Page 62 of Oh, Puck!
The crowd's a beautiful mix of blue and gold, scattered around butenough. It's not a full house by any means. Not even close. But it's more than half, and for a weekend game against a team nobody's heard of, that's a fuckingmiracle.
Mymiracle.
I take a sip of my cocktail, letting the tart lime and something sweet roll over my tongue. It's perfect. Cold and sharp and exactly what I needed after the week I've had.
The game's not bad either.
Down on the ice, the Bears are playing like they actually give a damn. They're checking hard, their passes crisp and purposeful, and every time they swarm the opposition's zone, the crowd rises with them.
Rose appears at my side, a fresh cocktail in each hand, her eyes wide with excitement. "I got us refills because I think we're going to need them. This is—" She gestures wildly at the ice where Travis Campbell accepts the puck from Sawyer near the Bears net. "This isinsane, right? This is not normal for them?"
"Not even a little bit." I accept the glass she offers, ice cold against my palm, the rim salted and perfect. "They're actually…hockeying."
"Hockeying," Darcy repeats, still not moving from the glass barrier holding her back. "Is that a technical term?"
"Yes. It's aJosietechnical term." I clink my glass against hers. "And it means they're doing well."
"You mean they're doing the thing they're PAID to do!" Rose crows, taking a giant gulp of her drink.
I laugh, a real one that bubbles up from somewhere I'd forgotten existed.
Ah…I remember this feeling.
Thisis what I used to love about sports.
The noise. The chaos. The way a whole room of strangers can become one single, beating heart for one night. The way we all hold our breath together and scream together and ride the same wave of hope and terror and pure, unfilteredjoy.
It reminds me of sitting with my dad in front of the old crackly TV in our basement. We'd sneak away with a bowl of popcorn, leaving mom and my sisters upstairs, probably braiding each others hair or something.
Both of us would sit close together, yelling at the screen like the players could hear us through the static. He'd wrap an armaround my shoulder and pull me close every time our team scored, and I'd glow. Fuckingglow.
He was the only one who ever got it.
Dad understood me. My passion.
He was the only one who didn't look at me like I was speaking a foreign language when I broke down a play or argued about a penalty call orcaredabout something that wasn't boys, or makeup.
"Josie!" Rose's voice cuts through the memory, pulling me back to the present. "They're going on a power play! THAT'S GOOD, RIGHT?"
"THAT'S VERY GOOD!" I shout back.
The arena lights dim slightly, the jumbotron flashing with the announcement, and the crowderupts. A wave of noise crashes over us, so loud I feel it in my chest, vibrating through my bones.
Declan Morrison steps onto the ice for the line change.
Andfuck me, he looks good.
The black helmet, the blue home jersey with the C stitched over his heart. He moves on his skates like he was born on them, all power and precision.
Darcy shrieks next to me. Rose grabs my arm, jumping up and down.
But my eyes are glued to him.
His power. His focus. The way his jersey strains across his shoulders as he drives forward, a streak of blue and gold against the white ice. My brain suddenly chooses this moment to remind me of his voice in my ear last night.
You were thinking about me? Tell me what you were thinking about.
A warm ache settles low and hot in my stomach, so I shift against the rail, trying to ease it, but it’s no use. Seeing him like this, with pure athletic power… it's doing things to me I cannot explain.
