Page 53 of Whirlwind
“I get more women than you do,” Letty argues. “Not as many as Pretty Boy, here. But more than you. That’s for damn sure.”
“Leave me out of it,” I say. “I’m not after numbers.”
“How did you find a lady friend already? You’ve been here for, like, five minutes?” Wallin asks.
“Landed across the street from her.”
“That’s some fate, right fucking there,” Wallin says.
“He moved across the street from Kit Kat,” Hugo says with a big frown.
“No shit?” Wallin asks.
“Lucky motherfucker,” Hugo mumbles.
“Ah, come on, big guy,” Cillian placates the goalie. “One day, you’ll be a bride.”
“Not likely,” he grumps. “I’m doomed to be a bridesmaid forever.”
“She’s here, by the way,” Zander offers, while looking at his cell phone. “Just got here with Willa and Damian.”
“Thanks,” I say. “She’s meeting my family for the first time and I’m not there to introduce her.”
“Is it fraying your nerves?” Zan asks.
“A little. I don’t want her nerves frayed, you know?”
“I get it. Willa’s good at smoothing things over, though.”
“Yeah, I’m happy they found each other,” I say, lacing up my skate. It hits me that everyone I care about is under this arena roof. My parents, sister, Kit, Isla, and Sadie. All the time Isla and I were acquainted, she didn’t come to watch me play. In fact, this is the first time since I went pro that a woman I am dating is going to watch me play. I don’t even know if I should label us with that. I mean, I’ve yet to really take her out. But what do I call her instead of the woman I’m dating? What we shared is much more intimate than any date I could take her on.
It’s too soon to call her a girlfriend, I think. Besides, I hate that moniker. It feels juvenile, and if I’m on that level of commitment with anyone, they’ll be more than a friend. They’ll be a partner.
“I am, too. They’re good for each other,” he says, staring at me. “You in your head about it?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“A little.” He shrugs. “I also know the signs well.”
“She makes me see things differently. I don’t want to fuck it up.”
“She’s your rose-colored glasses,” Hugo says.
“Such a romantic,” Wallin says.
“Fuck you, Axel.”
“It was a compliment, Hugo!”
We’re interrupted by Coach Cole, who lets us know it’s time to take the ice.
When I step out for the puck drop, I get that same sensation—that everything’s sharper, clearer, like the world is moving slower than I am. Anticipating the drop, my stick gets to it before Calgary’s center, and I pass it behind me with ease.
For the entirety of the first period, I play better than I have in the past couple of seasons. Instinctual more than thoughtful. None of Calgary’s players are known for telegraphing their moves, yet I’m reading them like I know their next thought.
It’s fucking bizarre. Scary, even—except that it’s working. We’re up two-nothing when we leave the ice for intermission. I’m riding the adrenaline as we hit the locker room. Usually, I’ll have a cup of coffee. I skip that tonight. I’m already amped. Instead, I grab some electrolytes and try to relax.
Wylder pulls up a tablet to check the first-period stats. He takes his role as team captain seriously, which makes him the right choice. He’s nothing but encouraging to the guys, even when he’s helping them fix whatever’s stifling their game.
