I clutch furiously to the wisp of confidence snaking within me and make the decision to follow through on my impulse to kiss him tonight. If only as nothing more than a thank you.
Because it’s been months, possibly years, since I’ve felt good about myself.
My phone vibrates loudly, interrupting my thoughts as I check the caller ID. Rohan. Some of my Theo-induced buzz fades and I clear my throat before speaking.
“Hi Ro, where are you?”
“Outside Block on Wood,” he replies, his voice muffled. “Aloo, come out to the parking lot. It’s a crush inside and I can’t seem to go two feet without someone trying to talk to me.”
“Talk to you?” I gasp. “How dare they! The horror.”
“Sarcastic little shit.”
I snort, grabbing my purse before heading downstairs, all the while keeping my eyes open for Theo.
“Who told you to go get famous? Besides, isn’t your team here as well?”
“I see their faces daily. I want a quiet night tonight. There’s some new Bollywood movie playing at the theatre. Wanna come with me?”
The idea of my 6’4”, 200-something pound hockey player cousin sitting through a two-hour long romantic musical drama to keep me company warms my heart. “Yeah, that sounds good, Ro. I’ll see you out in a couple minutes.”
His grunt is the only confirmation I receive before the call disconnects. I slip the phone into my purse, hoping to find Theo before I leave. Maybe we can exchange numbers or meet another time? Oh, I should probably tell him I know Rohan. Hopefully that’s not a deterrent. But why would it be? Not like I’m looking for anything serious. Just a date or two, maybe a lesson in kissing. See where else it leads.
Little bubbles of anticipation, like fizzy champagne, tickle my insides.
I approach the bottom of the stairs, my eyes still scanning the crowds when I spot him near the bar, one arm casually draped around a stunning blonde in a bodycon dress showcasing a perfect figure. Busy in conversation, he laughs in that open, attractive way of his, gesturing to a guy sitting on a stool next to him. The blonde leans in, her body language comfortable, making it clear they’recloselyacquainted.
All that delightful buzz suddenly falls flat and something heavy settles upon my chest instead. Disappointment. The sliver of determination to put myself out there disintegrates before I can reason with myself.
I sigh, turning away from the sight of him enjoying the company of another beautiful woman, and walk off in the opposite direction.
I don’t begrudge him a new partner. My only regret is not kissing him when he’d asked me. Pasting on a cheery expression despite the anticlimactic ending to what had promised to be a memorable evening, I greet my cousin out in the parking lot.
Though it’s not a secret I’m single again, given Rohan’s frown anytime Irsia and I discuss the dating pool, I suppose it’s for the best that nothing happened with Theo.
4
CALLUM
Sitting on the bench, I squirt a steady stream of Gatorade into my mouth. I can’t look away from the game. Though this break is necessary to catch my breath, I’m itching for my turn on the ice again. Chicago’s center has been taking slapshots all evening, but Theo’s been holding strong with twenty-one saves, letting in only one goal.
We’re leading in the third period and, with less than a minute to go, we’re in good position as long as we defend our net.
Coach Ross yells for a line change and I scramble to get into position, letting the air whipping my face cool my skin. The noise in the arena sinks in, powering my strides as we rush into play. The puck slides between the forwards as we chase it down toward Chicago’s net, the opposition following like bloodhounds. The countdown to the end begins just as our defenseman and captain, Mateo Vega, bodychecks the Chicago center, letting Moore steal the puck.
In a play we’ve practiced hundreds of times before, Moore dekes left, slipping the puck under Chicago’s stick to Antek who slaps it farther back to me. I take my shot and their goalie dives, missing the puck by inches as it flies into the net.
The goal siren barely registers as the crowd roars, signaling the end of the game and our tenth win of the season. The team is in excellent spirits in the locker room while we pull our gear off, with Mateo yelling about cooling down.
I jump on the stationary bike, setting my resistance while Theo Novak, my best friend and goalie, shuffles through his music, incessant beats of bass pumping from the headphones he slings around his neck. Highlights from our game play on the TV in the far corner of the room, showing the goalie saves in sequence. Theo’s cocky grin is earned and Vega fist bumps him as he passes by to hop onto the treadmill near me.
We played a solid game and, if we keep it up for the rest of the season, we have a good shot at making it to the playoffs. That’s always the dream: to play for the Stanley Cup. And being on the ice tonight reminded me once again why I love hockey.
A well-earned victory is more potent than any drug. Being out there, feeling the pressure of performance, the palpable desperation amongst the team to win, the absolute craze of hearing my name chanted when I make a tricky goal—these moments take me on a high like no other.
But now, as the adrenaline wears off, my mind wanders and that abstruse sense of dissatisfaction returns. What the fuck is wrong with me that I’m discontent with a perfect life?
“You coming to Block on Wood with the rest of us?” Novak huffs, pumping his legs up and down on the pedals.