Page 27 of Slap Shots & Sweethearts

I also send the link to the form to my friend chat and tell them what I put in for Lou. The laughing emojis I get in response make me pretty happy.

Lia: I put something in for Nate.

Charlotte: Hannah, put something in for your crush!

Maria: Or put something for yourself in there.

Me: I can't do that. The tech guys will know it's me.

Sofie: Scott says an incognito browser should be enough to disguise yourself.

The other ladies quickly chime in with their thoughts, and feeling the pressure, I pull up the form in an incognito browser. I’m debating on what to say when a text from my sister pops up on my phone with a question about what days I’ll specifically be in town to help with the baby shower. I text her the days and then mute my phone.

I can’t bear to spend the rest of the night thinking about Missy and her baby.

The happiness I feel for her is real, but it’s overshadowed by a sharp pang of jealousy. It’s a cruel, gnawing ache that settles in my chest every time I think about her perfect little family. I love my sister, but I can't deny the bitterness that creeps in. Ever since she got married, our texts have grown further and further apart. Each living our own lives on paths that only intersect on birthdays and holidays.

Yes, I have a career people would kill for. I have accolades and success, the kind of life that looks flawless from the outside. But every time I reach a milestone, I'm reminded I don't have anyone to really share it with. Lou always tells me I deserve it even when I don't. Mom asks if it'll get me closer to dating someone. Dad gives me a hug if we're in person, or a smiley face emoji if it's in the family chat. Missy likes my text and then talks about how her garden is coming along.

I want the family dream too, with all its chaos and beauty. I want to cradle a baby in my arms and go to PTA meetings when they're older. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, but it feels hollow without someone to share it with. Each milestone is a reminder of the dreams I've put on hold, and the sacrifices I've made. I want someone to come home to that will make the hard days worth it, and the good days better.

Instead, I have late nights and an apartment with plants that I forget to water more often than I should. Every time a plant dies I remind myself I'm not ready for motherhood.

As I put my phone down, I swallow the lump in my throat. It’s not Missy's fault, and I would never want her to feel anything less than the pure joy she deserves. But tonight, in the quiet of my apartment, I let myself mourn the life I long for, the one that seems to slip further away with each passing day.

Then when I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I want to dream and hope for my future, I turn on Say Yes to the Dress. One of the brides is trying on dresses that cost more than my annual salary. Another is having a destination wedding somewhere tropical and has a celebrity parent. As the show plays, my thoughts drift back to Matt and that almost kiss. I wonder if I'll ever get the chance to find out if he really was going to kiss me.

Chapter 9

Matt

I'm in a pink jersey tonight. A bubblegum pink one that my cousin Ivy is going to insist I wear the next time I visit the hospital. She's been texting me asking when I think I'll be able to come again. But I'm not supposed to be thinking about that when the puck is about to drop and I have a two-hundred-pound defenseman right in front of me with his head in the game.

"You know thirteen is cursed right?" the defenseman tells me, his own red and white jersey is sporting the number eighteen.

It's a line I've heard far too many times before. "It's always been my lucky number."

The puck drops, and Nate wins the face-off, snapping it back to Lou. Immediately I spring into action, racing down the ice with a single-minded focus on the opposing goal. Lou expertly maneuvers around his defenseman and passes the puck to me. I'm skating as fast as I can, the cold air biting at my face.

I barely have time to process the oncoming defenseman before I feel the hard impact of his shoulder as he pushes me into the boards. I grit my teeth and push back, trying to keep my balance as he shoves me into the glass. The boards rattle, and the crowd’s roar swells around us, but I stay focused on keeping the puck. I manage to shove him off, spinning away, and pass the puck back to Nate.

Nate takes a shot, but their goalie drops quickly, blocking it with his stick and sending the puck ricocheting into the corner. We chase after it, our skates carving into the ice, sending up ice shavings. The game becomes a blur of rapid movement and sharp turns, each team pushing to outpace the other.

The defenseman is relentless, sticking to me like glue. He's there every time the puck is sent my way, trying to slow me down, and I feel the frustration building in my chest. But I channel it into my game, digging deep for the energy to keep going. My legs burn, and my breath comes in bigger gasps, but I refuse to give an inch.

Lou intercepts a pass and sends the puck flying back toward their goal. I catch up with it, my heart pounding in my ears, and take a shot. The puck sails toward the net, but the goalie is there again, deflecting it with a swift catch in his glove. The crowd groans in disappointment, and I hear the jeers from the other team's fans.

"Ain't so lucky now are you Thirteen?" The defenseman taunts me as we set up again for a puck drop.

Back and forth we go, skating from one end of the rink to the other. Each rushing towards the goal is met with fierce resistance, each defensive play countered with equal intensity. The game is a gritty, physical battle, and every player on the ice feels the weight of it.

By the time the first buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the period, neither team has managed to score a goal. We skate back to the bench, sweat dripping down our faces, our bodies aching from the effort. I glance at the scoreboard, the zeroes staring back at me, and feel a mix of frustration and determination. The game is far from over, and I know we have to dig even deeper to break through their defense.

We head into the locker room while the Zamboni hits the ice and I pause just long enough to look around for a moment, hoping to catch a quick glimpse of a gorgeous, curvy, blond. But I don't see her. Instead, I see a popup on one of the screens around the arena reminding folks that they can send their favorite person a note signed their secret admirer. Which reminds me of the flowers Hannah got and I don't even want to think about those sad things.

What kind of man sends the worst bouquet of flowers to the woman he admires? If I were to send her flowers I'd make sure I knew her favorite flower, and that there were too many for her to hold. I'd make sure that her office was filled with them, and her home too. Every time she thought of the flower, or saw one, she'd smile, and think of me.

Thinking about it, I didn't see that bouquet in her apartment while I was there. Just regular houseplants. It shouldn't make me smile but it does that she didn't keep the flowers that creep without a backbone sent her.

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