Page 112 of On Ice

I clear my throat. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me because you want me, not because you’re afraid of me.”

He sighs. “I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m only afraid of losing you. Losing this. Whateverthisis.”

I can’t help smiling, then wince because smiling hurts. In fact, my entire body aches from head to toe. Every inch of me throbs with pain. This has been a horrendously awful day. But despite that, it’s turning out pretty well. Sure, I almost croaked today, but that traumatic experience brought Evan and me closer together.

As Mama always says:Dal fango nascono i fiori.

From the mud, flowers are born.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Evan

After the night Luca almost died, things have changed between us. Since we were both willing to be vulnerable and admit we want to be together, some of the tension has left us. It’s nuts that I’m falling for a guy like Luca, but I can’t change how I feel. On the surface, we’re two very different people, but when we’re together, our personalities complement each other.

I won’t pretend being with me has softened Luca. He’s no pussycat. He’s still ruthless in business and it’s not unusual for him to come home with a spot of blood on his collar. I know he personally took care of Tommy and Maria. I also know, from the things he said, they didn’t die swiftly. There are parts of him that I find unnerving, but with me, he’s been warmer and more open. When he’s with me, I have his full attention, and it’s intoxicating.

While things are going well on the personal front, my career has had more ups and downs than I’d like. Since our loss against the Toronto Strikers, we’ve since played the New Jersey Storms, where we won, an away game against the Philadelphia Blizzards, where we lost, and a home game against the Detroit Vortex, which we won. While none of our losses have been as humiliating as the one we suffered against the Blizzards, the team is beginning to get a thing in our head about the away games. Those are the games we keep losing.

Tonight, for example, we’re playing an away game against the New York Guardians.

There’s less than two minutes left in the second period, and we’re down 2-1 in their building. Madison Square Garden is deafening, a sea of blue jerseys pulsing with each hit and scoring chance. I twist away from the boards, lungs burning as I battle for position against Thompson, the Guardians’ hulking defenseman.

“Riley. Here.”Jackson calls from the half-wall.

I dig the puck out from my skates and slide it his way, immediately pivoting to create space. Jackson receives it cleanly, head up, looking for an opening. Rodriguez cuts through the slot, dragging his defender with him, creating a seam.

The clock above center ice shows 1:37 remaining. We need this goal.

Jackson threads a pass to Mills, who’s pinched down from the blue line. Mills one-times it, but Vasquez, the Guardians’ goalie, flashes his glove. The save looks effortless, practiced. The crowd roars its approval.

“Fuck,” I mutter, circling back through the neutral zone as the Guardians transition.

Marchenko, their Russian superstar, gathers speed along the right wing, Torres angling to cut him off. But Marchenko has the advantage, his edges carving the ice with precision as he crosses our blue line.

“Layer up,” I shout, backchecking hard.

Torres forces Marchenko wide, but the Russian sauces a perfect pass to Lindsey streaking down the middle. Miller steps up to challenge, stick extended, but he’s a half-second slow. Lindsey dekes once, then snaps a wrist shot that rises over Noah’s blocker.

3-1 Guardians.

The goal horn is a dagger, the sound reverberating in my skull as the home crowd erupts. My stomach drops. Each loss puts our playoff hopes in more jeopardy, and we’re running out of runway.

“Reset,” I call to my line as we gather for the center ice faceoff. “Still time.”

But there isn’t much, just 1:14 on the clock. I win the draw back to Torres, who moves it quickly to Mills. We advance through the neutral zone, but the Guardians have tightened up, clogging passing lanes, forcing us to dump it in.

Jackson races to retrieve, absorbing a punishing hit from Thompson to make a play. The puck squirts to Rodriguez in the corner, who finds me with a backhand pass as I cut to the net.

For a moment, I see daylight between Vasquez’s pads. I fire low, but the goaltender drops into his butterfly, the puck deflecting harmlessly into the corner. Another opportunity evaporated.

The final minute ticks away with us scrambling for any advantage. With fifteen seconds left, Coach calls Noah to the bench for an extra attacker. We gain the zone one last time, Mills firing from the point through traffic. The puck pinballs between bodies, tantalizingly close to crossing the goal line before Vasquez covers it with five seconds remaining.

Faceoff to Vasquez’s right. One last chance.

I crouch over the dot, facing Lindsey, the villain from the Guardians’ last goal. The linesman hovers, puck in hand. I can feel the pressure of seventeen thousand fans willing me to lose this draw.

The puck drops. I tie up Lindsey’s stick, kicking the puck back to Reeves at the point. He fires immediately, the clapper redirected by Jackson in front, but Vasquez somehow tracks it, kicking out his right pad as the buzzer sounds.

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