Page 18

EIGHTEEN

A great friend. I really need to stop fixating on those three words. I want to be a great friend… but I also want to be so much more than that to her. Patience.

As soon as my skates hit the ice, the roar of the home crowd washes over me, a wave of sound that hits like a sudden rush to the head. The bright arena lights blind me before my eyes adjust. Nothing compares to this moment—it's one of the few times my mind goes completely silent.

Except tonight, because we’re playing the Dallas Spurs. Which brings me to the other six words I’ve been repeating in my head since meeting with Hannah this afternoon: I will not kick Knolls’ ass . Not because I don’t want to, but because beating him on the ice will be far more satisfying. I’m not a fighter, preferring to play a clean game… most of the time. But no one gets under my skin quite like Knolls does, even more so with how he’s been stirring things up with Hannah since their breakup.

It’s only been a couple of weeks since All-Star Weekend, but no matter how much time passes, it always feels too soon to see him.

My teammates surround me in a huddle, Fox’s arm slung casually over my shoulder. “Keep it simple, boys. Pucks in deep, bodies on net,” he says, addressing Helm, our other winger, and the two defensemen starting the game. We break apart and drift toward center ice to take our positions. I skate to the face-off circle, where Knolls waits across from me.

“You see my new girl, Logan?” Knolls chirps, his smug grin practically begging for a reaction.

I bite my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction. The look in Hannah’s eyes when she told me about his post is burned into my memory. And now, watching him gloat about it only fuels the fire simmering under my skin.

I flex my fingers around my stick, trying to refocus on the game as we wait for the ref to step into the circle for the puck drop.

“When she’s riding my dick, she tells me about how you couldn’t even get it up for her,” he continues.

Mostly false. “Not sure her thinking about me while fucking you is a flex, bud,” I can’t help but shoot back. If he thinks I care about him dating, fucking, or whatever he’s doing with Rebecca, he’s dumber than I thought.

“Did Hannah see our post? Has she been crying on your shoulder over it? Bet you’re happy. You’ve been waiting years for this, haven’t you, Logan?”

So much for playing it cool. The thought of him hurting her intentionally makes my blood boil. He’s finally hit my weak spot— her .

“Don’t fucking talk about her, jackass. I don’t want to hear her name out of your mouth. Got it?” The words come out sharper than I intended, my frustration cutting through despite my attempts to stay calm.

The referee steps into position, whistle perched between his lips, puck in hand, ready for the drop.

Knolls’ shoulders shake with laughter. “Does my name leave her mouth when you’re fucking her?”

“You motherfucker.”

The sharp blow of the whistle rings in my ears, and the referee drops the puck onto the surface below. What should follow is the clashing of sticks and a battle for possession of the puck; instead, the puck is forgotten, at least by me. I drop my stick, shake off my gloves, and grab Knolls’ jersey with one hand while landing a right hook to his cheekbone with the other.

The ref blows his whistle, stopping play before it even starts and letting us fight.

Knolls retaliates, landing a few hits to my side and one square to my face. I feel the split in my brow, but the pain doesn’t register with the adrenaline surging through me. The metallic tang of blood hits my tongue as it drips over my lip and down my chin. But I’m not the only one bleeding. His lip is split, and blood stains my knuckles as I land another hit to his jaw. Punches continue to be thrown, but he’s on the losing side. In his desperation, he pulls me down to the ice, signaling the refs to step in to separate us.

Teammates from both sides surround us. Fox skates up beside me as the referee grips my jersey and drags me toward the penalty box. “What was that, man?” Fox asks.

I don’t have time to respond before the ref shoves me into the box and shuts the plexiglass door behind me. Knolls sits in the visiting team’s box to my right. The referee’s voice comes across the arena speakers, calling out the penalties. “Saints #19 receives a two-minute instigating minor penalty, a five-minute major for fighting, and a ten-minute misconduct. Spurs #63 receives a five-minute major for fighting.”

Great. I’m out for almost the entire first period. The Spurs are on a power play, and I’m stuck here while my team has to fight off a penalty. Not exactly a surprise. I knew I’d be thrown in the bin as soon as I lost my gloves and threw the first punch. What gets me is how I let Knolls get in my head, giving him exactly what he wanted. The guy really has a knack for pissing me off.

I drop my head, the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears as I work to regain my composure.

Not even a minute later, the buzzer sounds, pulling my attention to the ice where Dallas celebrates the goal they just scored. Even though the Saints are back to full strength, I’m still benched until my penalties expire.

Long minutes later, I finally leave the box, my usual drive to beat Dallas now burning tenfold. I make my way back to the bench, waiting for my line’s turn on the ice. As the puck is dumped into the attack zone from the blue line and the first line skates to the bench for a change, I prepare to hop over the boards and join the play.

With the power play goal, we’re down, but I’m hungry to even the score. Fox battles along the boards for possession of the puck. When he finally wins it, he sends it my way. The puck dances on the end of my stick, but with no open lane, I pass it to my winger and take position netfront, screening the goalie. Helm shoots, but their goalie slides to the right, blocking the shot. The puck ricochets off his pads and lands inches from my stick. I shove it toward the goal line. Luck is on my side because the goalie doesn’t have time to get back into position, and the lamplight flashes. It’s a rebound goal, not flashy, but a goal all the same.

I skate toward the boards with an arm raised in victory as my teammates rush to surround me, shouting a chorus of, “Let’s go! Atta boy! Keep pushing!”

The second period is a battle, with both teams fighting hard, but no goals are scored.

The third starts with the referee’s whistle piercing the air and the score tied at 1-1. When the puck drops, I lunge forward with a burst of speed, winning the face-off. Thank fuck it wasn’t against Knolls this time. I’d like to stay out of the penalty box for the rest of the game.

With two minutes left on the clock, Daws scores the final goal of the game. He skates past the bench with a shit-eating grin, bumping gloves with players as he goes. When he reaches me, he says, “That one was for you, Lo.” One of the many things I love about hockey is knowing I have twenty-two guys who always have my back.

When the buzzer sounds, the home crowd erupts into thunderous cheers that echo through the arena. The Saints take the win, and it’s the sweetest one yet. The anger on Knolls’ face as he leaves the ice with his team only makes my smile grow wider.

As we head off the ice, Fox skates up alongside me. “You’re not getting out of drinks, Lo. I don’t care if your face is fucked.”

“My face isn’t fucked.” I scowl at him, the cut near my eyebrow pulling tight where the butterfly bandage holds the skin together.

“It’s not gonna be pretty in about an hour,” Fox says.

Knolls got one good shot in. Worth it. “All right, fine, I’m in.”

I go through my post-game routine, not surprised when I get called for media. It’s to be expected after my fight with Knolls. The media loves a good brawl and the story that comes with it, but they aren’t getting one from me.

“Ryan, how do you keep the momentum of this win going?”

I’m glad they’ve started with a relevant hockey question. “We’re focused on taking it one game at a time. We did a lot of things right tonight, and we’re hoping to build on it in our next game.”

“What happened on the ice with Jace Knolls? You are both Rumford alumni. Is there bad blood?”

And there it is. “Correct. We were college teammates.”

“What caused the fight on the ice tonight?” The same reporter pushes for an answer.

“Emotions were high. We both wanted the win. I don’t have any other comment on it.”

“Thanks, everyone, that’s it for tonight,” our public relations rep shouts across the room.

As I step out of the arena and the crisp February air hits my face, I pull out my phone to call Hannah but stop myself. I’m torn between wanting to comfort myself with her voice right away and waiting to talk to her in person. I’m not sure what she’ll think about my fight with Knolls, and I’m worried I’ve caused more harm than good. A text from her is waiting, easing some of the tightness in my chest.

Hannah:

I’m sorry! Are you okay?!

Me:

I don’t recall you being the one throwing the punches… I’m fine, don’t worry.

I’m going to Sully’s with the guys for a drink. Want to meet us?

Hannah:

No sports.

Can’t I’m at the Ada’s house.

Me:

Someone’s been drinking.

Hannah:

How do you know?

LOL fine, you caught me.

Me:

How about I pick you up on my way home? I don’t want you taking a rideshare alone when you’ve been drinking. Text me when you’re ready to leave, okay?

Hannah:

Okay.

When we get to Sully’s, Fox, Volk, and I, along with most of our teammates, grab some high-top tables at the back of the bar, giving us a little privacy. I pull my hat low over my head, trying not to be recognized, but it’s no use when I’m surrounded by loud hockey players who thrive on attention.

“Want to explain what the fuck that was?” Fox asks, wasting no time. With the larger group spread out at different tables, it’s just Fox, Volk, and me sitting at this one.

“Just Knolls being Knolls. I had enough of him talking shit about Hannah,” I explain.

“The chick you’re in love with?” Volk asks.

No one but Fox knows our full history. He only knows because, after a night of too much whiskey, I spilled my guts about my undying and unrequited feelings for my best friend. And in true Fox fashion, he’s never let me live it down.

“You told him?” I scowl at Fox, then turn back to Volk. “I’m not in love with her, dumbass.”

“Okay,” Fox draws out the two syllables.

“He didn’t. I saw the way you looked at her in the training room,” Volk explains, then takes a gulp of his beer.

“Yeah, and how was that?” I can’t help but ask.

“Like she hung the moon and raised the sun.”

“You’re not subtle,” Fox adds. “What’s your plan here? She’s living with you. You’ve clearly got it bad for her, and she seems equally into you, based on what I saw the other day.”

“I don’t know if she is, though. She’s hard to read. One minute, I think she maybe likes me too, like when she kissed me. Then, the next, she’s pulling away, like when she told me to forget it. She’s my best friend?—”

Fox interrupts me. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“Sorry.” I pat his shoulder. “The position was taken long before you came along. Like I was saying, she’s my best friend, so I have to tread carefully. She’s skittish. I’m trying to let her take the lead, but it’s easier said than done.” I pull out my phone and show them the picture I took of my do’s and don’ts list.

“Isn’t treading carefully what got you into this position? You waited so long that your college teammate swooped in.” Fox shakes his head.

I still remember the gut-wrenching moment I saw Knolls with Hannah at that party years ago. The second I spotted them together, I knew I’d made a huge mistake in trusting him. Like with most things that didn’t work out, I convinced myself it was for the best. She deserved more. Better than me.

Now that I know the full picture of their relationship, I’m kicking myself. There’s no way I’m making the same mistake twice.

“Either of you assholes planning to swoop in?” I raise a brow.

Volk scoffs. Fox shakes his head adamantly, then sips his Coke. The guy is the life of every party, but he never partakes in drugs or alcohol. I still don’t know the story behind that.

“Maybe you should take some notes from that show you guys watch? She must be into all that romantic shit if she watches You’re The One, ” Fox suggests.

“I don’t know if you should listen to the guy who doesn’t date,” Volk adds.

“I date… kind of. You have a better idea?”

Volk shrugs, a man of few words.

Is it the worst or best idea he’s ever heard? I’m not sure yet. She does love love and romance. And I can be romantic. Look at how many love notes I’ve already written to her. Does it count if she hasn’t read them?

“What if trying to add romance freaks her out more, like the kiss did?” I ask.

“You re-evaluate. Just like in hockey; you try a play, and if it doesn’t work, you adjust and try a different one,” Fox says.

Volk nods his agreement.

I consider it but don’t have enough time to reach a conclusion or come up with a new plan before Volk interrupts my thoughts, nodding toward the bar, “Knolls is here.”

Sure enough, Knolls is at the bar with a couple of Spurs players. His hand is wrapped around a woman, squeezing her ass as he whispers in her ear. A woman who is definitely not Rebecca. Not my circus, not my monkey.

I’m glad Hannah turned down my invitation. She doesn’t need to see this. If the post online upset her, I can only imagine how she’d feel seeing him move on in person… again.

“Let’s not break the glass, bud.” Fox flicks my hand, which is currently gripping the glass bottle so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I loosen my grip and take a swig of the bitter beer.

“Shouldn’t you be happy about this?” Volk asks.

“I don’t want Hannah to be upset,” I sidestep his question. Of course I’m happy they aren’t together, and judging by the look of him, there’s no chance of that changing. But her happiness matters more to me than anything else. Fuck, I want to punch him again.

Fox offers a reassuring back pat.

“Glad I’m immune to love. It sounds terrible. Let me get you another beer.” Volk stands and heads to the bar. I hadn’t even realized I’d drained the first one.

As my eyes follow Volk to the bar, I catch sight of Knolls again. This time, he’s already looking at me with that stupid smirk on his face. Not even a minute later, a woman sidles up beside me. Her Saints’ jersey has been chopped and rearranged to look more like a bra than a shirt. She snags Volk’s abandoned stool but moves it so close she’s practically sitting on my lap. The scent of vodka lingers on her breath, and a cloud of overly floral perfume surrounds her.

“Hi, I’m Madison.” She has no sense of personal boundaries as she leans into my space and runs her hand up my arm to my chest.

I catch her hand and remove it, pushing her stool away from me. “I’m not interested.”

“Come over here, sweetheart. You’re barking up the wrong tree, but I’m a tree you can climb,” Fox cajoles with a wink.

This may be the one time I appreciate his shamelessness. The girl tucks herself under the arm he offers her.

“Now that you’ve got your hands full, I’m going to head out. Tell Volk I said bye.” I bump fists with Fox. But before I can get up from my seat, a hand grabs my shoulder, and Knolls leans against the table. Great.

“What? You didn’t like my peace offering?” Knolls nods toward the woman under Fox’s arm, her hand rubbing… something, hopefully his thigh, under the table. When I don’t take the bait, he presses on, “How’s your eyebrow? Think you’ll end up with the Jason Momoa signature scar?”

Does he have any expression other than that stupid, all-knowing smirk? How was I ever friends with this clown? I can’t stop my eyes from rolling toward the ceiling. “Great. How’s your lip?” My voice drips with disdain.

“You better start playing nice, Logan,” he says with a cocky grin.

“Nah. It’s more fun this way.”

Knolls laughs, the sound low and mocking. “You might sing a different tune in a couple of weeks.”

I’m not sure what’s happening in a couple of weeks; we don’t play the Spurs again until mid-March. But I can guarantee my attitude won’t change by the time we meet again. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

Before Knolls can respond, Volk steps in, breaking the building tension with a hand on each of our shoulders. “Let’s keep it on the ice, yeah?”

Knolls shakes his head but walks back to his team at the bar, giving me the chance to finally make my escape.