by Eden Finley
“Do you know how to do this, or will it be like the blind leading the blind?”
“First year playing for Providence, I took a hard fall and got a concussion. Each game, I snuck into the DJ booth to watch. I was supposed to stay away for at least two weeks, but something you need to know about me is I live and breathe hockey. The arena DJ let me play with the controls.”
I was also half-convinced at the time my career was over, so I might have been melodramatic in needing to learn a new skill. I won’t mention that aloud though.
“If you help me fake my way through my first game tomorrow, I’ll blow you.”
I try to cover my uncomfortableness with an easy smile. “There’s that being blunt thing again.”
Jet winks. “Don’t worry. I freak my brother’s teammates out with that too. Messing with straight guys is fun.”
The way he eyes me, I sense he’s testing me in some way, or maybe I’m being paranoid.
“Right. And you’re, like, a baby. Way too young for me.”
He cocks his head. “Interesting. I assumed you would’ve been more concerned that I had way too much penis for you …”
It’s my turn to break into laughter. “Your reputation precedes itself, JJ.”
“Ugh. You’ve been talking to my brother, haven’t you?”
“He might’ve called to thank me for getting you a job here.”
Matt warned me not to call Jet JJ, but Jet offered to blow me to fuck with me. I’d say we’re even.
“Do you know anything about DJing a hockey game?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly.
“Anything at all?”
“Well, I know this button”—he points to the red switch I flipped off—“turns on the mic to the arena.”
“Play transitions, motivating the home crowd with song choice, dissing the opposing team—”
“I have to pay attention to the game?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and the way he smirks, I get the feeling he’s still messing with me.
Today’s going to be a long day.
I try to drown out the noise of the crowd, but they can smell victory. All I can smell is sweat. Any hockey player who waxes poetic about the smell of the ice is lying his ass off. By the third period, the air is filled with the stench of pads soaked in perspiration.
As I take to the ice for a line change, my skates hit the ice with a satisfying thump before I take off at lightning speed.
We may all be exhausted and running on fumes, but this is my favorite part of the game. The fight to stay in this drives me.
We’re one up, and there’s a minute left on the clock.
But I know better than to start celebrating early, because everything can change in the blink of an eye.
As if thinking that jinxes the team, Logan—one of our D-men—takes a stupid penalty. Fucking idiot.
Toronto takes the power play as their opening, and flashbacks of practice have me on edge and cursing expletives that hockey players are known for.
The gasps of the crowd are ignored, and my only focus is on preventing the five Toronto players storming us from getting past the blue line.
That lasts about one point six seconds. I’m mowed down by a D-man, Kessler’s thrown against the boards, and I see our chance at the playoffs melt away faster than the ice under my blades.
The lamp lights up, and my heart leaps in two different directions—into my throat and to the pit of my stomach.
It’s all tied up now, and our time is running out.
The home fans protest while the Toronto players celebrate. The anger of the crowd falls into a void when Toronto gets the puck again.
Winning this is still an option, but we’re too busy trying not to lose this thing to come up with offensive strategies. We’re still one man down and overworking defense.
My teammates’ defeat is what the Dragons are known for. The team is utterly dejected, exhausted, and cracking under the pressure. I hate that it’s happening this late in the game. We had it.
I skate my damn legs off with nothing but determination on turning this around. While the others are trying to clear the puck out of our zone, I’m busy trying to get the puck back in our possession.
In my head, the interception happens flawlessly and in slow time. It’ll be on highlight reels for years to come with a heroic soundtrack behind it. In reality, it’s a messy dive for the puck, and I’m lucky I stay upright on my skates. But the important part is I pull it off.
Everyone in the arena gets to their feet, and the noise becomes deafening, but I can mostly tune it out.
I fly down the ice with Canada on my heels and cross the blue line.
The anticipation building in the crowd is palpable in my veins. This is what I live for.
But when I turn to pass the puck, Kessler and Martinez aren’t where they’re supposed to be. If Tommy was on the ice with me, it would’ve been a done deal. I have no choice but to take a shot on goal, and my heart deflates even more when it lands right into the goalie’s glove.
The period ends with a loud buzzer, and this shit is going into overtime.
I need a fucking drink. Or a blowjob.
Coach claps my back as we head down the chute into the locker room. “Good hustle.”
That’s all the words of inspiration we get. The rest of the break is filled with different renditions of “What the fuck happened out there?”
As bitter as I am and can’t stop thinking this wouldn’t have happened had I been playing for Boston, I need to stop thinking about my old team. This is my team now, and this is our fight.
“This isn’t the end,” I murmur more to myself than anyone else.
Kessler holds his glove out for a fist pump. “Let’s get out there and finish this thing.”
When we head back to the bench, my eyes catch on the giant screen. The camera’s focused on me, but I don’t recognize myself at first. All I see is a bloodthirsty hockey player.
It still surprises me sometimes that this is my life. Everything I’ve sacrificed, everything my family believes I’ve missed out on, comes down to this and the way this game gives me a high nothing else ever has.
With only five extra minutes to lock this down, both teams scramble to get one in the net. Kessler and I are eager for our turn, and as Coach calls for a line change, we both hit the ice and take charge.
Kessler, in an aggressive—but totally legal—move, strips Toronto of the puck and plows down any D-man who gets in his way as his skates propel him across the ice. I keep up, and for the first time since joining the team, I feel truly in sync with a teammate. Kessler’s footwork is mesmerizing, his puck handling skills are something to admire, and as we approach, Kessler dekes the goalie and sets up the perfect play for me to put one in the net.
It’s not lost on me that it’s usually the other way around. I’m used to being a playmaker, setting them up for my teammates to score, but tonight is my night, and this is my chance to prove myself to certain journalists that I have the talent to be here.
Kessler passes to me, I slap a wrist shot into the left back corner of the net, the puck sails past the goalie, the lamp lights up, and we take home the victory.
We just won the whole fucking game.
Chapter Six
LENNON
I spend most of the press conference ogling a triumphant and relaxed Ollie. I can only imagine the type of high he’s on right now after scoring the winning goal. His smile has the ability to break hearts and light up the goddamn room, and if I could, I’d write an entire article on how pretty he is when he’s not scowling.
Somehow, I don’t think Ollie or my editor would be okay with that.
I type out the game recap, send it off to my editor, and then make my way out of the stadium to meet Jet and head home. We’re almost the last ones to leave the building by the time I’ve finished.
“Everyone’s gone to a bar a few blocks away if you’re up for it,” he says.
&nb
sp; “Like … with the team?”
“Yeah. They’re in the playoffs. Everyone is going.”
I adjust my laptop bag on my shoulder. “You go on. I’ll catch a cab home.”
“Nuh-uh. I might’ve pretended to give you a choice right now, but it was an empty gesture. We’re going.”
“Why?” I’m not a joiner. Never have been. Might have something to do with never being asked to join when I was a kid. I got used to being on my own.
“Because it’s a bar full of meatheads. You need to be my gay buffer in case they try to suck me in with their hetero-ness.”
I sigh. “One drink.”
“Three.”
“Two?”
“Four.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t think you realize how this negotiating thing goes.”
“Okay, fine. We’ll stay for five drinks.” Jet holds my hand and drags me down the street, and my lazy feet stumble after him.
When Noah told me Jet was Matt’s little brother, I expected a mini, younger, broody Matt. Turns out, he’s an adorable twink with attention deficit disorder.
The sports bar is crammed to the max and smells like fried food, beer, and bad decisions. The bar area has a line as long as the entire NHL roster, and there’s barely room to move, but Jet holds my hand again and pulls me farther into the club.
The setup is not like a normal nightclub but not an average sports bar either.
Loud and happy cheers roar through the small space, and it’s all coming from the back where the team is. Half of them already have their ties either loosened or off, post-game suit jackets are hanging over chairs or on the floor, and they’re rowdier than your average sober man.
My gaze spots Ollie as soon as we get closer, and I can’t help wondering if it’s the win or the alcohol that’s lighting up his face like that. Or maybe it’s that he’s not looking at me.
While the suit he wears is no tux like the night of the benefit, he looks just as hot. Fuck it, he looks hot in everything, even the casual jeans and T-shirt he wore the first night I met him.
He’s still mad at you, I remind myself.
Ollie’s teammates surround him, handing him a fresh drink as soon as he’s finished with the one in his hand.
Before we can reach the players, we hit a wall of women hoping to vie for a hockey player’s attention. We can’t seem to get around them, so we stand awkwardly waiting for them to move.
Jet leans into me. “I feel like my eyes are too young to see this much skin. I’m impressionable, damn it.”
“If they were guys, you wouldn’t be complaining.”
“Fucking duh.”
We push our way through, still holding hands so we don’t lose each other, and we finally make it to where the rest of the Dragons’ staff and team are.
Ollie catches sight of me, and he immediately frowns. Then he glances at Jet’s and my hands together, and the glare deepens.
I use my free hand to give him a casual two-finger salute, and he cocks his head as if he can’t tell if I’m genuinely waving hello or mocking him. It’s hard for me to tell, so he has no hope.
Jet leads me in the opposite direction than Ollie, to two women sitting on couches along the back wall. I recognize one as the team’s PR and media person.
“Ava, right?” I say loudly and shake her hand when she offers it.
“Lennon Hawkins. Sporting Health Magazine,” she says.
“Impressive.”
“I read your articles about one of my players.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “I think my reputation is getting blown way out of proportion. Let me guess. That player would be Ollie Strömberg.”
“Ollie and Lennon have Taylor Swift levels of bad blood,” Jet says.
“What would you know about it?” I ask.
“Noah told me. And you’re both idiots.”
“Most men are,” the other woman says and introduces herself as Camille—the GM’s assistant. After we shake hands, I turn back to Jet.
“What do you mean, we’re both idiots? Ollie’s the one who’s mad at me because he can’t handle criticism.”
Before he can answer, a loud crash of glass hitting the floor sounds from the players’ table, and there are screams from some girls and laughter from the guys.
“You’re not going to report on all this, are you?” Ava gestures to the messy state the team is already in.
I throw my hands up in defeat. “Off the record. Promise. I’m only here because of my roommate.”
Jet raises his hand. “That would be me. He wanted to go home, but I convinced him to stay for at least five drinks.”
“Two.”
“Okay, seven.”
I’m learning really fast that negotiating with Jet is pointless. “Guess we better get started on them then.”
The burn of staring follows me to the line at the bar, and I know exactly where it’s coming from. Ollie’s gaze is locked on me, as if trying to kill me with the Force. I’m tempted to fake choke, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself when no one will understand what I’m doing. This crowd doesn’t seem like the Star Wars type.
A teammate gives him another drink, but he still doesn’t take his eyes off me even as he sips the dark liquid. The man of the hour, the hero of the night, doesn’t have to wait in line for drinks like us nerds.
He finally breaks our stare off when a girl in a short tank top and even shorter skirt approaches him. The smile that finds his face makes me hate her. He smiled like that at me only a few nights ago, before he knew who I was, and now I’ve never hated being Lennon Hawkins more. Which is saying something considering it sucked being me as a teenager.
Why does this guy get to me? Because he reminds me of all those asshole jocks who I couldn’t help but want in high school and college? Because for a split second, I thought I had a chance?
He puts his arm around the puck bunny, and her face glows as if she won the freaking lottery.
Wrong tree, precious.
The girl on Ollie’s arm steps even closer to him, and I grit my teeth. Someone pushes me from behind, and I realize there’s a gap at the bar in front of me.
I mindlessly order two glasses of scotch and make my way back to Jet. Ava and Camille excuse themselves to go to the bathroom, and Jet stares at me with young, hopeful eyes as he reaches for the second drink.
“Shit … how old are you again?” I ask.
“Twenty-one.”
I eye him warily.
“Ish.”
I hesitate but relent. “Don’t tell your brother. Matt could snap me in half with one hand.”
“I’m a grown-up.”
“You know who never has to point out they’re an adult? Actual adults.”
Jet playfully shoves me, and I laugh, but it dies when my eyes meet Ollie’s across the room.
Geez, there he goes glaring at me again.
“Okay, seriously, what happened between you two? It can’t only be some articles,” Jet says. “You won’t stop staring at each other.”
“I think he’s trying to kill me with his mind.”
“I’ll tell him telepathic assassin is off the list of possible careers for him if the hockey thing doesn’t work out.”
“Did he say something about hockey not working out?” I ask, taken aback.
Jet pinches my arm. “Put Reporter Lennon away and be Friend Lennon.”
“I’m not his friend. Clearly. But I was curious because he has talent most people would kill for. I know my articles got to him, but if he let me explain it to him instead of trying to jump down my throat—”
Jet looks down at his drink. “I Googled last night after Noah told me the story. Read your article. The first one. You want the honest truth?” When he meets my eyes again, I get the feeling I’m about to walk into a trap.
That doesn’t stop me from defending myself. “I said he needed to get out from under Tommy, and look at tonight—he killed it.”
“You also referred t
o Tommy as a star and implied that Ollie was only good because of him. And I’ve heard talk around the arena. They say Ollie’s not the same on the ice without Tommy, so he’s getting it from the media and his teammates. Tonight was either a fluke or he’s finally gotten over the doubt.” Jet leans in closer. “The doubt that started with your article.”
I hang my head. “That wasn’t my intention. At all.” I wanted his star to shine brighter.
“I could see you two being friends if you could manage to get along.”
“How do you even know him?”
“He got me the job at the arena and helped me cover up the whole not knowing how to DJ thing. Apart from my bandmates, I haven’t met many people since moving to New York, but you can’t be my friends if you don’t get along. I refuse to be in the middle of two guys unless it’s in the fun way. Ooh, damn, a blond sandwich with you and Ollie would be hot.”
I raise my eyebrow.
He ignores it and moves on. The ADD is strong with this one. “Okay, so this is what’s going to happen. Because I’m Ollie’s friend, I’m gonna go say hi and congratulate him on how awesome he was tonight. Are you going to grow some balls and come with me or hide over here like a child too scared about monsters in his closet?”
“Your mouth’s going to get you into trouble one day.”
“I’m betting on it.”
The closer we step toward Ollie, the less composed he appears. His eyes are glassy, he sways a little, and as he finishes off a drink, another teammate replaces it with a new one.
Jet and I have only been here for fifteen minutes, max, and in that time, I’ve seen Ollie take two new drinks from someone like he’s on some sort of mission.
When we get close, Ollie steps around his puck bunny friend. “Hey, Jude.”
Great. Let’s start with The Beatles jokes. “Original,” I murmur.
“Let me guess what tomorrow’s headline’s gonna be.” His words are slightly slurred, but not too bad, and his Boston accent is a little thicker. “Big Idiot Goofball Falls on His Pretty Face and Should Be Traded Again Because He Sucks and is a Hack But He Managed to Pull One Out His Ass in the End.”