Page 168 of Ice Dance Hockey

“I have a friend over,” I tell him. That’ll get me some points.

“Friend?”

“Yeah. Kam. We met through hockey things.”

“Hockey things?”

“Yeah, hockey husbands and wives club. It’s hard to explain. We’re gonna watch the game.”

“Hockey husb—never mind. We’ll talk more about that later, but the game is what I’m calling you about. The Cap was able to get another call with Jack. We have reason to believe Rhett’ll be back on the ice tonight and?—”

“And there might be PDAs. Got it.” My gaze lands on Kam. He’s somehow managed to get me in a better headspace.

“Have you eaten?” Merc growls.

“Kam bullied me into eating a slice of pizza after the Rhett-o-nator I’d already eaten.”

“Kam did all that? We’re keeping Kam,” he says.

“You’ve never met him.”

“He got you to eat and even I can’t do that. Call me later, kid.”

Guess I’m still firmly on Merc watch, but y’know? I wouldn’t change it.

* * *

Rhett glides onto the ice, waving at his fans like the hockey God he is.

“And fans tonight welcome back our favorite centerman …” the announcer guy says.

His fans still love him even after a week-long mystery absence, and they’ve been fighting the hate comments like rabid Taylor Swift fans.

My heart skips a beat. I want his big gorilla arms wrapped around me so badly. His gaze scans the crowd. Is he looking for me? He must know I’ve lost my hockey boyfriend status, and no longer have my seat behind the team. I could buy a ticket myself, but none of us have tried that, yet. We don’t know what’ll happen. It’s a home game, so it’s nice to know he’s at least in the same city as I am.

“I’m here, baby,” I say out loud.

“Yeah, he is. And me too. We’re gonna crack this fucking code and get you away from your dad’s mafia,” Kam says to the TV.

Maybe I told him too much? Ah, fuck it. “Boo, Maxwell’s mafia!”

“Boooo!”

Jack’s less inconspicuous. It’s clear he’s looking for someone. Rhett catches his attention, saying something I can’t hear while beckoning him. Jack skates over. Rhett uses his fake Hollywood smile, and Jack nods. He pats the bench. But then the camera angle zooms out and all I can see is Jack taking a seat, but not their faces.

Fuck. Are they holding hands? Are they sharing water bottles? Kissing on the bench? These cameras focus too much on the game and not the drama that’s clearly happening between the players. I guess social media is where I’m going to have to go for that shit.

The game is, well, a hockey game. Gorillas skate around the ice like buffoons, chasing after a vulcanized piece of rubber, and smashing each other against the boards. It’s like watching live-action pinball. Jack gets the most ice time I’ve ever seen him get. Rhett gets the most penalties I’ve ever seen him get.

Has he even left the penalty box? All his pent-up anger is excised via his fists to jawbones and his body delivering bone-crushing blows to rival players.

But at least the cameras like to look at the penalty box, so I get to see him. He seethes with rage, while an anxious knee bounces. The penalty box isn’t the only thing caging him.

“Fuck, Linden,” Kam says, startling me out of my thoughts. “Now you’ll both be in the box.”

Linden climbs into the box with Rhett, and I’m jealous of Linden for half a second until I get an idea. “Can we trust Linden to get a burner phone to Rhett?”

“Heck yeah!”

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