3. Spencer

CHAPTER 3

SPENCER

M y body clock woke me before dawn's first light, Izzy's alarm clock blinking four fifty. She'd rolled away to claim the bed for herself, and I suppressed a snicker at how much space she took up. She was a tall woman, long-limbed and svelte, and in sleep she had sprawled herself out on her back, arms flung wide to greet the new day. She'd stretched one leg out as well and kicked me away, all the way to the edge of the bed. To add insult to injury, she'd stolen the covers.

I raised myself on one elbow, watching her face, but she didn't stir or open her eyes. She was beautiful sleeping, gentle. Her long, heavy lashes swept her smooth cheeks. Her hair, black as charcoal, spilled out around her, soft, lustrous curls tangled from sleep. I reached out to untangle them, then I pulled back. Last night had been… it had been… I had no words. Better than my fantasies. Better than reality? I pinched the back of my hand to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Izzy's nose wrinkled, and she sighed in her sleep.

Last night had been electric . But what did it mean? Izzy knew me too well to want me for real. Me and relationships — she knew me. She'd seen. She'd seen how I botched them. How I'd try for a while, but it never felt right, then it fell apart and that was that. Done. She wouldn't want that kind of pain for herself.

I nodded, though Izzy was still fast asleep. If she were awake, I knew what she'd say. Last night was amazing, but come on. We're roommates. We've got it good here — you, me, and Leon. Let's not throw a wrench in that over one crazy night.

I leaned in and kissed her on her forehead, half-hoping she would wake up, but she didn't. Her sweet mouth quirked up, halfway to a smile, and then it faded. I eased myself up. I'd left my clothes in the living room, so I grabbed a towel from her hamper and headed back for my own room with it slung around my hips. I bumbled down the dark hall and around the corner, and nearly crashed into Leon coming out of the john.

"Sorry," I croaked, meaning for all of it — my clothes on the floor, what I'd done with Izzy, the way he must've found out, coming home to our mess. To our sounds , maybe, if he'd come home last night. He frowned at me.

"Sorry? What are you sorry for?"

I hitched up my towel. "Uh… for, you know?—"

"I was hoping to catch you before I head to work. I tried to text you last night, but I don't know what happened. I just checked my phone, and it never delivered."

I stared at him, bleary. Did he not know? Wasn't he wondering where I'd just come from, rumpled, half-naked, and smelling of sex?

"I hope you didn't wait too long, last night at the bar."

"Uh, no, not really." I tried to skirt around him. Leon stepped back to block me, grinning like a fool.

"You're not going to believe this, but I think I met the One."

I blinked at him. "What?"

"Last night." He clapped his hand to his chest, a theatrical gesture. "I was on my way to meet you, and this woman came running. She was waving this fifty and yelling ‘wait, wait,' and then she tripped and her briefcase went flying. A taxi ran over it and her papers flew out, and she had this look on her face like she wanted to cry. But she got up instead and handed me that fifty, and she said it was mine. It fell out of my wallet."

I let out a whistle. "Damn. She's a keeper. Most folks you'd meet would hang onto that fifty."

Leon flapped his hand like that wasn't important. His expression had turned all soft and mushy. He looked like that stupid heart-eyes emoji. "She chased me two blocks, all the way from the coffee cart. The least I could do was help round up her papers. And she spilled her coffee as well, so I got her a new one. And somewhere in all of that… man, I think I'm in love."

I stifled a snort, not wanting to wake Izzy. "You met her last night, and now you're in love?"

"You don't get it. She's amazing. She's so smart, so funny, and her face, holy shit. Model-high cheekbones. You should see her. She's gorgeous. How often do you get that, smart, funny, and hot? And sweet and kind too. She's totally perfect."

"No one's perfect," I said.

"She is. Delores."

"Well, she has a weird name."

Leon punched at me. I punched him back. He shoved me into the bathroom. I shoved him into the wall.

"Seriously," I said. "She sounds awesome. Congrats."

"We're going out again tomorrow. We're getting ice cream." He rubbed his arm where I'd punched him and his lovestruck grin widened. He kept on talking, planning his date, but my mind was drifting. Tonight was a game night, which made today game day, which made me behind on my game day routine. I should've already been well into breakfast, four eggs, two tomatoes, two strips of bacon. Then stretching, a jog, a long, steamy shower. More stretching, then?—

"—so perfect. I know it sounds goony, love at first sight, but you'd know if you saw her. You can't not fall in love."

I clapped his shoulder like I hadn't been drifting. "That's great, man," I said. "I can't wait to meet her. But, listen, it's game day, and?—"

"Right, your routine."

"Sorry, man, really. We'll get back to this later."

Leon rolled his eyes and waved me away. I jogged to the living room to round up my clothes, then back to my bedroom to dress for my jog. When I swung by the kitchen I found my belt from last night, hanging out of the sink like a long, skinny tongue. I snatched it up, guilty, and stashed it in the bag drawer, and got to work preparing my breakfast.

I couldn't settle that night, heading onto the ice. Tension hung in the air like a lingering smell. An unpleasant taste, almost. Acid and copper. It came off my teammates in pungent waves. My limbs were all stiff with it, squaring up for the face-off, my head in a jumble, my feet blocks of lead. I could feel it already, the end of our season, this game, the next game, and we'd be out.

"I can't feel my fingers," said someone behind me. "These gloves are the worst. Hey, are these mine?"

I gripped my stick tighter, then tried to relax. Going into this stiff was inviting disaster — a crap game for sure, maybe an injury. If I couldn't focus, I'd be worse than useless.

"Dude, are these your gloves? Why did I?—"

I rolled my eyes back. Stared up at the ceiling. The hot lights glared down at me, harsh in my face. I blinked to clear my vision and squinted into the stands, and that's when I saw her — Izzy, up front. It wasn't weird that she'd come. She came to most home games. But when my eyes lit on her, something strange happened. My frustration drained out of me, and I caught myself smiling. My tense limbs went fluid. My feet felt light.

Last night, I thought. Last night, I'd felt powerful, on top of the world. Sure of myself, like I couldn't go wrong. My body knew what to do without my head's input, without second-guessing, without a doubt.

I lifted my hand without thinking.

In the stands, Izzy waved.

My heart skipped a beat. The ref skated up. Someone yelled out you suck , but I barely heard it. I was settling into my body, into my game, remembering something I'd near-on forgotten. Remembering it was a game I'd once played for fun. I closed my eyes for a second and pictured my street, the house I grew up in, the net on the tarmac. Me on my rollerblades with my flat tennis ball, my crappy old hockey stick with its plumber's-tape grip. I breathed deep and fancied I smelled warm asphalt, sweat and old hockey pads, the tang of cut grass.

"Fun," I said, and the puck dropped. I took control of it, and the game was on. It was on, and it was fun. How had I forgotten?

I flew down the ice and passed the puck to Enrique, but he choked and biffed it, and the other team got it. I steamed in like a freight train and slapped the puck back our way, but their center dove for it and coddled it up the ice. He shot and missed, caught the rebound, and shot again. The goal horn blared, and the first point was theirs.

I sheared off with a shout, but my blood was racing. Something had changed, and not just in me. The air felt charged, crackling, sharp with potential. We could turn this around still, despite our false start.

"Cover me," I yelled, not meaning quite that. I meant it more as a rallying cry to my team. More like I'm back, come on, let's play .

We faced off again, and I scored the next goal. The one after that went to the away team, then two more for us and two more for them. We wrapped our first period locked in a tie. Second period, I scored the first goal, then they scored, then we scored. Then in the last seconds, they scored again. The stands erupted in gales of outrage. I should've been anxious, riding the edge, but what I felt wasn't tension or frustration or worry. What I felt was excitement bursting out of my chest. We were heading into third period still tied, still struggling. The game was still anyone's, and I couldn't wait. I'd tasted something tonight, not victory yet — not victory, but something . The life of the game. I wanted more of it, all I could get. I didn't care, even, if we went down in flames. Win or lose, all I wanted was to stay in the game.

"What's up with you?" said Enrique, as we hit the ice.

I shrugged. "I'm just feeling it. Don't you feel that?"

He looked at me funny, but I thought maybe he did. He scored our next goal, then set up another, pinging the puck to me and I sliced it in. After that, it was our game. The ice was all ours. We skated like kings, scored three more goals, and the fans were deafening, up on their feet. They stamped and they roared fit to bring down the rafters, and then it was over, and?—

"Shit, man! We won!" Dan skated up to me and slapped me on my shoulder. I punched at him limply, but my arms had turned to jelly. My whole body had, now that the skirmish was done. I'd felt a high that last period I hadn't felt in a while, a needle-sharp focus that swallowed me whole. Now it was gone, I felt fuzzy and floaty, my head stuffed with pink puffs of cotton candy.

"Whatever you did tonight, whatever was different — you do that every time. You hear me? Do that. "

"Seriously, Spencer. Is that even you?" Someone knocked on my helmet. I didn't see who.

"You got a rabbit's foot? You got a whole rabbit?"

I turned in slow motion to scan the stands, but the spot I'd seen Izzy in was full of face-painted die-hards, pressed up to the barrier roaring their triumph. I wasn't the superstitious type, but what had I done different? What, besides me and Izzy, had changed since our last game? I'd looked up and seen her, and it had clicked — my training, my passion, my love for the game. If I had a good luck charm, Izzy was it. What I'd found in her arms. What I'd felt when she waved.

"Hey! Earth to Spencer!" Dan snapped his fingers. "You get hit in the head out there?"

I grunted. "No."

"Then, come on. Move your ass. The party is on ."

A cheer went up, but my heart wasn't in it. I scanned the stands one more time, but I couldn't find Izzy.

"You sure you're okay?" Enrique nudged me.

"I'm good," I said, and headed for the exit. Maybe it was just the comedown, but I did feel off-balance. Normally, I'd have been raring to hit the town. To toss back a few and bask in my win. But tonight, all I wanted was to catch up to Izzy. To tell her what I'd felt before that first puck dropped. These guys wouldn't get it, but she would. She'd know.

The two of us had shared something, and I couldn't name what, but whatever it was, it had brought back my game.