Page 84 of Break The Ice

Chapter twenty

Ryann

I’ve missed this somuch. I’m sitting in the stands with my hair uncovered, no disguise. Kit’s got one of my hands, and Callan’s on the other side, pressed so close we’re touching thigh-to-thigh. The lights are bright; the stadium is packed, but the roar of the crowd is exhilarating.

Most of the crowd are wearing Python purple and are waving flags and other Python souvenirs.

But there is a crowd of green Demons, too. We’re not alone here. The chants in the crowds start before the game, and I get the shivers, listening to their joyous cheers.

I watch the Greene Demons storm onto the ice, sticks raised, and I scream wildly. They look amazing, and they’re going to win. I know they are.

They skate in circles on the ice and warm up. I obsessively watch Raider and Wren. The commentators yell things, but I ignore it all, content to bask in the feel of being here again. My uncle comes out and steps into the team’s bench.

Memories flash through my mind. He looks like his brother, my dad. This is what he would have looked like if he’d have lived.

My chest aches, and I rub the spot.

Kit clenches my hand tighter. He leans in and presses his lips to my ear. “Are you all right?”

I force a smile and nod. “Yes. I just miss my dad.”

Kit lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.

“Dad used to bring me to games. He and Uncle and I would come, and they’d laugh and joke and explain the game to me. Mum said it was far too aggressive, but I loved it.”

“Me, too! My dads come see Raider’s games when they can.”

“Dad said we had hockey in the blood. I know he was right.”

I’m so distracted by my memories that I almost miss the start of the game.

Wren steals the puck and zips across the ice. All the years spent hearing about his hockey talent has me staring in awe at the skills Wren has. I watch avidly as he takes a shot at goal and sends the puck gliding at bullet speed into the net! I jump up from my seat, screaming as loud as I can.

Raider slams into their forward, crushing him to the boards. I stand up to get a better view as he pushes off and chases after a Python’s player who steals the puck. It’s stolen by Waraski and sent back to Evans, but it quickly changes hands and comes back up again.

The line works like magic skating backwards. I can see how intent they are, and when the Python’s forward makes his move, I know he’s got no hope.

Raider goes back as Waraski goes forward. Their partnership is incredible to watch. They seem to have a special kind of communication and know exactly where to be. Waraski leads their forward into a critical error, and when he passes the puck, Raider jolts into action. Stealing it mid-pass and sending it back over the blueline to the waiting center, and that’s when Wren flies.

But my gaze goes back to Raider, who throws a punch at the Python’s forward. They grab each other’s sweaters and shove back and forth, exchanging blows.

It’s heated but over quickly. Raider is sent to the penalty box where he sits back and glowers at the ice.

The game continues. I’m riveted on the play. Hockey is and has always been home for me. I cheer until I’m hoarse. I feel more alive than I have in a long time. The smell of the ice, of the people. All at once it’s over, and we’ve won. I bounce up and down, and Callan laughs and swings me around.

I kiss him hard, pulling at his hair. When he breaks free, laughing, I spin back to the ice just in time to see the players glide out; they skate to Bruce and bump helmets with him until, finally, Ramirez hugs him.

Wren and Raider lift their sticks, and the others follow suit, skating in a circle. I duck out of our row of seats and dance down to the boards and bang on the perspex.

Raider spots me and grins. He skates over to me and puts his hand up. I put my hand on his, beaming at him.

Wren skids to a stop beside him, flicking ice in our direction.

“For you!” he shouts.

I put my free hand over my heart, but I can’t look away from them.

“Come on, let’s go meet them,” Kit says with a chuckle and takes my hand.

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