Page 109 of Wicked Serve

“Oh yeah?”

“I know you don’t normally wear anything on your wrists during games, but I thought you might like it.”

She unwinds herself from me, reaching for a small bag on her desk. I shake the bag, making her smile, before pulling out a black leather bracelet.

“If you hate it, I can return it,” she says quickly. “Or if it’ll mess up your vibe, you don’t have to wear it. But there’s no metal, so it should be safe for you to wear while you play. If you want, I mean.”

I slip it onto my left wrist. “I love it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I turn my wrist around, admiring it. It’s understated but elegant, and above all, comfortable. “Thank you. I’ll wear it to the game.”

She puts her hands over her face, peeking through her fingers. “I hope I didn’t just give you bad luck.”

“Please,” I scoff. “You’re good luck, you know that.”

I back her against the bedroom door, hands playing with the hem of the jersey. She shivers as I skim my fingertips up her sides.

The next time I’m inside her, she’s going to be wearing this. I won’t have it any other way. I’d love to devour her now, but the anticipation will give me an edge during the game. It never hurts to play starved.

Doesn’t hurt to play with your girlfriend’s mark on you, either.

“You should get to the rink,” she says breathlessly.

“One more thing.” I reach into my back pocket, pulling out the flyer I grabbed from the community bulletin board outside Lark’s last weekend. I swear I can still feel the hangover that resulted from Cooper and I accidentally getting shit-faced on the most expensive vodka in the bar. Worth it to watch him curse out my dad in a creative string of expletives. “I thought maybe...”

She stares down at the flyer. “Nik.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“A high school volleyball club volunteer? Really?”

“The girls from the high school love whenever you come into the ice cream store. You’d be awesome at it. I thought this could be a way to keep volleyball going without worrying about spring league.”

“I’m not worrying about spring league,” she says, crumpling the flyer and tossing it onto her desk. “I’m worrying about the wedding, because I’d like your mother to hire me again this summer.”

“She will.”

“I don’t want her to give it to me because we’re dating.”

“It wouldn’t be that. You did really well last summer. She’ll want you back no matter what.”

“Still.” She sighs, frowning at the balled-up flyer. “I want my family to see it, too. Volleyball is just... it’s different, now.”

“Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I just did.”

“Really think about it.” I know she spoke with her parents about volleyball—which I’m glad about—and they reached their own understanding, but I’ve seen what she’s like when she plays. The end of the road isn’t here, even if she truly wants to shift her focus to her potential future career.

With each game I play, the closer I come to the end of my hockey career. I feel the weight of it whenever I skate onto the ice, especially now, with the end of the regular season in sight. We’ll make the playoffs for sure, but that doesn’t take away the pain. I don’t want Isabelle to lose volleyball a second earlier than necessary.

“Maybe,” she says, reaching around me to open her door. She shoves me into the hallway. “Go steal some pucks for me.”

In the seats, she’s all I see.

Like that first game, but so much better, because she’s mine. My jersey on her body, and my name that she’s cheering, although her brother gets a few shouts as well. I manage to put her out of my mind each shift, because I have a job to do, but when I’m on the bench—and okay, for the two minutes I spend in the box, I didn’t get away with that tripping call like I’d been hoping—I can’t help but stare. That’s what she gets for sitting front row at the blue line. She’s with the whole group: Penny, Victoria, Mickey’s date, Micah’s girlfriend, Evan’s boyfriend, the other partners of my teammates. After this win—even if we’re down by a goal right now, this is ending in a victory, I can feel it—we’re going to meet up at Lark’s.

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