Hanson barrels into Nashville’s center, slamming him into the boards hard and clean. For being such a nice guy off the ice, Ryder’s lethal on it. He chips the puck back toward the center line, and I glance up at him to make sure he’s good when my attention snags on something in the stands.
Correction. Someone, not something.
Pink hair with an almost orange tint to it, bright hazel eyes that aren’t watching the action because they’re focused on me, and a constellation of freckles across her button nose and full cheeks that I’d long ago mapped after hours of daylight stargazing. A dark plum peacoat hugs every curve perfectly. She’s even more beautiful than I remember.
Her eyes widen when she notices my attention, but her apparent shock has nothing on the roar of the blood in my veins and the erratic thundering of my heart. My vision tunnels as I lose my grip on the control I value more than almost anything. Every player on the ice disappears, the cacophony of the crowd is nothing more than static in my ears, and I swear to god, every light in the arena reorients itself to shine a spotlight on her.
What is she doing here?
“Indie?”
“Bash,” Ryder shouts. “Fucking wake up, man!”
Shaking my head, I bring my attention back to the ice. I can’t let my team down. Nashville has possession of the puck, and they’re dancing around Maddox and our D-men, getting closer and closer to the net. Their center pushes through Ryder and Javi, and instinct takes over. My muscles bunch and tense, responding instinctively to each shift in posture, each flick of his stick.
Eight and a half minutes left in the game, and a beautiful ghost from my past has overridden all the determined focus I’ve maintained for the last eighty minutes. It’s stupid, and I bitchmyself out even as I do it, but I steal a glance for a fraction of a second.
I’m sure it’s her.
I haven’t seen Indie in ten years, and there’s no reason for her to be here tonight, but I’d recognize her anywhere.
The call of the ice brings my attention back to where it needs to be, but the damage from my momentary distraction is already done.
Nashville’s center swings his stick back, lining up a shot. I shift into a crouch in the net, ready for it, but I’m so focused on the puck and Indie, I don’t see the clingy winger that’s been up my ass until it’s too late. He swings around Ryder, who’s dancing through Nashville’s offensive line to repel them, and instead of moving away from the crease to avoid a collision, he skates over the line and into my zone with too much momentum. I’m crouched and ready to stop the puck, so I can’t dodge him as easily as if I’d been standing.
Nashville’s winger slams into me a second before their center slaps the puck over my glove. My helmet hits the ice with a sharpcrackas the biscuit sails into the net. The fansbooand shout their displeasure as chaos erupts on the ice. Ryder’s on the winger in moments, fists flying as he pounds the guy. The rest of my teammates on the ice join the melee, and so do the Coyotes.
My ears ring from the force of the hit, and as I push myself up to my knees, my attention goes to the stands. My pink-haired apparition has her hands over her rosebud mouth, those hazel eyes wide and worried as a dark-haired woman beside her with bright blue eyes wraps an arm around Indie’s shoulders.
Indie. Fuck, itisher.
“Dude, you good?” Maddox’s voice tugs me back to reality and away from the woman I’d given up hope of ever seeing again. When it takes me too long to respond, he crouches infront of me. I’m still on my knees. Still reeling from the hit and seeing her. “Do you have a concussion?”
“What? No.” I shake my head, my attention going to Indie, who’s still watching me with wide, worried eyes. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look good. Are you even with me right now?”
No. I’m with her.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good, man. Promise.”
Once the refs finish breaking up fights, they skate over to the bench and confer with our coach, Mike Fry, who scowls deeply, frown lines marring his face. They exchange a few heated words, Fry gesticulates to the net and me, then the ref nods before skating back a few feet to make his calls.
Ryder gets a five-minute penalty for beating the shit out of the Nashville’s winger, the winger gets five for fighting and an additional five-minute major penalty for goalie interference. The crowd boos when Ryder’s penalty is called, but they cheer when they realize Nashville just gifted us a power play for the final three minutes of the game because their player will be out for the remainder of the matchup.
Frankly, he’s lucky he doesn’t end up with a game misconduct call after the shit he kept pulling in my zone.
The crowd gets even rowdier when the ref disallows Nashville’s goal, which means we’re still up three to zero, and I could still pull off a shutout.
If I can keep my mind off the fact that Indigo Rose Bloom is sitting less than a hundred feet away from me.
“Get your head in the fucking game,” I mutter to myself as Coach calls for a line change before the face-off.
I wish I could hop the boards and ask her what she’s doing here. Why she blocked my number ten years ago?
Today’s the day.I’ve been waiting an entire year to see her face. A year where I’ve been working up my courage to tell her how I feel.
I’m in love with her.