Page 67 of Antidote

“Oh, shit.” I laugh. “He’s got no chance.”

“None.” He shrugs. “I want him, I’ll have him.”

I nod, even if I don’t want to admit it; Dylan is really attractive with his dark hair and blue eyes. He’s rugged. Nothing delicate about him. I bet James would be into that.

“Go for it, man.”

My coach taps my arm from behind, and I get on the ice. It’s three on three right now, and we are looking to score the overtime goal. Boston is playing great defense, and we just can’t fucking score on them anymore. I skate up to my team, and we’re laid out in a formation, passing to each other back and forth like we’re playing Tic-Tac-Toe. Boston doesn’t hesitate; they’re not even slightly shaken up by us, and Connor’s attempt to score is deflected by one of the defensemen’s sticks on the opposite team. Jacob slaps the puck on the rebound, just for it to be blocked by the goaltender. Just as we’re diving for the puck again, Boston clears it to our side of the rink.

The most magical thing happens as we’re dispersing to go after the puck. Instead of it being iced, Grayson rears back and gives us the most perfect wrist shot I’ve ever seen in my entire life, making it fly past everyone and toward Boston’s net. The goalie isn’t ready for him, and Grayson scores.

A fucking goalie goal.

Grayson scored a goalie goal.

Holy fucking shit.

Silence descends over us as people put two and two together, working to figure out what the hell just happened. But when they do, the crowd erupts in cheers. Boston is cheering for our goalie because even though they just lost, they also just witnessed history.

Skating faster, we reach Grayson and all take him into a group hug, shaking him and slapping at his helmet. “Holy fuck!” I yell. “You fucking badass!”

Grayson laughs, shaking his head but letting everyone praise him.

The rest of the team joins us, and I step back, looking for the coach. There’s a massive smile on his face for once, and it makes me happy for Grayson. He’s definitely getting the hat tonight for being the star of the show.

Skating back to the bench, the coach nods toward the stands, where I assume the scouts are. “Go get changed,” he tells me. “Then I’ll have someone come talk to you.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

Nerves dance in my stomach as I go to the locker room and change, trying to envision what my life would be like if I got drafted. It would be a dream come true. Seeing Ollie’s face when I give him the news, having him by my side when I sign, and him in the stands at my first rookie game…that’s what my dreams are made of.

Can I have it all? Can I have hockey and him, too?

I don’t fucking know.

Two hours later, I’m heading back to the hotel room, where Connor is waiting for me to discuss this. Coach sent three scouts to talk to me, and they all waited around patiently. It’s funny how they were my top three picks, and I’d be happy if any of them took a chance on me.

The Hurricanes are perfect since I already live here in Raleigh, and I’d have to make no changes. Ollie is here, our dad is here, our lives are here. But Boston and New York are huge for the art scene, and I’ve considered them just for him.

Tapping the key card to the reader, the door buzzes open. The room is quiet, and when I enter and search for Connor, I realize he’s not here yet. He must be downstairs or out with the guys celebrating the big win. The only other one talking to scouts tonight was Grayson—and rightfully so.

I sit on the bed and pull out my phone, my stomach squeezing in on itself when I realize I have no calls or messages from Ollie. I don’t know why I’m expecting him to call in the first place—we don’t do this. But we’re boyfriends now, so it stings a little bit.

Instead of playing it cool as I should, however, I end up dialing his number.

“Hello?” He answers after five rings. Just as I thought it was going to go to voicemail. “Hunt?”

“What are you up to?” I chew on my bottom lip nervously.

“Just home, about to go to bed.”

I sigh in relief but don’t know why I expected anything different. He’s never given me a reason to think he’d be out at this time of night. “I talked to scouts today,” I blurt out, seeing as I need to say it.

“Oh, yeah?” He’s suddenly excited. “That’s amazing! Who was it?”

I go into detail about it, telling him I hope it’s Boston or New York so he can dedicate his time to selling his art. He’s quiet for a moment.

“You’d do that for me?” he asks with a small voice. It stings that he’d doubt that, but then again, I remind myself I’ve been an asshole to him, and of course, he’d have doubts.

---