Page 18 of Enticing the Enforcer
“Is that how you want it?” I ask, shoving him back, hard enough his helmet rattles. The puck squirts free, Emerson dives for it–but the ref’s whistle cuts through everything. The game, the guys, the crowd, screeching to a halt.
“Twenty-three! Roughing!”
My stick hits the ice in frustration. “Come on! He–”
“Box. Now.”
The refs don’t give a shit that we’re this close. This close to moving on.This closeto taking the whole goddamn thing.
I skate to the penalty box with my blood running hot, adrenaline still tearing through my chest. The crowd’s a blur of black, gold, and waving signs. Axel gives me a look from the crease–half ‘calm down,’ half ‘good hit.’
I don’t even dare look at Coach, although I can hear him. He’s pissed. Both at me and the ref. At the risk. I drop onto the hard bench, lean my stick against the wall, and tug my helmet up. My eyes drift toward the premium seats as a distraction.
Wait. What the hell?
There’s no mistaking Twyler, although I’m still not used to seeing her in the stands and not down with the players, icing muscles and wrapping sprains with our head trainer, Coach Green, by the bench. She’s not supposed to be here. Neither are Nadia,orShelby.
Yet there they are, crammed into prime seats, dressed out in Reid’s Wittmore designs. Twyler’s yelling something I can’t make out–probably cursing me to hell and back for taking the penalty. Nadia’s nervously shoving popcorn in her mouth, while Shelby leans close to her. On the far end another girl leans forward in a heavy black coat and black stocking cap that has a gold pompom on top.
Lavender hair spills out from underneath.
She’s angled like she doesn’t want anyone to see her face.
But I see her. Holy fuck, I see her. I drag my eyes back to the game, attempting to focus on the biggest moment of my life and not the woman in the stands.
Try, and fucking fail. She came to my game. She’s sitting there in the cold glow of the rink, pretending she’s just another fan. I can’t smile. Iwon’tsmile. Not when the scoreboard says we’re still in a fight and the ref’s still arguing with Coach from center ice.
But my pulse? Yeah, it just shifted gears.
This game was already worth winning.
Now?
This just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
7
Ingrid
That ringingin my ears isn’t from a night on stage being surrounded by thousands of fans. It’s because Wittmore wins and Twyler hasn’t stopped screaming since the final buzzer.
Her energy is infectious and I’m carried along with it and the rest of the crowd as we pour out of the arena, black and gold flooding the streets of Chicago. I’ve never been on this side of the pandemonium. It’s light. Wild.Freeing.
“Is this what it’s like after leaving one of my shows?” I ask Madison.
She gives me a look. “Times ten. Plus, glitter, fairy wings, andwaaaaymore girls.”
That tracks.
When I’d suggested we use the next break in the schedule to come to Chicago to see the playoffs with our new friends from the bar, Madison thought I was joking. Who decides to do something like that spur of the moment? Not Ingrid Flockton, at least not normally. I like a schedule. I like routine and predictability. Mostly because nothing in my life is ever routineor predictable–but none of that is my doing. That’s the life of a pop star.
But ever since I slipped out of that hotel room in Wittmore, I’ve been craving it more: spontaneity of my own making. It’s a rush.
Madison took care of the logistics: getting the girls to the airport and flying them in to meet us in Chicago. I’d been excited to see them: people who have nothing to do with my world, but seemingly have embraced me anyway.
Now, we’re outside the arena, waiting in back where the bus idles and waits for the team. The air sharp with the sting of winter and adrenaline. As the players emerge, I’m hit with unexpected nerves. Not just because they’re all massive, towering over family and friends like giants dressed in crisp button-downs and neatly pressed suits. No, my nerves are strictly personal.
What the hell am I doing here?
