Of course. Sleep well.
Me:
‘Night.
Tater Tots:
Good night. Btw, your plants miss you.
Despite my frustration, the simple message makes me long for her. I wish she was in bed with me. I’d cuddle her all night long if that’s all she wanted, so long as I could hold her. I sigh, dropping my head on the pillow as I send my response.
Me:
I miss them, and the one kissing them, too
33
ALIA
Sitting right behind the glass, I am treated to a front row view of why hockey is as popular as it is. Why every game I’ve watched on TV has female fans holding up signs declaring their love for the players. It didn’t escape my notice that Cal’s name was often on those placards, asking him to marry them, call them, date them, be their baby-daddy.
Irsia has her camera glued to her face as she adjusts her lens, clicking pictures of spectators streaming in before zooming to where the players are stretching and squatting. How she’s able to focus and keep moving while my mind reels like I’ve entered a hot zone of borderline pornographic activity, I don’t know.
Cal is gyrating like a Magic Mike performer making love to the ice. Unbidden, I wonder how it’d feel to lie under him while he moved over me. My pussy pulses in an aching desperation that hurts,the intensity of which has only worsened since he put his hands on—and in—me.
He found a hidden switch and flipped it on, waking up desires that have been slumbering for too long. I crave him like a starving child craves rainbow-frosted cupcakes. Our night together felt like an important turning point in unloading a weight that’s been holding me down. I’m eager to shed more of it—except Cal’s been a little reticent and I can’t figure out why.
He’s sent me a dozen gifs and memes over the past week. The first couple times, I went along with it. Eventually, having a conversation entirely in pictures became tiresome. There are only so many responses to an animated gif of Elmo surrounded by fire or Homer Simpson backing quietly into a bush.
Callum pumps his hips twice more, almost in beat to the music playing on the overhead speakers, before swinging his knee up. He rises in a move so fluid and quick, it speaks to the control he has on those blades.
I swipe my tongue against my dry lips, trying my damnedest to look away and failing. He’s so incredibly sexy in his hockey gear, it’s obscene.
More players join him on the ice. Theo—I assume from the difference in the pads he’s wearing—thumps him on the back, circling one finger in the air. The team starts skating in smooth figure eights, each following the player before them as they take turns shooting the pucks into the net.
Their focus and camaraderie take me back to game days with my girls. From breakfasts together to getting ready for the match, all the way down to strategizing our batting or bowling order—my life was filled with a deep love for cricket, a strong sense of purpose, and good friends who loved the field as much as I did. I see the same bonds with Rohan, Cal, Theo, and the rest of the Ironhearts, and bearing witness to it makes me. . . happy.
I’m pleasantly surprised at being able to draw these parallels without the debilitating pain that once accompanied the acknowledgement of my loss. I may not be a sportswoman anymore, but I can learn to love sports differently.
My mind tunes back to the scene ahead when Cal comes to the front of the line to take another practice shot. The precision with which he strikes the puck has me standing up for a better look. Maybe he catches my movement in his peripheral vision, because his head turns my way just as he readies himself to push off in the opposite direction.
Our gazes clash and he does a double take. The next second, ice chips around his feet as he comes to an abrupt stop, causing whoever was behind him to crash into him.
Like a pantomime in slow motion, I watch them spin and trip, arms flailing as they slap and grab at each other in a desperate attempt to recover their footing. Cal faceplants right on the ice with Antek falling across his back.
I wince, my worry lessening when he shoves the rookie player off. His head lifts, eyes searching while he ignores his yelling teammates. When he spots me standing behind the glass, the shock passes and, to my utter relief, one edge of his mouth tips up in a crooked smile that feels like it’s meant solely for me. I allow myself a moment of indulgence in this foolish fantasy and raise my hand in a soft wave.
He beams, chin inching up in a quick hello.
“You brought down a hockey player with one look.” Irsia snickers beside me. “Aloo baby, you’ve got game.”
“We’re just friends,” I reply automatically.
“Sure. And I’m Meghan Markle.”
Irsia’s teasing jab does nothing good for my heart, which dances to a whole new tune when Cal beelines over to say hello.
“You’re here!” he yells, clearly happy to see me. “Hey, Irsia!” headds, nodding at her.