Page 71 of Crossing the Top Line

“You look great,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her grin softens, but doesn’t fall. If anything, this expression makes her mismatched eyes shine like gems, a sapphire and aquamarine worthy of any king’s treasury. A cheer from the team pulls both of our attention and I follow in her wake back to our friends.

“And you even got a cake! Guys, this is seriously too much,” Markus groans, his put-upon tone undermined by his lopsided grin.

“It’s not a birthday without a cake, Dahly,” Tori says patronizingly.

Everyone laughs, and I get caught looking at her face again. God, she’s so beautiful, even more so when she smiles. I blink and take a long pull of my beer, looking away before I can lose myself in her. But once I step back, letting her fuss over candles and paper plates, my eyes drink their fill.

The tentative truce between us was more than I could have ever hoped for, and I’m so glad I took the risk. Our contact has been relatively limited, but I’ve been slowly getting to know Victoria Strauss more and more. I thought maybe it’d be easier to accept her as simply a friend and coworker if I learned more about her. But it’s only made it that much harder. She’s so driven, and funny, and whip smart, and she cares so much about hockey. More than anyone I’ve ever met who doesn’t play or coach.

“You’re staring, BlackJack.”

Dallas’s voice from beside me makes me jump, and I whip to look up into his face. I expect condemnation, or warning, but there’s only a warm, knowing smile pulling at his face. Looking away, I hope against hope that he doesn’t notice the flush to the tips of my ears and nose.

“Y’all have history, don’t you?” he asks.

“How’d you guess?” I ask back, hiding my mouth behind the rim of my pint glass.

“Not hard to see if you know what to look for. I noticed it at the pre-season cookout, but I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, leaning against the high-top table between us.

I look at him, trying to get a read on his face. Maybe it’s the few beers I’ve had, but I can’t see much beyond genuine interest and curiosity. Possibly a touch of concern, but I can’t deduce who that might be for.

“And why are you saying something now?”

He shrugs, looking back to the group, his smile softening with fondness. “Because I guess it’s my job to address stuff like this, as team captain and your friend. If you’re thinking about doing anything, make sure you really want it,” he says, words becoming more and more serious as he speaks.

My brow furrows, but I don’t say anything. He looks back with a sigh, finishing off the last of his beer.

“The HR paperwork aside, you should really think about what it would mean to get involved with someone so close to the team. You’re under contract, so you aren’t going anywhere. And Tori’s earned her place, done her time in the trenches, and won’t give that up easily. If something were to go sour between y’all…”

He doesn’t need to finish that sentence, because I get the general idea. If I tried to seriously pursue Tori, and we ended badly again, it would be hard to compartmentalize that from our very real jobs within the Mystic organization. Hell, it took almost every ounce of willpower I possessed to not let our past affect my on-ice performance before we decided to start over. And if we can’t escape each other, it could poison the entire locker room, making people choose sides and just generally make things harder for everyone.

I look at her again, stomach clenching as I realize Oliver is right behind her, helping to serve slices of cake. But he’s closer than a mere acquaintance would be, and the hand on her lower back doesn’t seem all that friendly. The jealous monster in my chest opens one eye, but I contain my growl.

“Thanks, Tex. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, straightening to finish my beer and heading to the bar to get another.

Iusuallydon’tjointhe team for morning skate on game day, preferring to stay out of the way and not disrupt any routines, especially since the team has been on such a hot streak so far this season. But with this being the first game against the Wardens since the trade, Dee has mandated that as much content be squeezed from this trip as possible. We won’t be facing them again until literally the last game of the season, so we’ve got to milk this opportunity for all its worth.

Which is how I find myself sitting in the color commentator’s box between the benches, camera in hand and headphones on to listen to Eli’s running commentary once again.

“You’d think that the seafood would be good here, since the ocean is right there. But man, that salmon at the hotel was not great,” he says to Nathan Tremblay as they wait for their turn to practice the play Logan sketched out.

“Right? The chicken was so dry, too. Hopefully, catering will have something better for lunch,” Nathan replies before pushing off to join his linemates.

I don’t know if Eli can sense my glare, or if he just happens to glance my way, but he shoots me a bashful grin. I can’t use audio of him talking shit about the city in my edit, and he seems to be doing that a lot today. I can only assume he’s trying to show solidarity with Spencer’s distaste for San Francisco, not that the man in question is paying attention.

I’d never noticed before, but something comes over Spencer on game day. He’s pretty serious most days, but there’s an entirely different pull to his frown today. His eyes are focused on the puck, following it even when he’s not the one doing the drills. He doesn’t engage in small talk with basically anyone, only responding to direct questions with as few words as possible.

Logan whistles, and Spencer takes off with his linemates, executing the drill quickly and perfectly, stopping by the offensive coach for some notes. I tune out of the conversation and glance around the practice rink we’re being allowed to use. There are the usual band of journalists and coaches in the first level seats across ice from my position, but movement farther up the stands pulls my attention.

I narrow my eyes, trying to make out any details of the group of people against the back wall, lounging casually in the shadows to avoid detection. It could be fans, but these practices are supposed to be closed to the public. I keep watching, trying and failing to discern anything that could identify them.

All too soon, practice wraps up, and I pull the mic off Eli before he heads to the locker room to shower and change. I consider calling Logan over to let him know that there could have been unauthorized observers watching his practice, but when I look back to the stands, the group is gone.

Something in my gut remains unsettled as I make my way to the lobby, pulling out my laptop to scan through the footage and audio for anything I can post quickly without much editing. I don’t know how long I’m sitting on the bench, but a hauntingly familiar laugh makes my head snap up and the blood drain from my face.

Five men are walking down the hall that leads to the weight room, and at their center is none other than Tristan King. He hasn’t changed much in the three months since he was traded, maybe slightly tanner than he’d been in New Orleans. But his straw-colored hair is just as curly, if slightly sweat damp, his acne-scarred face twisted into a harsh laugh. I want to look around to see if anyone else is nearby, or perhaps to find a quick exit to avoid this confrontation all together, but I don’t dare to take my eyes off him. Which means that, when he turns to look around, I’m staring directly into his eyes.

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