Page 77 of Crossing the Top Line

My brow furrows, trying to sort through memories for any trace of him. I’m sure I would have noticed someone like him. Even back then, he was remarkably handsome. Thankfully, Spencer saves me the agony.

“You were the TA in my freshman comms lecture. With Professor Espinoza,” he says.

I sit back in my seat, mouth slightly agape, as I realize he’s right. It was the fall of my senior year, and Professor Espinoza, or just Angie to me, asked me to be her teaching assistant for a few of her classes. The freshman lecture had a hundred or more students, as it was a general education requirement. Part of the assistant position was holding study sessions before exams, and there were a handful of dedicated attendees, some who really needed the help, and others who I was pretty sure only came to try to get my number. But now that I’m thinking back, there was one student who didn’t fit in either category. Spencer’s grades were fine, and he never tried to approach me after our time was up. He just sat in the back of a borrowed classroom, taking notes and listening intently.

“I wanted to talk to you from the first day I saw you in class, but I saw how other guys acted, and how the worst offenders suddenly disappeared from the roster,” he starts.

I snort, a corner of my lip curling up. He’s not wrong. Angie didn’t tolerate that sort of behavior in her classroom, and anyone who tried to see me after class for “extra credit opportunities” was promptly removed, regardless of if there was room in another class that same semester. She was my academic advisor, and the first omega to teach me that my designation didn’t mean I wasn’t worthy of respect or an excuse to not be taken seriously.

“So I stayed silent, resigning myself to never making your acquaintance beyond TA and student. And once the hockey season started, I was told I needed to focus on my game and forget everything else if I wanted a chance at getting drafted,” Spencer goes on.

“Seems like it worked,” I interject sarcastically.

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, I guess it did. Still didn’t get you out of my head.”

There’s a pause then, and my heart does that fluttering thing again. This answers some of the lingering questions I’ve had over the years, but raises almost as many. If he felt this way the whole time, why didn’t he say something?

Maybe because you haven’t let him.

I sigh at my own internal thought, not able to deny it. But I’m listening now, and that has to count for something, right? But another question floats forward, one I put into words.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, turning to face him again.

He’s quiet for a moment, thoughts swirling in his eyes. “You asked me once why I signed up for the clinic and answered their request, even when I knew I’d be going to development camp. And I’m telling you it’s because I saw you go to the clinic one time and signed up, just on the slim chance that we’d be paired. The clinic tried to get me in with other omegas that year, but I always made some excuse before we made it into a nest. I’d almost given up hope by the end of the summer, and nearly pulled my name off the list. But then the call came, and you were there, and…”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. When he started down this line of questioning, I didn’t know where we’d end up, but it certainly wasn’t a confession of feelings stretching back to before we ever set foot in that clinic nest.

“I knew that I’d be cutting it close, but I couldn’t say no. And when my agent called me and told me to get on a plane that night, I tried to get a few more days, just to get you through so I could explain why I had to go. But my agent didn’t care. He’d told me to drop any distractions months before that, and made me believe that if I missed this, then I could kiss my NHL dreams goodbye,” Spencer goes on, like he can’t stop himself now that he’s started.

My eyes burn, blinking away tears. These are probably more excuses. He’s trying to justify what he did again. He’s been biding his time, getting on my good side, just to get me in a situation like this where I can’t get away so he can dump his guilt onto me.

“It was only once I got to San Fransico that I found out that I could have delayed my arrival, but I knew the damage was already done. Even if I went back, I knew you would have been paired with another alpha and wouldn’t need me. It took a few more years of bad advice for me to finally fire that agent and get one who actually gives a shit about my mental health as well as my on-ice performance.”

“That’s good,” I mumble automatically, still trying to absorb all of the things he’s thrown at me.

A sudden touch makes me jump, and I look down to find Spencer’s hand covering mine on the tabletop, his palm warm and gentle. He’s not trying to hold my hand, but rather stroking the back of my hand with his thumb in a slow, soothing motion.

“I don’t expect forgiveness for the hurt I’ve caused you, Victoria. But I’m going to do whatever it takes to make you see that I’m not the person I was back then. And if that means protecting you from the shit other guys say about you and your reputation, then that’s what I’ll do. I want to be someone you can trust to have your back, and I’ll punch every fucking face in this league if I have to,” he says, slow and deliberate.

I can’t look away from our hands, my stomach doing little flips at each light touch, my skin warming and goosebumps rising on my arms. I want to say something, but nothing feels big enough. But before I can gather my wits, the buzzer sounds, the game over. With one last gentle squeeze, Spencer gets to his feet before heading for the door to join the team in the locker room to celebrate the win.

NewOrleanshasgottenincredibly lucky so far this year, but our luck runs out at last the day the plane touches down at the airport. Every phone on the plane chimes at nearly the same time with the same message. The tropical depression everyone has been keeping half an eye on has been upgraded twice in the last twenty-four hours, and Hurricane Terry is on a confirmed collision course with Louisiana.

Not that you could tell by the behavior of the natives.

We’re over a week out, and the world keeps spinning, with no one who’s lived in New Orleans or the South in general showing any sign of worry. The store shelves are still full, the lawn flamingos are still standing vigil over their front lawns, and there’s not a single piece of plywood to be seen.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop people in every other part of the country from panicking. My department has been working overtime to keep the public up to date with the news, but messages flood my inbox from out-of-town fans trying to schedule their vacations, demanding information on refunds for games thatmightbe cancelled or rescheduled, wondering if the team is still going to travel to their game in Dallas, which is scheduled for the day Terry is predicted to make landfall. Andquelle surprise, none of them are satisfied with the boiler plate “you’ll know when we know” answer I have to give them.

The worst thing this hurricane has done so far is stop me from getting Oliver and Elijah alone to figure out what the hell is going on with us. Dee has ordered everyone to work from home so we don’t get caught away from shelter if things should take a sudden turn for the worse. And as much as I want to just text Oli to drive his ass over here after practice, my working hours are all out of whack, and I’m on call constantly. If the team makes any announcements, I have to be ready to spread that information as far as I can on social media.

And after three days, I’m about ready to shout at the darkening sky that Hurricane Terry can kiss my lily-white ass.

Instead, I’m stuck at my desk, trying to work while my neighbor installs my hurricane shutters over my windows. The pounding and drilling swiftly turns my headache to a migraine, and my jaw hurts from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. I’m trying to breathe through my frustration, but this entitled “fan” in my DMs is testing the limits of my already frayed nerves.

@BoyMomma66: When will I be receiving my refund?

@NOLAhockey: As I’ve stated above, please contact the New Orleans Mystic Fan Assistance line for any details about refunds for cancelled or rescheduled games as a result of Hurricane Terry.

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