Page 2 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
“Absolutely.” I scramble up and pretend I don’t see the confusion flutter over his symmetrical features and don’t feel his gaze on me.
Look, I know that we’re in the 2020s. I know there’s nothing wrong, really, about the way I feel. I know it’s natural, at least for me. My eyes have always been drawn to men more than women. I haven’t dated a woman in years, back when I wondered whether maybe I hadn’t met the right one, that maybe I was more comfortable around men because I spent more time with them, that maybe my gaze lingered on men’s bodies out of an athletic urge to compare myself with other athletes.
But I know there’s no going back from the awkwardness of explaining that I like Evan...that way.
I don’t want to see pity in his perfect eyes, and I don’t want to hear stumbling vows that he doesn’t care, but of course he doesn’t return my feelings, and of course, he won’t tell anyone.
At least now we’re still strong on the ice. I’m not going to destabilize my career with the hope of the impossible. The man’s ex is a supermodel, after all. And not the skinny kind with no bosom and a constant glower, the latter to remind people to look at the clothes. Nope, Valentina graces the cover of a different magazine each month, flaunting her not insignificant cleavage, a fact I’m reminded of each time I pop into CVS or Walgreens.
I hurry past the other guys. I’m the first person in the tunnel. I wait for the others to join, relieved when it’s time to skate. Bright lights fill the arena, shielding me from the recesses of my mind and reminding me to remain in the present.
All that matters is the puck and how many times we can score.
Calmness ripples through me as I hurry into the cold rink. This is where I belong. The crowd is a sea of blue and white. Lights blaze from the high, expansive metal beams that crisscross the ceiling, and the DJ is playing an upbeat song.
The crowd explodes, exclaiming and clapping when Evan’s name is announced, just in case people don’t know that 37 means him.
Evan blows a kiss toward the puck bunny section, but I know it’s not aimed at the assortment of jersey-wearing sultry blondes and brunettes sporting impeccable makeup—which half of them applied on Instagram and TikTok for their own fans—and large glittering rocks, but at Stella who is wedged somewhere there.
I swallow away my desire to glance at Evan, his uniform even brighter under the strong lights. I know his smile has to be big now.
This is the part of the day I live for. These hours are what I trained and dreamed my whole life for. Skates scruff and scrape the ice, and sticks clack against the puck.
It’s a home game, and the crowd is happy, cheering and roaring and clapping.
Evan scores two goals quickly, and I have an assist.
Montreal is furious, skating fast and sloppy, happy to hammer us against the boards.
It’s not going to work.
We’re going to win. We can feel it in our hearts, a happy cloud that makes us seem to fly, so that I’m surprised each time it’s time for us to swap lines. I lean forward on the bench, craning my neck, eager to get on the ice again.
Then, finally we’re there. Bright lights gleam above, and the crowd cheers.
I get the puck and pass it to Finn, our right winger, who carries it into the offensive zone. His golden-brown curls fly, and his skates hiss, grinding the no longer freshly zambonied ice. Evan charges forward, and I’m close behind. My muscles tense. I’m so ready for this.
Suddenly one of the Montreal players, some rookie eager to impress puck bunnies, crashes into Evan.
I growl.
That so isn’t cool.
My new least favorite number is 89, and I’m ready to fight.
I wait for Evan to grunt and curse. I wait for him to show that over-eager defender that we’re Boston and nobody tosses us against the wall.
He doesn’t.
Instead, Evan slithers to the ice, and my stomach goes cold.
“Evan!” I race over to him.
The ref blows the whistle, stopping play, and the arena is silent.
I reach Evan first, my hands shaking. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
“I-I didn’t mean to—” the Montreal idiot stammers.
