Page 75 of Forbidden Hockey
“Fucksake,” I mutter as we circle back for the face off. Dash’s wrist shot could put a hole in the net, but tonight, he’s got no steam, like all his hockey skills just fell out of him.
On the bench, he sits with his stick resting on his lap, gloves off, his thumb rubbing absent circles into the meat below his other thumb—the one he injured all those years ago escaping Robin—expression blank. I don’t have to wonder what he’s thinking about. Stacey, it’s Stacey. It’s gotten so bad thateven Maverick’s cheering Dash on. The other day in practice, Maverick called out, “Nice pass”. Dash said, “Thanks, Stace. Ah, er, Maverick.”
We all moved past his slip-up, but we heard it.
Dash blinks fast, jaw tight, then shoves his gloves back on, jumping up for his next shift before Coach even calls. Does he think skating harder will burn the ghost of Stacey out of his system?
I’m antsy, skating back onto the ice like a demon. Maverick’s in my periphery, coming up the wing, as I catch a solid pass from Dashie—finally—just after passing the blue line. Steel bites the ice with every stride as I surge past the last defender, nothing between me and the goalie?—
Except that same fucking defender’s stick blade.
It catches the side of my calf, and I’m sliding on my shoulder and thigh toward the net. But my stick’s still in front, and I sight the whip of black in my right periphery. Curving my stick back, the blade catches the puck, and I send it behind me. My still-flying body sails toward the boards, but I’m able to turn my head in time to see Maverick grab the puck and shoot … scores!
Our team collides. I scramble to my feet, barreling my body into them. This is what it’s all about for me. Hockey. Teamwork. Celebration.
We win by a goal,thatgoal.
As soon as we get to the locker room, I’m about to pull out my phone to find out if Trav watched the game, but Maverick knocks into me.
“Whoa, Boulder. Look at you. Don’t tell me that smile’s because of the game. You’d better be fucking whatever makes you that happy.”
Shit. My friends might be too self-involved to notice my Travis joy, but Maverick—shockingly—isn’t.
“What do you want, Elkington?”
“Relax. Just wanted to thank you for that pass.”
“I’m not giving you information on Bryce. I don’t have any.”
The vein in his forehead seems to beat harder, his dark hair falling over his right eye perfectly, despite the fact that it’s been trapped by a helmet for three brutal periods. God, Elkingtons really are blessed with pretty privilege.
“It’s cute that you think I need your information on my man, Boulder.”
He does if he thinks Bryce is his man. They are soooo not dating.
“You keep denying my offers of friendship. Let’s grab a bite. C’mon.”
This isn’t the first time he’s asked, which is weird because other than his invites and practice, he’s kept to himself. I’ve been turning him down. I don’t have the same hate for Rhett or his brother that some in our crew seem to have, but that doesn’t mean I trust them. Still, he’s been relentless, wanting to hang out. It’s a matter of when, not if. I should just get it over with.
I catch sight of Dash, wrapping a towel around his waist, that haunted look that’s been slowly darkening over the season. His spirit wilting like a daffodil in April.
“I’ve got plans,” I insist. “Some other time.”
He huffs, but he won’t stop eyeing me like he’s trying to extract all my secrets. He couldn’t know, could he? Nah. Even if he suspects me of having a secret boyfriend, he won’t think it’s Trav.
Chapter
Twelve
November
Trav
What do I do when my man’s across the country playing hockey? Pine. Yeah, me pining. Didn’t see that fucking coming. It’s unbecoming of a man of my growly nature. I’m in the bar, polishing glasses. I pay people to do this; I don’t need to be doing this, but I don’t have enough busy work at this time of year. We’re a month and a half into the official hockey season, five more weeks till the way-too-short Christmas break when he’ll be home for a few days.
We get three days, three fucking days. I’ll see Dash most of that time, and Dirk will see Hunter one of the days. They’re planning something called a “Very Meyer Christmas” which is their friend thing this year. But Dirk and I are gonna try to fit something in. We have to, it’s just tricky. He’s not working herethrough the season, and there’s no reason for him to be at the restaurant.
In any case, it’s November in Vancouver, so when the door opens, an ice-cold breeze blows in. This time, it carries an Elkington with it. He’s in a long black peacoat with the collar rolled up to shield his neck in lieu of a scarf. The sunglasses are a bit much, but I suppose that’s to hide his identity. What’s a guy like Elkington doing in my joint? Maxwell Elkington is the Mayor of Vancouver. He’s the highfalutin kind, not the sort to show his face here.
