Page 26 of Crossing the Top Line

“They’re always doing something crazy with the pre-game presentation. Last year’s was insane. I don’t know how they’re going to outdo it,” he goes on.

“I’ve seen a few clips, and it looks like it’s going to be awesome,” Oliver says, stepping up from behind me, ready to go.

Eli stands and Caleb joins us as we start to head toward the ice. I look at Oliver, equal parts confused and curious.

“How’d you manage that?” I ask, trying not to sound too accusatory.

He shrugs, taking his stick as it’s handed to him by one of the equipment managers. “Tori showed me,” he says simply, looking straight ahead.

I take my stick, staring at him and waiting for him to elaborate. But he walks away, heading toward the ice like he’d just made a comment about the weather. I can’t get more than two sentences out of Tori, and he’s getting her to show him unreleased footage? As we exit the tunnel, I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or impressed with Oliver.

I don’t get to think more about that subject once my skates hit the ice, as I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the setup that’s appeared overnight. When we’d left the game last night, everything was as it always was: bright overhead lights that make the crisp ice almost impossibly white, thick acrylic between the stands and the rink. Now, the lights are low, only a few emergency fixtures lit in the rafters overhead. Most of the illumination comes from several massive LED displays on one end of the ice and professional photographer arrays at the other. There are huge black backdrops where the goals usually sit, and I notice a small staircase leading up into the stands behind the penalty box. The Zamboni doors are open, and a few flashes of light from the darkness make me confident there are more sets out of sight.

But the biggest things I notice are the sheer number of people and the relaxed atmosphere. The music is louder out here, a playlist of pump-up pop and rock music that makes my heart beat a little faster with excitement. People are laughing, talking, and already seem to be having fun before anything has even started.

“Hey, boys! Are you ready?” a female voice chirps, pulling my attention to center ice.

I don’t recognize her, but judging by the number of cameras hanging off her, she must be one of the photographers. Her assistant waddles her way across the ice until she’s in front of me and my teammates, rattling off instructions about the different stations they’ve got set up. Not that I retain a word of it.

“Spencer, let’s get you at center ice, then we’ll rotate you to the right. Oliver, head down that way. Eli, up there. And Caleb, let’s get you down to there,” she finishes, pointing at the four different stations I’d noticed.

She moves off to intercept another group coming in behind us, and I look around to see the same slightly overwhelmed and bewildered expression I can feel on my face reflected at me. But none of us comment before we split up and try to follow instructions.

Center ice shots go off without much fuss, which helps relax me a little. A few posed shots, bent over like I’m taking a faceoff, standing in various positions, smiling, serious, fierce. The photographer must take a hundred or more pictures before I’m finally released and told to head toward the Zamboni doors. I’m coasting toward them as movement along the wall catches my attention. And I do a double take as I realize Tori’s crouched low, checking the settings on her camera. She’s got a few lights around her, and a long straightaway of clear ice in front of her.

She looks up, sensing my approach, and my heart sinks a little as I watch her expression harden. I clear my throat as I come to a gentle stop next to her, at least an arm’s length away so I’m not hovering directly over her head.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I greet, grateful my words come out casual through the flustered lump in my throat.

For a moment, Tori pauses, and I have to stop myself from reading too far into the little flinch my words elicit. As she gets to her feet, I can’t help myself, letting my eyes wander around her form. She looks good today, almost more comfortable than she was at the party. She’s not dressed up, wearing jeans and a team branded quarter-zip sweater, but she could throw on a tarp and I think she’d still be the most beautiful woman in the room. It’s hard to take in a lot of details in the low light, but I can still see the difference in color between her irises. But maybe it’s seeing her out here, in what might reasonably be called my natural habitat, with no signs of fear or discomfort. She’s not wearing skates, but she’s sure-footed and able to move without sliding around like a newborn deer. How did she learn this, I wonder. Can she skate? Who taught her?

“Fine. You should get to your next station,” she says, turning to fuss with her camera again.

I blink, her words pulling me out of my musing and leaving me not sure what to do with her response. I know I should listen, but I can’t make my feet move. It would be the respectful thing to do, but this is the longest she’s tolerated my presence. The alpha part of me purrs, relaxing just from being near, and I cave to the selfish impulse that rises in my gut.

“Is that not you? I was told to come over here,” I say innocently, doing my best to keep my face from giving me away.

She freezes for a moment before turning to look up at me slowly, and I can practically hear her teeth cracking from how hard she’s clenching her jaw. My heart pangs from her less-than-enthusiastic attitude, but I have to be able to push that aside. We work together, and I should show her that I’m willing to be friendly and not make things weird between us. She has no problem being friendly with the other guys in the locker room, my roommates included, so there has to be some way for us to find balance. We shouldn’t make our past a big deal, let bygones be bygones. I’m not that guy anymore, and this is the best way I can think of to show her that. She did say that actions speak louder than words. Hopefully, if I play it cool, don’t force her to talk, and use whatever moments I’m lucky enough to steal to be as friendly and open as I can, she might be willing to hear me out regarding the other stuff.

She lets out a slow breath before relaxing her shoulders and slapping what might be the fakest smile I’ve ever seen across her face. A small warning bell goes off in my head, but I don’t get time to examine it as she settles back into a crouch.

“I’m getting some snow shots. Head down there and skate toward me,” she instructs, no sign of tension in her voice as she motions toward the other end of the ice.

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, I skate away, giving myself enough room to gather momentum. I wait for her signal before pushing off, only needing a few strides before I’m flying. But I don’t let myself get lost in the speed, twisting around at the right moment and angling my skates to send a spray of super fine ice chips, or snow, up toward the camera.

“Good. Let me take a look and see…”

Tori trails off as she stands, looking down at the screen. I skate to her side, pressing close as I look over her shoulder. The shot is incredible, perfectly framed and dramatically lit, even taking advantage of the purple, green, and gold lights to our left to turn the snow colors without special effects.

“That’s amazing, Tori,” I breathe.

She jumps and whips around, eyes wide with surprise. She doesn’t move away, and I finally catch her scent in the cold air. Sugar and magnolias fill my nose and I smile despite myself, a genuine thing that makes my cheeks ache. Time seems to slow, the noise around us fading as I fall into the depths of her watery eyes. Without thinking, I reach up and brush some of the snow from her hair, the movement clumsy with my glove, but gentle. For a moment, something around her eyes softens, her nostrils flaring at the same moment her pupils widen ever so slightly. Her little exhales brush my cheeks like a warm summer breeze, and for an instant, I’m back there, in that nest, Tori beneath me and looking at me like I’d hung the moon.

But then she blinks, and all the warmth and softness disappear from her expression.

My heart flips painfully in my chest as she takes a full step back, head high and shoulders set. She puts the camera between us, the long lens like a spear, ready to impale me if I get too close again.

“Thank you. That’s all,” she says, words colder than the ice beneath our feet.

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