12. Izzy

CHAPTER 12

IZZY

I poked at my salad, underwhelmed. Of all the green vegetables, kale was the worst. It was bland, it was boring, and it left a bitter taste. And it was in everything from salads to smoothies. Even tacos today, soups and burritos, everywhere on the menu, there it was. Kale.

"Anyway," said Lola, "enough about me. I've been in such a love bubble, I haven't even asked?—"

Even at the Sweet Onion, I'd run into kale. They'd stuck it in the minestrone. Where had kale been ten years ago? When had every damn menu become a sonnet to kale? And why hadn't Spencer come to the concert?

"Keep going," said Cherie. "Your man sounds amazing, not like my ex. I asked him to stop off and grab some pea milk, and it was like I'd asked him to fly to the moon. And then he came home with this huge bag of peas."

"You've been quiet," said Lola, and glanced at my plate. "Something wrong with your salad?"

"Just tired," I said. "Been pulling some late ones."

"I know! When'd you leave last night? Oh, that reminds me—" She launched into another tall tale from romance land. I stared at my bland plate and tuned her out. She'd found the one for her, and yeah, that was great, but why hadn't Spencer wanted to come? I'd showed him those tickets and his eyes had glazed over, all blank and stunned like a deer in headlights. You'd have thought I'd asked him to help me scrape roadkill.

"I know ," said Cherie. "You know what you do? Say you love something about him and see how he takes it. If he kind of glows, he's ready for ‘I love you.'"

Maybe Spencer was stressed, with the stakes mounting up. The season was kicking into high gear, heading for the playoffs and the Stanley Cup. The Ice Bears had a shot this year, and it all hung on Spencer. Maybe he'd needed sleep, a night to himself. But if that was the problem, he could've just told me. He would have six weeks ago, before we hooked up.

"I don't know," said Lola. "It's soon for ‘I love you.' But maybe, I don't know, the way things are going…"

Had we fucked up our friendship? Put walls up between us? Things we couldn't be honest about, now we were… what were we? We'd said friends with benefits, but were we still friends? My stomach rolled over. We couldn't be not friends. Spencer was my oldest friend, apart from Leon, and Spencer and I had more in common. He was the one I went to when I needed to kvetch. The one I thought of when I heard a good joke. Got to tell this to Spencer. He'll laugh his ass off.

"Hello? Earth to Izzy?" Lola was waving her fork in my face. I blinked twice and snapped back to the present. She'd asked me a question. I'd heard it, but?—

"The pool," said Lola. "The Stanley Cup pool. Cherie was asking if you're betting on Spencer."

"Of course. He's my best friend. I'll always back Spencer."

"Your best friend. You're so lucky." Cherie's voice had gone dreamy. "Most hockey players, I'd take them or leave them. They're athletes, and that's hot, but they're kinda scruffy. A lot of them are hairy, or they're missing their teeth. Not Spencer Nash, though. He's got them all, right?"

"What, his teeth?" I laughed. "Not that I've counted, but yeah. He's got teeth."

"And you two are roommates. Have you ever been tempted?"

I nearly choked on my salad. "What, me and Spencer?"

"I would be," said Lola. "Not now , I mean. But if you'd asked me two months ago, I'd have been like, hell yeah."

I rolled my eyes, hoping I looked nonchalant. "I've known him since college. I've seen him throw up."

"Ew, c'mon, we're eating." Lola reached for her drink. "But, you know what I noticed?"

Cherie frowned. "What?"

"She isn't saying she hasn't been tempted."

"Which means she has." Cherie grinned. "Maybe even?—"

"O- kay ." I shoved my chair back and halfway stood up. "How much do I owe for this?"

"Aw, don't get mad. Come on, don't go." Lola grabbed for my sleeve, but I waved her away.

"I'm not mad, don't worry. I just have to get back."

I fled the café to a chorus of protests, but I wasn't kidding. I had to get back. I had work to my eyeballs, a thing with the douchebros. I'd promised to walk them through the LEED platinum guidelines, and how we could meet them and still stay on budget. The client would love us, and Stern would too. The Harbisons, even — and all thanks to me. And why hadn't Spencer come to that concert? He hadn't seemed busy that night, so why not?

Why not?

I texted Leon from the store on my way home from work: Getting snacks for the game. Want anything special?

He texted back SHIT! , and I stood frowning, pretzels in one hand, my phone in the other. Three more texts popped up in quick succession.

Not going to make it

Stuck at work

Idiot Steve lost his idiot dog so it's only me in charge of the kitchen

I texted back, You need to hire better people , but if Leon saw it, he didn't respond. I guessed he was busy, which totally sucked. I hadn't seen much of Leon since he met his new girl. He was always either out with her or hustling for work. I'd been looking forward to tonight with him, watching the game.

With Leon not coming, I was all good on snacks, so I paid for my pretzels and drove back to the house. It felt big and lonely with nobody home, no smells from the kitchen, no chatter, no life. I put on the TV for company and stretched out on the couch. A sports show came on and I turned it up.

I honestly, uh, at the start of this season — if you'd asked me if the Ice Bears had a shot at the playoffs, my answer to you would've been "what's an ice bear?" That's how much I thought of them. They were not on my radar.

But, Spencer Nash ? —

Yeah, he has talent. But the thing with Nash is, he isn't consistent. You've got your core players, your workhorse come-through types, the ones you can count on the same every night. Then you've got players like Nash — they have their moments, but when you look at career stats, that's where they fizzle.

But wouldn't you say this is more than a moment? This is a bona-fide hot streak, and it's all been on Spencer.

Well, all Spencer, I wouldn't say. It's never one player. But I'll admit ? —

"Oh, shut up." I muted the commentary and watched the outtakes, Spencer hitting a slapshot. Spencer yelling at the air. Spencer raging down the rink in a swirl of ice dust. Soon, it was time for the game to begin.

In a way, it was easier watching without Leon. I'd been self-conscious since his comments that one night, Uh-uh, there's something… You've got a thing for him, don't you? Without Leon looming, I could watch like I wanted, all of my focus squarely on Spencer. He was on his game tonight, the best I'd seen him. Peak power, technique second to none. Watching him left me breathless, the way he ruled the ice.

"Get 'em!" I screamed. Spencer lunged for the puck. He roared down the ice like a runaway Mack truck. Nothing could stop him. My insides felt floaty. Everything was all right with us. Everything was perfect. How could it not be, with him playing like this? I must have imagined the weirdness between us, that strange, gaping distance when I asked him to dinner. He must've been tired, was all, resting up for the game. Saving his energy for this sublime performance.

And he gets the puck, it's Spencer Nash. Parham comes in, Parham on defense, now it's Parham and Jimenez, they've got him, they— No! Nash breaks through. He's flying. He's, I tell you tonight, something about him, he's untouchable. He's— oh, Martin Blount comes in, he's going for the intercept. But Nash doesn't pass. What, what, he's, NO! He shoots straight through Blount's legs, and NO WAY, IT'S IN! HE SCORES! NASH SCORES! My God, Spencer Nash!

I was screaming right along with the hysterical announcer, losing my mind at Spencer's long-shot goal. He was audacious tonight, bolder than I'd ever seen him. Like he knew this was his night, and nothing could touch him.

My pretzels sat untouched in their bowl on the table, my beer beside them. I was caught in the deepest of fan superstitions — the kind where your team gets on a hot streak, and you can't change what you're doing or you might break the spell. The kind of superstition that births lucky shirts, or not washing your car all through the season. You know in your head there's no connection. The dirt on your car won't keep your team winning. But your heart says it will, so your car stays disgusting. And when your team does win?—

Spencer smashed in another goal.

I jumped up and screamed.

It was real for the two of us. He'd said it himself. I was his lucky charm and he was on fire , and I couldn't move from the edge of my seat. I couldn't take my eyes off him or reach for a pretzel. Couldn't go to the bathroom. Couldn't look at my phone. I couldn't do anything that wasn't cheering him on. Not that I wanted to.

"Go, go, go…"

He was brutal. Enthralling. A hockey machine. And, God , he was hot. He was sex in a can. His raw power, his drive, those steel-coiled thighs?—

And he is merciless! That's Spencer Nash! Their defense can't touch him. It's like he's got— oh! What's going on now? It's Jimenez, and he's flailing. I think someone bumped him. I think he's— OH! He slams into Nash, and ? —

I gasped so hard I choked on my own spit. Scrambled up coughing, grabbing for the remote. I don't know what I was thinking, that I could rewind? Somehow undo that terrible impact, Jimenez hitting Spencer. Spencer hitting the ice. Both of them sliding, and then it was Parham, windmilling wildly as they slid in his path.

I hollered, hoarse. "No!"

Parham dropped his stick. He flew into Spencer. Tripped over him and sprawled over Jimenez. It happened so fast, in the span of a second, but it felt like forever stretched on the ice. Spencer lay there forever, not moving, or was he? I couldn't see for the team crowding in.

"Move," I screamed. " Move it! "

I tried to see through the forest of legs, but how were there suddenly so many players? There had to be dozens, fifty, a hundred. Men swarming everywhere, over the ice.

"Come on, get up." I clenched my fists tight. "Please be okay, Spencer, please…"

A whistle blew, shrill. The players dispersed. All the breath shuddered out of me. Spencer wasn't moving. Red caught my eye — was that blood on the ice? Or, please, please, please, only a painted red line?

"You're okay," I whispered. "I'm here. You're okay."

Medics came hustling onto the ice. I tried to swallow, but my throat had clenched up. The announcer was breathless, narrating it all.

And Nash is down. It doesn't look like he's moving. I can't see ? —

"Shut up! " I groped for the remote and grabbed my phone instead. The screen lit up and I stared at it. Who could I call? There had to be someone, some way to help him. Something to do besides sit on my ass.

And it looks like— Yeah, they're removing him. Getting him on a stretcher. I'm hearing, it looks like a potential concussion. A terrible accident, just really ? —

I sprang up and ran out of there with no plan in mind. All I knew was Spencer, my Spencer was hurt.