Page 6

six

Paisley

Friday morning, I stand under the covered entryway of the Mapleton Arena, glaring at the Granite Ice bus. It’s another blizzardy day here, with the wind whipping all over the parking lot. I pull my coat tighter around me, grateful I opted for my combat boots. Long Island gets cold, but not like this. I've been told this year has had an unusual amount of snow, but there is a valve in the clouds that is wide open and only knows how to dump mounds and mounds of snow.

To complicate this blizzard situation, it’s travel day.

That’s what the team calls it.

I’m calling it nightmare-in-a-white-bus-that-smells-like-rotten-gym-socks day.

Up until now, I’ve avoided traveling with the team as I was never invited. I don’t think it’s super common for Granite Ice to haul around reporters. However, there are only travel games left on the schedule, and I don’t have even one incriminating photo for my spread. I was out of options, so I asked Bill if I could ride with the team. He didn’t seem that enthusiastic, but it worked out that their full-time social media person couldn’t make it, so there was an extra seat.

Which leads me back to this nightmare bus trip. I had my mind set on getting game photos, but I hadn’t thought about actually sitting on the bus with these guys. I really want to skip this part. I could take my car, but the weather is getting bad, and I hate driving in storms. I scan along the bus windows, seeing most of the seats are already filled, and I regretfully force my feet to move forward because I can’t give up now.

With my hands squeezed into fists, I raise my chin in the wind and march forward, wrinkling my nose as the diesel fumes saturate the air. It’s four steps up, and I meet a bus driver with blue hair. Blue hair is not the “in” style by any means, but this lady looks cute with her short, pixie cut. I breeze past her, and my eyes widen as I stare down the center aisle.

I learned in grade school to never try to sit by anyone. People always save seats for their friends, and the humiliation of walking down the aisle to be turned down, again and again, is something that’s been burned in my brain.

I will never do that again.

Instead, I take the least desirable seat, the one directly behind the blue-haired bus driver, and slouch, pulling my phone in front of my face as a shield of invisibility.

“Excuse me, miss,” the driver hollers, turning her head a measure as if her neck is so stiff she can’t risk turning it even ninety degrees. “You need to move back. That seat is reserved for the coaches.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind sharing.” Dropping my gaze to my lap, I pick at my thumbnail and cringe at how embarrassing it is to be the girl sitting next to the coach. Yet, that scenario is better than the walk-of-shame down the center aisle.

“Ah, no, miss. There are two coaches coming and as you can see there’s only two seats per bench.” She hikes her thumb over her shoulder. “Head on back and find a seat.”

My gaze cuts to the exit. This was a mistake. I slide one foot in the aisle, en route to the door. When the driver shifts the handle and closes the exit door, my expression freezes hard and my heart sinks.

I’m trapped.

A pig in the slaughterhouse.

I’m about to be bacon.

Unless I want to make a scene and beg her to open the door, my only option is to move back.

My heart hammers like a drum as I slowly pivot to face down the center aisle. Every seat is filled with either team staff or players chatting to each other. I inch back, straining my eyes, praying under my breath. Please don’t make me walk all the way down, and then back again.

That’s the worst.

With each row that I pass, the guys raise their eyes to stare at me but don’t utter a word of invitation to sit. As I arrive at the halfway mark—the emergency exit door—sweat slaps on my back. I eye the door longingly and fight with every fiber of my being to not run out of it. This is high school all over again.

I mean, my internship is over soon, and I’ll leave this little town and never come back. Nobody will ever remember me.

“Paisley.” A familiar voice firmly beckons from my left, and I shift my eyes, wanting not to turn my head, but I already know.

Noah.

I’m so desperately trying to hate him because he’s one of them, but hating him is getting harder and harder.

I slowly turn to him, and he’s sitting next to Jackson Owen. I frown, but Noah stands, and says, “Why don’t you sit here? I can move to the back with Axl.”

A sigh slips from Jackson’s lips, and he jolts to his feet. “I’ll sit with Axl.” I blink, and Jackson’s already heading down the aisle. I’m cringing hard, but Noah has a full smile on as he waves me forward. “There, the seat is already warmed up.”

My skin is practically burning as I drop onto the seat, keeping my gaze low. “You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter as I drop my purse off my shoulder, letting it hit my feet. Even the bus driver was waiting for me, and the bus suddenly shakes into gear, and we pull forward.

“I wanted to.” Noah’s eyes sparkle with gold flecks that brighten his face so much it frankly infuriates me. Why does he get to look hot when I’m struggling to just do life? I let out a low overwhelmed chuckle. This guy must have some GPS that is locked on my coordinates and always knows what I need.

It’s getting old.

Possibly a little weird.

How is it even possible?

“Well, thanks for saving me, again,” I mumble out, relief flooding my chest. I’m slowly coming to the realization that it’s impossible to hate Noah. Trust me, I’ve been trying hard to keep my wall up while around him. Even though he wears a Granite Ice logo, he is not like the rest of the guys. He might actually, maybe, be a little nice.

Not to mention the most shocking turn of events from the other day—the dude sent me home with a whole slice of cheesecake that he paid for. It doesn’t get better than free cheesecake.

He playfully taps his finger to his lips and lets out an indulgent sigh. “Well, you know, you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

My body is positioned forward, but I toss a helpless look in his direction. “Now what?”

“I’ll let you know.” He nods, adding a smug smirk. “Are you taking photos again?”

“That is the plan, although I already hate this plan,” I say through gritted teeth, as I do my best to erase what just happened to me from my memory.

“You know what I like about you?” The casual way he offers to compliment me makes my spine straighten, and I stare at him with bated breath, praying this isn’t a setup. “What?” My T is extra sharp as I wait.

“You’re not like anyone else.”

“Are you rubbing that in my face?” I turn my head at a suspicious angle as my cheeks fire on like an oven. I already know I don’t fit in.

“No.” He drops his hand to my arm, and a sonic boom rumbles through it, searing my flesh.

“It’s not a bad thing. You just don’t conform. I don’t see anyone else walking about in all black clothes and combat boots. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

I stare at his hand on my arm while my esophagus malfunctions—which allows for an awkward pause. I could offer a rebuttal and tell him he’s wrong, but instead, I glare at him. His smile is comfortable, not at all condescending.

He holds up his phone, switching the conversation. “Want to watch TikTok?”

“Sure.” Our gazes synchronize on his phone as I do my best to drown out the neighboring whispers about me. It’s not lost on me that, once again, Noah rescued me.

Okay, there’s confirmation that I was maybe wrong, and he is nice. But that’s clearly just Noah, and he’s on the wrong team.

The rest of these guys are still horrid.

Standing in front of my seat behind the penalty box, my camera is positioned to capture anything that can happen. This is my favorite spot. I learned when I was a teenager that if I sit here, I can nonchalantly take selfies with the guys’ backs.

It’s sort of a weird obsession.

But it doesn’t make me a bad person.

I’m supposed to be finding the photos that make these guys look bad, but I can’t help but keep drawing my eyes back to Noah. He’s been sitting on the bench most of the game, and I got twelve “selfies” with him mewing. He’s an excellent mewer. Clearly, those selfies are going into my personal collection, which nobody shall ever see.

A time-out is called, and the Granite Ice team gathers around Coach Carlson for whatever genius words he has to say. I’ve eavesdropped on an awful lot of his speeches, and I usually zone out when Carlson speaks. He’s generic. It’s Bill Baker you want to lean in for, because he has all the gossip. I scan the packed arena, waiting for something interesting to catch my eye. My stomach growls, and I contemplate getting another bucket of popcorn, but I wasn’t much of a fan of the first bucket. Their salt-to-butter ratio wasn’t even close to average, with so much salt I had to get an extra drink refill to choke it down.

Scratch the popcorn idea.

In my peripheral vision, the players nod in agreement at whatever Carlson said, and they give knuckies in solidarity before they skate back out. Noah skates out on the ice with a fire in his eyes. I dutifully adjust my camera settings back to action mode.

The team’s losing pain is so thick it’s palpable in the air. I don’t think they’ll win another game this season, but I’ve never seen a team with more heart. That would be endearing if I wasn’t trying to make them look bad.

The puck drops.

I do my best to use my phone to follow the action over the ice, hoping to get something worth saving. Axl is the best for controversy, because he gets in the most fights. Unfortunately, he’s been keeping his temper in check, and he hangs back while Noah quickly takes control of the puck and streaks down the ice. He smokes past the defensemen and cuts toward the net. He’s so nimble and fast, it’s hard not to be amazed.

Noah has the talent to make me forget there is even a hockey game going on. I pull my gaze away from him for a second to scan the arena. All sets of eyes are glued on him as he puts on a fantastic show. Imagine just casually strolling by an ice rink and seeing him. Even people who have no idea what hockey is about would be stunned.

My gaze returns to Noah, and I follow him, snapping photos. When he gets to the front of the net, I rise to the tips of my toes in excitement, and I struggle to hold my phone steady. The crowd erupts in cheers as he shoots the puck, and it flies past the goalie and into the net! I snap a photo right as it goes in, getting both the goal and Noah in the shot.

That was easily the coolest thing to happen since I’ve been in Mapleton. Noah raises his fist in triumph, and his Granite Ice teammates swarm him. Seriously, somebody needs to tell Marvel about this guy. I don’t need a photo of him looking this good for my spread, as this would destroy my plan, but it’s an excellent shot. I’ll just slip this one into my personal collection as well.

The scoreboard shows they are tied. For the first time in weeks, they have a real chance to win a game. They battle for the rest of the period, with nobody able to break the tie. My heart is in my throat. You’d think I’m rooting for them.

I’m clearly not.

It’s the pressure to not miss anything.

As the clock winds down to the final seconds, Axl has the puck at center ice. He dodges a defenseman, skating along the boards and across the blueline. Another defenseman closes in on him, and Axl can’t break free.

My eyes dart back to Noah.

He’s open and in front of the net, but Axl has no clear path for a pass. I zoom my phone camera back on Axl. It would be nice if he would punch someone right about now. The guy used to be a goldmine for incriminating footage, but something has changed.

Instead of losing his temper, Axl maintains control of his attitude—and the puck—as he skates behind the net. Right as Noah skates in to assist, the defenseman slickly steals the puck and quickly fires a pass up the ice. The opposing center snatches the pass and takes off on a breakaway. He comes in on the goalie, makes a quick move, and fires the puck in the back of the net.

The crowd erupts in cheers.

I can’t digest how fast that went. My stomach twists as my gaze flies to the clock. It shows only one second left. They take one final meaningless faceoff, and the final buzzer blares, signaling the end of the game. Nausea brews, and a deep sadness for the team sets in my heart. With heads hung low, the players skate off the ice.

I also feel defeated and let out a disgruntled sigh. All the shots I got were normal hockey shots, plus all the hot ones of Noah—which aren’t going to help my assignment. I got nothing to prove my case that these guys should be hated. But as I drop my gaze, I start to feel like maybe that’s okay.

They played hard.

It’s not their fault that their boss is Bill Baker. Maybe I don’t have to write a whole hit piece on them. I can write something normal that isn’t that glowing. I stuff my phone in my pocket and head out with urgency, hoping to get on the bus before all the seats are taken. My efforts are rewarded. I’m the first one on the bus, and I plop down in the second row, taking the window seat.

A few minutes later, the team files onto the bus. I avoid eye contact as they seem to claim the same seats as before, and Noah plops down next to me as soon as he sees me. His Granite Ice beanie is pulled low, covering the bottom of his ears, the way he normally wears it. A flat frown of forlornity washes his normally happy expression clear off his face, and his gaze cuts to me as he adds a wireless earbud in each ear. With not so much as one uttered word, he closes his eyes and rests his head back in the seat. I instinctively know not to talk. Sometimes people just want to be quiet, and I’m totally fine not talking.

It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. A yawn spirals from deep in my gut. I slowly open my mouth to let it out as I wrap my arms across my chest in a self-snuggle position and relax even more in my seat. Tension releases from my body as soon as I lean against the window and close my eyes. With another couple of deep breaths, I nod off into a peaceful slumber.

Until someone taps me on my shoulder. My lashes flutter, alerting me to the tapping, but my mind is so calm it pulls me back to sleep. A wispy stream of air, basked in notes of a cool ocean breeze, wafts under my nose. For the faintest of moments, I think I’m sleeping near the ocean. My body is warm and toasty, as I stay snuggled up.

This is seriously the best nap of my life.

Why would I stop it now?

More shoulder tapping.

That’s so rude.

One eye opens methodically.

My head is resting against the sleeve of a cozy gray sweatshirt. So, not a window I thought I was sleeping on. I yank my other eye open to confirm my face is propped up against somebody—that smells amazing. So much so that I want to bury my nose further into this arm, but that would be weird. I do the opposite and raise my gaze up.

Noah is staring down at me, his lips pinched together as if he has a secret. “You finally woke up. A good thing too, because we’re back in Mapleton.”

“Ah.” I slowly sit up straight, looking back at the window. The window is still there, plus what looks like a fresh drool stain I pretend not to see, but it glistens back at me. My cheeks heat as I reach out and give it a nice little pat to make sure.

Yep. Still nice and windowy.

My gaze slides back to Noah. Somehow, in my unconscious state of slumber, I scooted all the way over and snuggled up to him. My face heats steadily into a full broil. “Did I sleep on your arm?”

A chuckle leaks out of his mouth. “Yeah, the driver took a pretty hard right a while back, and you just rolled with it.”

“I’m sorry.” I flatten my hand on his arm like I had offended it. It’s such a nice arm. Firm and steady, the perfect platform for resting against. “I had no idea.” I fluster more, as I can’t seem to stop staring at his perfect arm. “This isn’t something I normally do.” I risk eye contact, and his flirty gleam is strong out of the corner of his eye. “Why didn’t you shove me off or, at the very least, wake me?”

Players start to muster into the center aisle and head off the bus, creating a bustle of noise. Noah speaks over the commotion, “You know how it goes.” He tips his head down, pulling my gaze toward him. “You have to make it up to me.”

"I thought I already owed you from before.” My mind is still fogged by that ocean-breeze scent thing he has going on, and I scramble to find my overstuffed purse and stand, falling into step behind him.

“About that, I have a request for that one.” He gives me a side-eye, but it’s our turn to get off the bus, so he lumbers forward until we make it down the bus steps. Then he turns toward me and for no reason I can explain—except to be unfair—he feels it is necessary to look incredibly hot. Not that it should have even been more possible, but his jaw steels, his attention locking fully on me.

And again with the ocean breeze, dude.

It’s like he has a tropical island floating above his head that sends off ocean-tainted waves right when I think I’m strong enough to resist that smile.

I’m not a groaner.

Except for maybe when I get the stomach flu, but you can’t fault me for that. I fight with every ounce of my soul not to emit the cryptic-death noise that spun in my gut. Nothing good can come from him having any request while looking that fine.

“The team is going to Red Barn Kabobs,” he continues. “Something to do to decompress. You should come.”

“Yeah, I would be lying if I said that sounds like fun to me.” I wobble from one leg to the other as everything about that makes me itch. “After the mosh-pit issue, I think I’ll avoid crowds forever.” I let my gaze wander to the cement. It’s dark out, with only a few lampposts to light this huge parking lot. They create a perfect beam on him to cast a big broad shadow. I blush, feeling this warm gooey feeling I should not be having next to him, as I can’t help but think even his shadow is hot.

Who on earth has a hot shadow?

I look over at my shadow. It’s quite stout and wide, making me look like I’ve gained fifty pounds. That’s not fair. How does he even win with shadows?

“That wasn’t an ask.” His smile turns smug, and I pause. He is serious. My heart slams against my ribcage. I get he’s attractive, and I was fine with that when I hated him. Now that he’s spent the week rescuing me, all my thoughts about him being arrogant have mysteriously disappeared. All I want to do is memorize the way the colors in his eyes dance between a healthy auburn all the way to an aged copper.

My stomach wobbles as I counter, “How about three restaurants instead?”

He stands firm and shakes his head. “I’m not taking no for an answer on this one. You just successfully completed your first trip with us, and you’re one of us now.”

One of them?

My whole body tenses as he looks back at me.

I can’t be one of them!

They’re my enemy.

But that was before Noah, who is staring down at me with one of those heart-stopping smiles. It feels like I’ll go anywhere if it means I can stare at him. “I guess I can go for an hour or so.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He hangs onto the word plan as his smile lingers.

“Yeah,” I echo, emotions clogging my throat. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff. I have the option to back away slowly and I’ll be safe. Inching forward just a little might have some serious implications. Without double thinking about it, I slide my foot forward and follow him.