Page 26

Grayson

The Frost arena has a sold-out crowd for the first game of the regular season.

According to Sloane, most of the regular season games at our arena are sold out. I’m not sure how that’s possible, or why fans would bother coming in swarms like this. Sure, last season was moderately better than our first, but we’re still not a top team in the league.

And yet, I swear the ice vibrates beneath my feet as we skate out to warm up before the game. When I got here earlier this morning, there were already fans milling about in our gear, and it gave me a surreal feeling.

I’ve been in the league for three years now, but for some reason, when I was walking in this morning, it really hit me: I did it. I’m a professional hockey player. I’m living my dream.

Now, after warm-ups, we’re out on the ice, getting ready before the opening face-off. I stick my water bottle in the holder above the goal and turn, tossing my stick from hand to hand, trying to loosen up the tension between my shoulders.

Trying my best to stop thinking about Astrid at my place. What it was like sitting across from the dinner table with her. How seamlessly she fit into the night, how much the girls loved having her there.

This morning, while I was getting Athena ready for the day, she kept getting distracted from picking her outfit to talk about Astrid, asking when she would be coming back again.

I’d taken the opportunity to ask, “How would you like to go to a hockey game with Astrid?”

Athena had jumped up and down, immediately throwing her hands in the air with happiness. Then she’d stopped, tilted her head, and asked, “What’s hockey?”

So maybe Astrid was right. That I haven’t exactly let the girls into my life.

Now, Maverick skates by, hitting his stick against mine with a playful, pushy grin, and I roll my eyes at him. I wonder if he can tell that I’m in my head, and desperately trying to get out of it.

We’re playing the Anaheim Ducks tonight, and a small section of our crowd is the wrong color, sporting Anaheim orange instead of Milwaukee blue. Tonight, at least, the number of away fans is much smaller. When we play Minneapolis or Chicago, there are far more willing to make the trek.

“Hey, man.” Luca skates over and comes to a stop in front of me, bending his stick in front of his lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I try to keep my voice level, to project that I know what I’m doing and I’m not going to let the team down. That Coach isn’t going to have to pull me from this game, like he did during the pre-season.

“Alright.” Luca grins, smacking his hands down on my shoulder pad. “You’re stellar, man. Channel all that Robo Goalie energy, alright?”

When he skates away, I let out a long breath, then pull my helmet down over my face to run some drills, block some pucks, practice butterflying down onto the ice. I’m already warmed up and loose, and now it’s just waiting for the opening face-off.

I know it’s Luca’s job as captain to make sure everyone is ready for the game, but I can’t shake the feeling that the team suddenly thinks I need a babysitter. That he’s identified me as the weak point on the team.

Two seasons ago, when I was still the back-up goalie, the weak point on the team was obviously Maverick—Luca was on his case constantly, until everything blew up with him and Callum. I thought Luca would have been happy when Maverick fucked off to Houston, but Luca constantly talked about getting him back last season.

Then, Maverick returned.

All that to say, Luca is invested. And usually, when he wants something to happen, it happens. He’s relentless like that, only focused on trying to get this team to the Stanley Cup.

Hopefully that means I’ll play a good game tonight. Hopefully that means Luca isn’t already talking to Coach, to the administration, trying to figure out if Martinez should start for me instead, if they should find a new goalie for the Frost altogether.

I work my way through the drills, and Maverick swings around, taking a shot on the goal. I block it, watch as he circles, his head tipping up, finding the glass box up high, where VIP ticket holders sit.

Ruby is right at the glass, her hand raised, Leo beside her, jumping up and down. Maverick raises a hand to them, and Leo waves his arms around, his mouth open but the sound of his shout not making it to us. Others in the box look at him, laugh.

Maverick skates away doing stick work, but my mind is stuck on the moment. Him looking up, them looking down. Someone there to cheer him on, excited enough to jump and cheer. To point down at the ice and call out his number.

A whistle blows, and the refs take the ice. I snap out of my thoughts, trying to get my head on straight. The thought pops into my head, fully formed, of Astrid in that hotel room, the feeling of her skin under my fingertips. Then, I think about what she said.

I suck in a deep breath and drop myself back onto one of those trails, the fresh air in my lungs, Astrid just in front of me, turning, smiling, pointing to a woodpecker high up in a tree.

My happy place.

Something clicks into place for me, a total, certain sense of calm.

When I open my eyes, the ref drops the puck. We win the opening face-off, taking control and attacking Anaheim’s goal. The sounds of hockey ring out through the space—the smack of sticks and the clack of the puck. The sharp, crisp sound of blades over the ice.

I ready up when the flow changes and Anaheim comes barreling back toward me.

The Frost’s regular season has begun.