Page 49 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“A few. Archer’s wife, Bree, is down there with the twins.” She points to a frazzled-looking woman wrangling two small children several rows ahead. “And that’s Logan’s sister—he gets her tickets sometimes. I think that redhead is dating one of the assistant coaches.”
I nod, absorbing this new world I’ve stumbled into.
The lights dim, and the crowd erupts. Music blares—something loud and aggressive with a thumping bass line—and the players take the ice for warmups. I scan the blue jerseys, looking for number 44.
Banks is impossible to miss. Even among a team of oversized athletes, he stands out. Taller than most. Broader. Moving with a controlled power that makes everyone else look almost graceful by comparison.
He’s wearing a helmet now, his face partially obscured, but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere.
“There’s your boy,” Tori says, nudging me.
“He’s not my—”
“Whatever.” She grins. “He looks good out there, right? All intense and murder-y?”
He does look good. Not that I’d admit it out loud. But there’s something mesmerizing about watching him move, the effortless glide of his skates, the way he handles the puck during drills.
The warmups end, and the players retreat to the locker room. The arena lights shift, the energy building toward the opening faceoff. I find myself leaning forward in my seat, caught up in the anticipation despite myself.
“Okay,” Tori says, sensing my confusion. “Quick primer. Three periods, twenty minutes each. They’re trying to get the puck in the other team’s net. That’s basically it.”
“What about all the… hitting?”
“Legal, mostly. It’s called checking. Banks does a lot of it.” She pauses. “He also does a lot of fighting, which is technically illegal but also kind of expected? It’s complicated.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Hockey is chaotic and violent and weirdly beautiful.” She squeezes my arm. “You’ll love it. Or, like I said, you’ll be traumatized. Either way, it’s an experience.”
The teams return to the ice, and the game begins.
The first period is… a lot.
The speed is the first thing that hits me. I’ve watched hockey on TV, but the screen doesn’t capture how fast everything moves. The players are a blur of motion, weaving and colliding and chasing the puck with single-minded intensity. The sound is overwhelming—skates carving ice, sticks clashing, bodies slamming into boards with bone-rattling thuds.
And the crowd. The crowd never stops. Cheering, groaning, chanting things I don’t understand. It’s like being inside a living, breathing organism made entirely of noise and emotion.
I try to follow the puck, but it’s almost impossible. It moves too fast, disappearing and reappearing like some kind of magic trick. I give up and focus on the players instead.
On Banks.
He’s not flashy like some of the guys, moving efficiently and making highlight-reel plays. He’s solid. Steady. A wall that opposing players crash against and crumble. I watch him check someone from the other team—perfectly timed, perfectly legal—and the guy goes flying.
The crowd roars. I wince.
“That’s your boyfriend,” Tori says proudly.
“He just destroyed that person.”
“That’s his job. Protect the net. Protect his teammates. Destroy anyone who gets in the way. Stop them from scoring.”
I think about the man who held my hand. Who gave me his jacket when I was cold.
That same man just sent a two-hundred-pound athlete spinning across the ice like a hockey puckhimself.
The first period ends with the score tied 1-1. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“See?” Tori says. “Not so scary.”
