Skater

by Samantha Whiskey

  I scanned the area around the stage—yards of chain length fence to separate the festival from the crew ensuring it ran smoothly. Henry Jenkins among them.

  Shouting would be pointless with the band now playing, the speakers so close the vibrations rattled my brain. I tried a wave, but it was swallowed by the bodies fist-pumping the air around me.

  I chewed on the corner of my lip.

  All I needed was a few minutes with him—just long enough to learn about his inspiration for the festival, to ask the tough questions no one had the nerve to ask—like if his upbringing had anything to do with his desire to help heal the world. He’d been in and out of foster care as a child, though he rarely spoke on the subject. I knew if I could bring the two concepts together, I could create an uplifting article that would hopefully inspire others in the system to hope.

  The words were practically writing themselves in my mind as I hooked one foot in the fence, then the other, my hands gripping the railing as I tugged myself upward. A few more feet and I could throw my leg over, drop to the ground, flash my press pass, and beg an audience.

  The band switched to a new song, this one a fast-paced thriller that shook the entire crowd into a frenzy. Screams pierced the air right alongside the thumping bass and thrilling guitar, the lead singer’s sardonic voice busting out lyrics that everyone seemed to know.

  I kept moving, lifting my leg to throw over the top, thanking the rock gods for the lack of bouncer in this area. They were focused on center stage where the lead singer currently gyrated across it.

  Another swell of screams roared at the same time as the crowd rushed like a tidal wave toward the stage…toward me. Hands outstretched and bodies crushing against one another as they jumped up and down. I spared a glance, panic creeping up my spine as the crowd got closer and closer.

  Another singer had come on stage, shoulder to shoulder with the original. A cameo, a surprise guest to get the crowd to go wild.

  Mission accomplished.

  I gripped the railing that now shook from the pressure of bodies that had now suddenly crashed against it. The fence wobbled, jerking back and forth from the force. I lost my grip, and barely had enough time to gasp before I fell backward with nothing but the clear sky in my eyesight.

  My scream was swallowed by the music blaring around me.

  And I braced myself for the impact of crashing down to the ground far below.

  Thump!

  The air whooshed out of my lungs as a pair of arms caught me. Stopped me from breaking my spine on the ground.

  Once I caught my breath, I unpeeled my eyelids, ready to thank the person who had been kind enough for saving me.

  Instead, I found Connor’s dark eyes staring wide and disapproving at me as our noses almost touched. He cradled me against that strong chest—the same one I’d imagined beating my fists against too many times to count.

  His body was warm against mine, which shook from the adrenaline of the fall. I gripped the back of his neck, steadying myself as I found my breath, the air dripping with his scent.

  God, he smelled good.

  Felt good.

  Holding me tightly against him like he could do it all day and not break a sweat.

  Our faces were so close, I’d never noticed how strong of a jawline he had. The light stubble dusting it would tickle if I turned my head an inch to the left and—

  “What the hell are you doing, Ivy?”

  The tone was enough to shake me from my momentary slip down boy-crush lane. I wriggled in his embrace, and he sat me on my feet.

  “I’m working,” I snapped, adjusting my shirt. “Why did you follow me?”

  “I came to apologize—” he stopped short, shaking his head. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sneering at him. I spun around, stomping my foot as I watched Henry Jenkins climb into the back of a giant black SUV and drive off. “Damn it!” I raked my hands through my hair, taking in a huge breath, trying like hell to calm the adrenaline shaking my limbs. It wasn’t until a full minute had passed that I realized how close I’d come to being seriously injured.

  I slowly turned around, prepared to tell Connor I was sorry…

  But he had already disappeared into the crowd.

  “Aspiring reporter falls for a Shark?” Zach said in my ear, and I only partially jolted this time.

  “What?”

  “Our story headline.” He laughed, and I shook my head.

  “Not likely.”

  “Seriously, though, you okay?”

  I was only slightly shaken. “Yes,” I said.

  “I was too far away.” He pointed toward the edge of the fence on the other side. “Was trying to find a way in that didn’t involve climbing and falling to my death in a sea of people.”

  “Smart.” I kept searching the crowd for Connor. I wasn’t really sure why.

  To say sorry?

  To say thank you?

  To shake him and ask him how he could hate me one second and be kind to me the next?

  Infuriating. That’s what the man was.

  I took a deep breath, letting the music fill me until I found my focus again.

  Henry Jenkins may be gone, but the festival wouldn’t stop until well beyond sundown.

  And I wasn’t leaving until I found a story.

  Apologizing to Connor would simply have to wait.

  Maybe a lifetime if he didn’t stop treating me like an enemy.

  Chapter 5

  Connor

  Third period. Game five of the first round. We were on home ice and a penalty kill since Porter had another minute twenty left in the box for roughing.

  Not the guy from Calgary hadn’t deserved it for that shit move he’d pulled on Lukas. We were lucky the ref had only slapped him with a minor since Porter had only gotten one shot off before Gage interfered. Otherwise, we’d no doubt be dealing with a major penalty for fighting, and with the scoreboard showing us tied with four minutes left in the game, we couldn’t afford to be down the man, not if we wanted to shut the door on this series and move on to the next round.

  My body rocked on its own accord as I sat on the bench, sweat dripping down my neck, adrenaline flowing, anticipating the line change. I glanced back to where the doc ran concussion protocol on Lukas, making sure that cheap shot the refs had turned a blind eye to hadn’t rattled Lukas’s brain.

  “I’m fine,” he growled.

  “Sit your ass there and finish the exam!” Coach snapped.

  I gave Porter the nod through the glass, letting him know I wasn’t the least bit pissed about where we were.

  Sure, there was something to be said for keeping your temper in check, but a little bit of retribution was satisfying in a way that turning the other cheek never would be. Plus, Porter had sent a message: he may have been recently traded from our number one rival: Ontario, but he was here now and ready to bleed Shark blood.

  The crowd roared as Warren sent the puck sailing out of our zone and into Calgary’s. Coach called for a line change, and I was on the ice in seconds.

  I flew toward the Calgary forwards, noting that Gage did the same on the right. He was the one you wanted on the ice when seconds and experience mattered. I was the one needed when it was time to put it on the scoreboard, and it was time to get to work.

  The crowd counted down the last five seconds of Porter’s penalty as I knocked the puck loose from the Calgary player, sending it toward Gage.

  He crossed the blue line before Calgary hit him with a two on one and stole the puck, racing into our zone.

  Fucking penalty kills.

  “FULL STRENGTH!” the crowd yelled along with the announcer.

  Porter bolted from the penalty box and joined Noble on defense just as I reached the zone.

  Noble cut across the goal—the guy was a rookie, but he always had Eric’s back—to take on the opposing forward as I ripped right to shake the opposing defender currently riding my ass. Noble was the best offensive defe
nseman to come out of last year’s draft, and all he needed was a break—

  Which he got, as Porter checked the Calgary skater into the boards with a satisfying crunch.

  Within milliseconds, Noble had the puck, deftly evading the opposition as he brought it up dead center. As another white jersey came at him from the left, Noble shot the puck forward.

  It made contact with my stick.

  My world narrowed to the feel of the ice under my feet, the pressure of the puck against my stick, the sound of my own breath in my ears, and the two hulking defenders who knew just as well as I did that there were less than two minutes left on the clock.

  If I didn’t want to play a game six against these guys, now was the moment.

  The defensemen split, one coming up at me.

  Big mistake.

  I outskated him, leaving him struggling, and failing, to keep up as I faced the last defender.

  Mirsky. The giant Russian defenseman whose entire job was to shut me down. He came at me, and I moved away from the boards.

  Not today, asshole.

  We made impact on my terms, my momentum meeting his with greater force and speed. Mirsky spun, slamming into the boards. I felt the pressure of the puck on my stick and almost smiled.

  Damn, it was fun to be good.

  I assessed the goalie’s stance in the span of two heartbeats and watched for the one tell this guy had as I skated close enough to make out the flame design on his helmet.

  There.

  He lunged, assuming I’d go stick-side as my setup indicated.

  I hit him with a backhand instead, and the puck sailed through the small opening between his shoulder and the rail, hitting the net.

  The noise of the crowd broke through my concentration as the lamp lit, and I turned, meeting Gage’s open arms in the process.

  He tapped his meaty fist on my helmet.

  “Fuck yes!” he shouted over the noise.

  Joy ripped through me, clean and pure and I fist-bumped Noble, then Porter and Lindgren as I made my way back to the bench.

  This moment was why I loved hockey. It wasn’t the money—sure that didn’t hurt—but it was the moment I went up against the best of the best and proved that a broke ass kid who had paid his PeeWee hockey dues by sweeping up the rink at night could best them.

  One minute and seven seconds later, the buzzer sounded.

  I was mid-dogpile when it hit me, nearly knocking me to my knees.

  We were moving on to the next round in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We’d made it to the final eight.

  My field of vision cleared as my teammates dispersed, and my head swung toward the family section, needing to see Hannah’s reaction.

  I skated over quickly, and she hopped down the step that separated us, waving as she jumped up and down, the giant Bridgerton jersey nearly swallowing her whole. Her smile was big, bright, and so fucking contagious.

  My cheeks hurt from grinning so wide, and I pointed to her, tapping my chest, stick in hand, with my other. She mimicked the motion, somehow amplifying the joy I was sure couldn’t possibly grow in my heart.

  She threw a look over her shoulder, and Ivy appeared, wrapping her arms around Hannah just like I wanted to. She smiled over at me and mine slipped.

  She floored me. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, her hair woven into the same side-braid she’d done for Hannah. God, it wasn’t just her face, or that fuck-me-now body. It was the happiness she openly radiated as she squeezed Hannah, the way her eyes looked at me she saw me, not just another player—another Shark.

  She didn’t even like me, but still showed up for Hannah even a month after Jess had split. Ivy showed up for me.

  I didn’t even like her, but I wanted her. Shit, I needed her.

  And I prided myself on not needing anyone.

  The memory of her soft body cradled in my arms from when I caught her at the music festival rushed my mind in an instant. She’d been warm, fierce, and reckless enough to trigger every protective instinct I possessed.

  Our gazes held, and her grin slid to a small, somehow more intimate smile. Like we shared something secret, something untouchable, and I guess in a way, we did.

  I gave her the same motion I had Hannah, tapping my chest with my hand and then pointing to her. I was here because she’d stepped up. She’d shown up when I had practices, flown to our away games this week, and taken on Hannah as if she were her own.

  Holy shit. I might have just scored the winning goal, but it was Ivy with the assist.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and nodded at Lukas. It was time to line up.

  I gave my girls a nod and skated over to the rest of my team. Something itched in my chest as we went through the post-game line up, shaking hands with all of the Calgary players. I rolled my shoulders about halfway through the handshakes, wondering if my pads had slipped or something.

  The lineup finished as I realized it wasn’t an external itch but an internal one.

  We were almost to the locker room before I realized there wasn’t just one reason for the itch, but two.

  The first was logical. I’d thought my girls, like I had any claim to Ivy, or even wanted one. I didn’t. I couldn’t afford a distraction or a mistake like Ivy, and it didn’t matter if I was literally aching to get inside her. My dick wasn’t running this show.

  But if I didn’t want her, then why the hell did it bug me that she’d been wearing a Jackson jersey?

  “So now you get to move on?” Hannah asked as I tucked her in, still wearing my jersey.

  “Yep. We’re just waiting to hear who wins this weekend and we’ll know who we’re playing and what the schedule will be.” I brushed back a few of her curls and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now get some sleep, Banana. That was a lot of excitement for one day. You sure you want to sleep in the jersey? It can’t feel comfortable.”

  She shrugged. “It’s my ritual,” she said with all the solemnity a five-year old could offer.

  My eyebrows rose an inch. “What would you know about rituals?”

  “Ivy said that some players have supersituations. They don’t change socks, which is gross, or other weird things. She says it makes them feel like they have enough luck to win.”

  “Superstitions,” I corrected her with a little laugh. Between Hannah and Lukas, I felt like a dictionary. “And yeah, I guess some players do. So now you have a ritual?”

  Her nose scrunched. “Well, I didn’t until tonight.”

  “And it has to do with my jersey?” I prodded, curious to know why she hadn’t worn the cute, tailored jersey Ivy had custom made for her.

  She nodded. “Yep. I spilled my GoGurt on the jersey Ivy gave me,” she whispered, her lips pursing. “She wasn’t mad or anything, but I was. I told her we couldn’t leave for the game like that. It looked like Shanks on my jersey instead of Sharks because it was grape and really, really dark.”

  I held in my laughter and gave her a serious nod. “I see.”

  “So, I had yogurt all down me, and we were supposed to leave, and I couldn’t just show up wearing a mess, right? What would the other team kids think? And I know I’m not a team kid, but…” she sighed, and my heart cracked.

  “Are they mean to you? The other kids?” I wasn’t above kicking kindergarten ass for Hannah.

  “No,” she replied quickly. “They’re really nice. I just didn’t want to give them a reason to stop being nice.”

  I swallowed past the growing lump in my throat. I remembered that feeling all too well, trying to be perfect so no one would notice that my clothes weren’t always clean, that my mom never showed up to school stuff. Being extra helpful at whatever foster home we’d been dropped at so that I wouldn’t have to pack my shit—or Jessica’s, and leave for a new one.

  “You know I wouldn’t have cared, right? That I love you exactly as you are, even if you’re covered in GoGurt.” I gripped her little hand in mine, hoping she heard the truth of my words.

  “I know, Uncle Connor,”
she nodded and cracked a yawn so big I didn’t know how her jaw didn’t dislocate. “That’s exactly what Ivy said, that you wouldn’t care. You just wanted me there.”

  Thank you, Ivy.

  “She’s absolutely right.”

  “She also said I could wear her McPherson jersey, but I wanted yours.”

  “And that is why you’re my favorite niece,” I told her, glancing over my shoulder when the noise in the living room got even louder. Lukas must have shown up, after all.

  “I’m your only niece,” she reminded me with a smirk.

  “Fine, then you’re my favorite kid on the entire planet,” I retorted.

  “Even if I stole the jersey off the hanger in the study?” she asked, her mouth quirking to one side as she awaited my verdict.

  Holy shit, she’d taken my first game jersey. The one I’d had framed for preservation.

  I swallowed and blinked, keeping my smile plastered to my face.

  “Even then,” I responded. “Besides, it looks better on you, anyway.”

  Her grin was worth it. It stole into my chest and warmed me in that simple, pure way that only Hannah had.

  Jerseys, even ones that marked monumental events, were just cloth. Material. Hannah’s smile? Priceless.

  “So I can sleep in it?” she clarified.

  “Yep. Sleep in it. Spill yogurt on it, whatever. It’s yours, Hannah-Banana.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I’ll wear it to every game! It’s definitely ritual now.”

  I bent and kissed her on her forehead one more time before standing beside her bed. “Sounds like a plan. Just two things,” I told her as I checked to make sure her window was locked and pulled the mini-blinds so the streetlights wouldn’t bother her.

  “What?” she asked mid-yawn.

  “First, you have to agree to let me wash it at least once a week.”

  “Deal,” she agreed, snuggling deeper into her covers. “What else?” She closed her eyes.

  “You have to remember that the jersey is only lucky because you’re the one wearing it.” She didn’t agree because she was already asleep. God, I wished I could do that, just decide the day was over and shut my body down.