by Ciz, Alley
“How did I not notice that the last time I came to visit?”
“No idea.”
“Mels! You almost ready?” Zoey shouts from down the hall.
“Be out in a minute.”
I need to wrap this up before Zoey comes busting in here in full Storm apparel. I so don’t want to answer any questions that would raise.
“Look.” I sit on the edge of my bed, MacBook in my lap. “I better go before Zo loses it.”
“Okay, Care. Have fun. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The lid to the laptop closes with a snick and I blow out a calming breath. I didn’t lie to my brother, but keeping things from him makes me feel like reaching for the Pepto-Bismol.
Jase Donnelly, though? Yup, that’s information better left undisclosed. Finding out about him will be a bigger bomb than the Reynolds Pamphlet, and I’m not cool enough to rap.
Clusterfuck, party of three.
Oh well. Like Mr. Hamilton, I should say no to this, but I can’t.
“Mels!” Zoey’s voice spurs me into action.
Jumping from the bed, I grab the jersey from the hanger I hung it on last night and slip it over my head, scrutinizing my appearance in my mirrored closet doors. The white skinny jeans hug my legs, showing off the muscular thighs I’ve earned from the countless hours of dancing I’ve done through the years, and the knee-high black leather boots with four-inch heels make my short legs look longer.
My choice of footwear may not be the most appropriate selection for a hockey game, but thanks again to my many years in musical theater, I can do anything in heels.
The rest of my look is casual: high ponytail, ends curling naturally, simple makeup, and silver hoops through my ears.
Then there’s the black, white, and gray jersey. Jase must have given me one of his game-worn ones because I’m swimming in the material.
“Mels, come on, you know I like to watch warm—” The sound of the door opening precedes Zoey’s voice before the words abruptly cut off.
Looking over my shoulder, I see my friend gaping at me like a fish, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find the words to say. Zoey speechless is as rare as a unicorn.
“ELLA!” she yells, breaking her silence.
“What?” Ella has a container of leftover risotto in her hands, scarfing down her dinner before she has to leave for the theater. “Holy shit. You’re wearing a Storm jersey?” Shock drips from her words.
“It’s not like they’re playing the Bruisers or anything.” I pop a shoulder.
“True.” She nods. “Wait.” She holds a hand up like a stop sign. “Where did you even get this? It’s huge on you.” She pinches the material between her fingers, stretching it out.
“Oh my god!” Zoey shouts from the doorway, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. “Is this one of his?” We are now at screech-level decibels.
“I think it might be.”
“Oh—my—god.” Zoey rushes me, inspecting every inch of the jersey. “This is his. Holy shit, Mels. This is unreal. You’re lucky you’re one of my best friends or I would totally hate you.”
“Like I didn’t hate you enough for getting to go to the game.” Ella pulls on the sleeve of the jersey again. “Now there’s this.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “I take it things are starting to get serious?”
I drop my gaze, unable to look either of my friends in the eye as guilt once again washes over me. I worry the bottom of the jersey, lifting it from where it hangs mid-thigh. Are things getting serious with Jase? And what the hell am I supposed to do if they are?
Chapter Fifteen
“Bring The Storm” by Birds of Prey blares through the locker room while I use a roll of rainbow tape—affectionately dubbed Sammycorn tape by the BTU Titans—to secure my uniform socks.
“Bro…” Cali backhands my bare shoulder. “Why don’t you ever put that shit on silent?”
Yoshi!
Yoshi!
My phone is blowing up with text notifications like Mario can’t decide if he wants to stay on his dinosaur sidekick. And yes, my text alert tone is from Super Mario Bros. You already know how seriously we take our Mario Kart, and the little green dude is always my avatar when we play.
“Sorry.” I flick it to silent and pull up my messages.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: Bro…you are soooooo screwed.
THE KRAKEN (Gage): I thought we had an understanding. You DO NOT piss off pregnant women. You wanna risk your life and mess with your sister, go for it. But, for THE LOVE OF GOD, can you refrain from getting your bestie (and I hate you BTW for making me have to use the word bestie…add BTW to the list too) all pissy. She lives with me. I’M the one who takes the brunt of the **whispers** hormones.
THE BIG HAMMER: Vin, you are failing at this best friend game. Doesn’t bro code dictate that you’re supposed to help keep the girls off my back?
THE BIG HAMMER: And, Gage, man, what can I say? YOU were the one who asked Balboa to marry you. Her living with you kinda comes with the territory.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: You mean the same way you kept them off my back when YOU told me I needed to bend the knee with The Coven?
THE KRAKEN: *middle finger emoji*
THE BIG HAMMER: Ummm…I’m pretty sure my advice is one of the main reasons your way-too-good-for-you girlfriend is ACTUALLY your girlfriend.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: *see Gage’s previous text*
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: Also…there’s this.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: *picture of all eight Covenettes huddled together*
“Shit.”
Fuck me.
“They’re all here?” Cali unabashedly looks over my shoulder, eavesdropping. Although, is it eavesdropping if it’s a text?
“It would appear so.”
“By your tone, I’m going to say this wasn’t planned?”
“Nope.”
“Harrison!” Cali bellows, summoning the third member of our standard trio.
“What’s up, Cali?”
“Hope you didn’t have plans tonight. Covenettes in the hiz-ouse.”
I roll my eyes. It comes as no surprise that Cali with his over-the-top personality is one of my teammates I’m closest with.
“Which ones?” Harrison plops down on the bench next to me.
“All of them.” The glee in Cali’s voice has me rolling my eyes again.
“What did you do?” Harrison’s eyes are wide as they look down at where I’m lacing up my skates.
“Nothing,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Bull.” Harrison eyes me, having plenty of experience with The Coven himself. “You must have done something to warrant an unplanned gathering.”
Cali snorts, and my elbow connects with his side, eliciting a grunt of pain. Serves you right, asshole.
“Come on, Donnelly. Fess up,” Harrison prods.
“Who says it’s unplanned?”
Now Harrison snorts. “The fact that the three of us”—he waves a finger between him, Cali, and me—“would have had plans for after the game.”
Damn him for being right.
“I think it has to do with our boy here’s girlfriend,” Cali practically sings like he’s Gene Kelly in the rain. Yes, I’ve been brushing up on my musical knowledge.
“Girlfriend? Since when do you have a gir—” Harrison slaps his thighs, joining Cali’s laughter as realization hits. “Holy shit. You finally made a move on the actress?”
“Making a move was never his problem. It was getting her to say yes that was the issue.” Cali is all too happy to clarify.
Ignoring them, I pull my chest protector over my head, followed by my black and gray home jersey. I won’t bother with my helmet until game time, so all that’s left to do is slip on my good luck charm—one of JD’s hair ties.
Don’t judge me. We all have them.
Ooo, story time. **rubs hands together** I love story time.
There’s the aforementioned Sammycorn tape, whic
h became a thing after Ryan scored a hat trick wearing it after a lost bet to Sammy. Any of the Titans who have gone pro like us still use it because our college team went on a fifteen-game winning streak going into our second Frozen Four victory.
Even our two guys who switched to fighting after college tape a piece in their shorts when they have a match. We take it very seriously.
Tucker ties a pair of laces from when his high school team won State to his skates, and Jake always kisses my sister—and nieces since their birth—through the glass before a game.
If that’s not enough proof I’m not the only one with a quirk, Vince always needs Rocky to be the one to wrap his hands before a fight. Dude almost completely lost his shit before his fight a few weeks ago, but that’s a story for another time.
Back to me.
So yeah, my only thing is I wear a hair tie of my sister’s on my wrist, have since we were twelve and I had the best game of my hockey career because she had asked me to grab her one and I forgot to give it to her.
But as I slip the black elastic over my hand, it snaps. Shit. Reaching into my bag for a different one, I come up empty.
Now what do I do?
Intellectually, I know it doesn’t have an effect on how I play—hockey players have their superstitions, but at least we aren’t as bad as baseball players—but the last thing I need with Melody in attendance is a change to my routine.
Wombmate, you better have a hair tie on you.
Half an hour before puck drop, we clomp our way down the rubber pads to the rink for warm-ups.
Pre-game ritual first, new hair tie second.
After my lap around the rink, I skate over to the boards in front of my sister’s seats, knocking on the plexiglass to get her attention.
A chorus of “Jase!” “Trip!” “Dude!” Bro!” “Bestie!” comes at me as everyone greets me at once.
“JD.” I single her out. “I need your hair tie.” I gesture to my head in case she has a hard time hearing me over the noise in the arena. Without a beat, she pulls the one from her hair and slingshots it over the glass. God love her.
Pinching my glove under my armpit, I slide the tie home. “Love you,” I call out, skating backward.
I take a few shots on goal as I scan the typical section that houses family members of the Storm—there are too many of mine for them to sit there—until I find a particular shade of pink.
She came.
Her black eyes are locked on me, and unlike my so-called supporters behind me across the ice, she’s wearing the jersey I gave her—my jersey. And damn if she doesn’t look even better in it than I imagined.
Digging my blades into the ice, I glide across it until I’m directly in front of her. The things I could do if there weren’t half an inch of plexiglass between us.
Her smile is sheepish as she gives a small wave.
I’m basking in the glow of how that makes me feel when I’m knocked into the boards, my chest protector pinging off the glass.
My two about-to-be-dead teammates are jostling for position to flirt with my girl when I shove them off me. Did I say dead? No, that’s too easy. Torture sounds better.
Why the hell doesn’t anyone know how to mind their own business?
Chapter Sixteen
“Eep, oh my god. These seats are epic.” Zoey snaps a selfie with the rink behind her to send to Ella. She hasn’t stopped gushing since we arrived at the Garden.
“Zo, you act like we usually sit in the nosebleeds or something.”
Whenever we come together, we sit on the lower level. Sure, we’ve never sat this close, but our seats haven’t been anything to sneeze at.
“Oh look, there’s Loverboy.” Her arm stretches to point Jase out on the ice. Real subtle—not.
“Don’t call him that,” I hiss through clenched teeth, pulling on her arm.
Drawn like a magnet, my gaze finds him taking warm-up shots at the empty net. God he lights my candle.
Zoey’s brows pinch together the way they always do when she smells bullshit. “Oh, Mels, baby girl.” She links our elbows. “You’ve got it bad. Stop trying to deny it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Deny, deny, deny.
Act—keyword there—like he doesn’t affect me.
I’m cool, so cool I could be the ice the Storm plays on.
I keep telling myself this until the breath stalls in my lungs when I see a pair of golden-green eyes locked on me.
“Oh my god,” Zoey whisper-shouts when Jase skates toward us.
“Shhh.”
Could she be more embarrassing? *Yes, I said this in my best Chandler Bing voice*
I wave, my traitorous heart flipping inside my chest when he winks. The boy gives a good wink.
I jump—literally jump—when he’s slammed into the boards by two of his own teammates, the sounds of their bodies reverberating causing all eyes in our section to turn our way.
Jase doesn’t linger, effortlessly gliding backward once free, leaving his teammates behind. I don’t need the jerseys to recognize Callahan and Harrison, the former wearing a grin similar to the one he sported last night when he caught Jase and me making out like teenagers.
“Hey, Broadway,” Cali says, looking like the Cheshire cat, and Harrison jerks his chin in hello.
“Hey, Cali.”
Can your eardrum rupture from someone shouting next to you? I should probably check for blood or something because Zoey’s squeal reaches an octave usually reserved for dog whistles.
As if auditory damage isn’t enough, she’s also working on pulling my arm from its socket by yanking on it, all while texting with the other hand. Did I really think it was a good thing Ella couldn’t come? Because Zoey is practically live-tweeting every second of our night to our missing friend.
“You have zero chill,” I tell her, my tone wry.
“I’m sorry, but not all of us can be as blasé about hockey hunks as you are, Mels. Besides, I’m”—she covers her heart with a hand—“a Storm fan, and you just had not one, but three of their top players say hi to you. I’m allowed a fangirl moment, thank you very much.”
“Careful, Zo, your inner puck bunny is showing.”
Zoey shrugs, unconcerned, holding out her beer to cheers before letting me read the messages from Ella.
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF: OMG!!! Can those be our seats when I get to come too?
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF: WHAT?! I need to know where to mail my letter. I need to issue a formal complaint that the BOSTON fan of our trio is the one with a Storm player for a boyfriend.
FIDDLER ON THE ROOF: Can you hook a girl up? I’m not picky about which one. I’ll even give Zoey first dibs. But come on?? Help a sister out.
Ella may be the quiet one, but her texts only prove why she and Zoey get along so well.
The next hour or so passes in a blur of the national anthem, hockey playing, and trash talk. Zoey may be more obsessed with what the players look like under their uniforms than I am, but we do share a passion for the game.
Thankfully, I’m able to keep her attention off of me and all swoony developments concerning a certain Storm defenseman by spending the entire first intermission discussing what we think the chances are of Ella making it into our show’s orchestra.
Late in the second, we jump to our feet as Callahan flies down the ice on a breakaway thanks to a beautiful pass from Harrison. My heart races and my blood pumps as if I’m the one trying to beat out five other guys to the net.
With my breath held and cold beer spilling over my fingers, we watch as one of the Dallas forwards glides up behind Callahan and crosschecks him from behind.
Everything after that happens in fast forward.
Callahan hits the ice—hard.
Zoey and I press our faces to the plexiglass.
Jase shoves Kruger, the Dallas player, for the illegal check.
Kruger rounds on Jase with a punch to the face.
My heart is firmly lodged in my throat as
Jase’s entire demeanor turns on a dime. Gone is the smirk and the guy who seemed like he was playing a pickup game with friends, a stone-cold warrior in his place.
He shakes off the punch as if it were a playful tap and not a powerful right hook. His gloves hit the ice with a flick of the wrists and Kruger’s green and white jersey is clutched in his hands as he hauls him in close.
Jase is one of the bigger players in the NHL, one of the things that helps him be the revered enforcer that he is.
The arena goes silent, sucking in a collective breath, waiting to see what will happen next.
Jase leans in to say something we’re too far away to hear. Then without any showboating, he pulls his arm back, snapping out and landing two solid jabs in quick succession.
I don’t want to know what it says about me that I feel each of the blows in my clit. This right here is one of the things I love most about hockey—the rawness, the intensity.
Black, white, gray, and green swirl together as members from both teams swarm and Kruger is shoved to the ice. The referees push into the fray, moving to hold Jase back from any further attacks, except…he hasn’t budged.
He stands on the outside, back ramrod straight, jaw and eyes hard as he silently warns Kruger against making another move.
Fights—no matter how the rules have evolved through the years—will always be an integral part of the game, but the way Jase played his role was like a work of art. The up-close-and-personal experience of him in full-blown enforcer mode…was…hot.
“Holy shit,” Zoey says breathlessly. “I think I need a new pair of panties after that show.”
You’re not the only one.
“Eep!” The back of her hand hits me in the boob. “Mels.” The hits pick up speed. “Oh my god, look.” Hit-hit-hit. “Look.” Hit-hit. “Look.” Hit-hit-hit. “Look.”
