladies.”Coach West claps once.“Warm-ups.Let’s get out there and show this home crowd what we’re made of.”
I push off the bench, slap Penn on the back, and follow the rest of the guys down the tunnel.
The second we hit the ice, the roar of the crowd swells.It’s a packed house tonight, the loudest fans in force.There are signs waving and the kids press their faces to the glass to watch the warm-ups, hoping to get a stray puck tossed to them.
I skate a few laps, trying to dial in.I take a few passes, the puck hitting my stick like an extension of my hand.I’m loose, focused, running on muscle memory—but my eyes keep drifting to the stands.
Not looking for anything in particular.
Just… hoping.
And then, I see it.
I don’t register it at first—a cluster of fans near where the tunnel and glass meet.But there’s one fan, one sign that has my full attention.My breath stalls in my chest.
