Chris nudges me. “That’s why I brought you here,” he says quietly. “The concrete walls, and steel beams make it an absolute dead zone, which means those idiots can’t get through to you.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say.
“You deserve a break from the noise, Honey. Even if it’s for just an hour.”
I clutch the phone in my hand, nodding slowly, because he's right. I do, but the knot in my stomach stays, twisted and stubborn, refusing to go away.
Clunk.
The rink gate slams open, and hockey players start gliding out.
“Do you need to get ready?” I ask as the players skate around the rink. A couple look up at us, and one points his stick in Chris’s direction.
“Probably. If you want to stay, you’re more than welcome. No one will bother you.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling a little embarrassed that I needed saving in the first place. Chris is right. I should be able to push back. I shouldn’t need Zach, or Jenni, or Chris to help me, but then why do I find it so hard?
He gives me a small smile before heading down the stairwell. I lean back, pull my knees up, and watch the players warm up. A few minutes later, Chris is on the ice with his full hockey gear on and his helmet dangling from one hand. He skates over to his brother Chase, and they exchange a few words before starting what looks like a practice drill, passing the puck between them and skating up and down the ice.
After a few more passes, Chris breaks away with the puck and hits it into the net. Then he turns toward the stands and gives me a small wave. I give him one back, noting one of the players nudging him in the side.
“You’re such a good girl,” I hear someone growl, and I look around in confusion.
“Aw, you know you have the best legs on the ice.”
It’s only when I see the goalie stroking the crossbar that I realize it’s him.
“They all laugh, but youknowwhat I’d do for you.”
He leans down and rests his helmet against the bar, and murmurs something I can’t quite catch. Judging from the way he’s stroking it, I know whatever he’s saying isnotfor me.
I watch as he tenderly strokes the… net.
My mouth opens, then closes again as he nods solemnly at the goal before he bumps his forehead against the post one more time.
“Jensen! Stop flirting with the goal,” one of his teammates yells, and the goalie—Jensen—flips around, his guard instantly up.
“No one’s going to touch you today, Vera.”
A laugh escapes me, because somehow, this slightly eccentric goalie fits the vibes of this sport. In a way it doesn’t feel as serious as football.
Where football is fireworks and cheerleaders, this is messy, and raw… and I kind of get the appeal.
A whistle cuts through the air, and the players regroup. Chris skates over, shoving his helmet up onto his forehead, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I grin, still watching Jensen talk softly to the goal like the post whispered back. Then I point at him. “He’s talking to the goal.”
Chris barks out a laugh. “You caught that, huh?”
“Caught it? I thought he was talking to me. Nearly blushed.”
“That’s Jensen. The post’s name is Vera and he’s adamant she talks back. We don't question it because he's the best goalie in the conference.”
“Are they…” I don’t want to finish the sentence because it could possibly be one of the strangest questions I’ve ever asked.
Chris seems to get it. “Dating?” He raises a brow with amusement. “Sometimes we think so, but they argue a hell of a lot for us to consider it stable.”