18. Axl

eighteen

Axl

The kebobs were worth all the hype. I stayed at Sophie’s house for hours after lunch, doing nothing more than sitting around her living room, snuggling on her couch, telling jokes with Sam, and listening to Shawn tell more of his small-town whoppers. I can’t tell if those stories are real or not, but ever since last night, I've been considering being a little more cautious when I cut through the arena parking lot.

I arrive at pregame warmups on time, which is late for me. It leaves me unsettled, but I shake it off and change. Now, I’m laced up and standing in the tunnel with the guys, waiting for our cue to go out for warmups.

Holding my extra jersey, I adjust it, rolling it over in my hands. I’ve never even let another woman touch one of my jerseys before. I know it’s early, but I won’t be able to stand looking at Sophie sitting out there without my brand. My mind keeps replaying the day, and if I close my eyes and inhale, I can still smell her, honey with spicy undertones that didn’t take me long to become obsessively addicted to.

I just want to be near her, and if I can’t, she’s going to be wearing my number. The music starts, and we skate out. The crowd is thunderous like never before. I scan the arena. Every seat is filled, and the fans are on their feet. My gaze is calculated as I peruse the owner’s box for Sophie.

She’s not there.

I sweep the arena, frantically seeking her, and my smile returns when it lands on her sitting by the player’s bench.

Right where she belongs now.

I skate over to her, my heart ticking hard against my rib cage, as I wait for her eyes to lock on me. When they do, my heart nearly misses a beat. I reach my jersey over the Plexiglass while holding my breath. I know she’s not a huge hockey fan, but I hope she understands the gesture. I considered waiting to give it to her in private, but there’s nothing private about this relationship, and I want the whole world to know she’s mine.

Her gaze wavers from the jersey to my eyes while her perfectly pouty lips slide into a brilliant smile, and she stands, taking it from me. The crowd screams a high-pitched swoony squeal, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my toes curl when she slipped the jersey over her head.

Man, she looks good in a jersey.

I’m not one to fall for this romantic stuff, but everything about Sophie makes this natural.

She’s mine.

The female squeals in the crowd become unhinged. I drown them out because there’s only one voice I need to tune in to. Besides, it’s time to skate.

Hockey is always fast, but tonight’s game is sloppily speedy. I start off missing an easy pass, giving the puck to the other team. They score a goal in the first three minutes. Boos ripple along the wall from all the home fans supporting us.

I heave a violent breath and steal a glance at Sophie. She’s sitting on the edge of her seat, dialed in, wearing my slip up in the cringe on her face. It’s been a long time since I had someone special watch me play.

Sure, my family catches the games when they’re televised, but with the distance they rarely make it to an arena. They work, and I have bills. I promised myself that when I make it big in the NHL, I’m flying my parents out to every game. Until then having Sophie here fills a piece of that support I’ve been missing, fueling me to try harder.

It is only one missed pass.

I’ll make it up.

Just as those thoughts cross my mind, the puck flies right by me, and the opposing defenseman snatches it up.

My jaw drops, and I crouch and speed up, racing to catch him. I lost my focus for a mere second but it’s too late. The puck is en route, flying toward our goalie. I start pleading in my head.

Stop it!

Stop it!

Stop it!

And it’s in!

Louder boos thicken the air, and I give the hardest eye roll ever.

This can’t be happening.

Two goals in five minutes.

It doesn’t get any better. We are down three by intermission—all my fault—and I’m so mad I can hardly speak when we break. Coach Carlson’s hardened gaze gives me a once over, but I bite back any harsh words. I only have myself to blame tonight. I didn’t get here when I needed to, and my mind wasn’t clear.

The second period is a true blood bath, as I vow to take the lead. I should be scoring goals, not giving them away. When I miss another shot again, the puck rattles around the boards and right into their possession. I muster every ounce of speed I have to catch him. I fly in front of him and start to skate backwards, jabbing at the puck with my stick. We continue to battle for the puck around the back end of our goal, and when I finally get my stick on the puck, it slides into the corner. As he skates over to resume control of the puck, I make a split decision and crosscheck him hard. There’s no way he’s taking another puck from me.

I already knew it was coming. The ref whistles the play dead, and I’m sent to the penalty box for two minutes.

Coach Carlson stands on the bench, arms crossed over his chest, his neutral expression fixed on me. When my time is up, I jump up, hungry to make up for my loss, but Coach calls me back to the bench.

I fight with every thread of dignity I have not to protest the call, and I skate over to take a seat on the bench.

For the rest of the game.

Hockey is always loud, but losses echo the heaviest.

When the final buzzer blares, my vision goes blurry, and the crowd’s protests wind hauntedly around my head, and I feel dizzy.

Dissociating.

The team skates off the ice, and I remain in my spot warming the bench, letting all the losing sounds settle.

Hockey is a team sport.

But the failure is mine.

I hang my head, not moving for what feels like an eternity.

I don’t even lift my head to say goodbye to Sophie.

The crowd thins.

Eventually they are all gone.

The TVs shut off.

The lights dim.

I hear a throat clear, and I lazily lift my eyes. Coach Carlson is standing next to me. I don’t have it in me to make eye contact. He slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Got a sec?”

Ice slicks my veins, as I know he’s going to come down hard on me.

This is where I’m normally a prick and run my mouth, but something’s changed in me. Even though I feel this loss so deep in my gut I want to hurl, I’m quiet.

Bill steals my attention as he rounds the corner, saunters out of the tunnel, and joins us. “What do you have to say?” Bill asks, not unfriendly.

“I got nothing.” I shrug exhaustively.

Bill lifts his hat, hovering it over his head while he scratches an itch on the top of his bald head with his other hand. “Something was different tonight. I’ve never seen you play like that.”

“I was sloppy,” I spit out, disgusted with myself. He doesn’t have to assess my game as I already know I sucked.

“I think . . .” He pauses while he passes a look to Coach and goes after that itch on his head again. “I think I pushed you too hard. I got your mind off hockey, and now you’re distracted by this whole fake-dating thing. The stunt with the jersey at the start of the game was too much. It made the crowd wild, and maybe that’s what the problem was.”

“That wasn’t a stunt—”

He ignores my defenses. “We knew we couldn’t keep this going forever, and the stands were packed, but that doesn’t do us any good if we start losing all our games. Now, we need to reign things back. We can leak a statement that says you two parted ways as friends—”

“I’m not doing that.” Fire pumps through my veins, and I burst to stand in front of Bill, looking down at him. “Nobody is going to release any statement about Sophie or me.”

“It was fine at first,” he tries to smooth things over, but rage is running through my brain. “It’s taken a turn we weren’t expecting. Having her at the game tonight was too much. We’re going to streamline the distractions, and she’s no longer allowed at the arena.”

“You can’t banish her from my games,” I growl. “She’s my girlfriend .”

Bill wags his head, his eyelids getting heavy. “She’s not your girlfriend. You forget this is all a setup.” He starts to reach out to pat my shoulder, as if I need calming down, but I sweep his arm away. He doesn’t understand that we’ve made a real connection and that everything’s changed.

It’s sort of funny, actually.

Our setup was all his idea, and I don’t have anything to hide. He’s the one person who knows the situation the best, and he’ll surely laugh off the ending as good news. “Yes, I know it started that way, but things changed. We got to know each other for real, and we are officially together now.”

“Axl.” He goes after that itch again. I hold my breath, wondering if I should recommend some Head & Shoulders . After a painfully long pause, where I don’t know what to say to convince him Sophie and I aren’t faking it, he pulls out his phone and flicks open an app.

Then he hands me his phone.

Photo up.

My breath rushes fast, pumping adrenaline to every tendon in my body. “How did you get this photo?” I snatch the phone from him. “Are you spying on me?”

“I was.” He nods matter-of-factly. “Look, after the reports came out that you two were faking it, I panicked. I knew this would not work unless we got you to loosen up in public. I don’t know how to say this, but I knew you were the problem, being so stiff. I paid Sophie to kiss you. I thought if only she knew it was going to happen, it would look more natural, and I could leak the photo. We planned the whole thing, and I was waiting in the bushes to get proof.”

“What?” I screech, my voice echoing off the walls. I suck in so much air, my nostrils flare. “You’re lying.”

“How would I have this photo if I was?” He shrugs, snatching his phone back and stuffing it into his pocket. “I’m no idiot. I see the way you look at her, and you’re falling for her. Last night we took it too far. I’m sorry.” He pats my shoulder. “I was hoping she’d say something, but it seems like she’s keeping this charade going. I couldn’t stand back and let your heart get broken . . . ” His words drop off, and he turns to Coach. They exchange a quiet expression and walk away, leaving me to digest this.

I don’t believe it.

But he has the proof on his phone.

This is absurd.

An agonizing laugh slips from my throat, even though I don’t find a thing about this funny.

I’m a fool.