Page 104 of Hockey Boy

I tease him by acting nonchalant. As if I have no idea why he’s so excited about what I’m wearing. I love him like this. The unhinged puppy.

Sara laughs as we make our way to the seats Gavin scored us. “You’re evil.”

I shrug. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She lets it go, though, because she’s working today and has to focus on the game and the goings-on both off and on the ice so she can anticipate what questions the media will ask, prepare the players, and intercept if necessary.

Though once we’re settled, she turns to me, and suddenly, it feels like she’s the media. I can practically see the list of questions spinning through her mind. “Excited to be back in New York?”

Humming, I survey the ice and the guys getting ready to play. “It’s not that different from Boston, to be honest.”

In my periphery, Sara is watching me. “So you don’t miss it?”

I take a moment to reflect on the time I spent living here. By myself. Going from job to job, man to man, friend to friend.

My life in New York was the opposite of consistent. Before I moved back to Boston, I would have sworn that was the dream. I didn’t owe anything to anyone, and that meant I was free to do whatever I wanted.

What I didn’t allow myself to see was that in return, I was owed nothing from anyone, leaving me living a sad sort of existence.

Since I returned to Boston, I’ve created routines. Sunday brunch with the girls, coffee dates with Millie, movie binging sessions with Sara. Genuine friends who want to see me, who care about me and expect me to be there for them too. I love it.

And that says nothing of the time spent with Aiden. He brings me coffee in bed every morning—with whipped cream swirled on top. He understands and shares my love for everything sweet. We learn TikTok dances together, then force his teammates to do them. We ride bikes in the gym after practice, just so we can talk. Twice a week, we attend couples’ dance classes at the studio we found for his fake wedding.

My life is full and busy and bright.

I look back at my friend and answer honestly. “No, I don’t miss it at all.”

Sara hums. “You’ve been in Boston for seven months.” Though it’s a statement, it feels a lot like a question.

“Okay?”

Her eyes dance. “You never stay in one place longer than six.”

The buzzer sounds, announcing the game is going to begin, and we shift our focus to the ice. But her words keep playing in my head, even after the puck has dropped.

Vincent Lukov is a bully.Like that kid in high school who doesn’t get enough attention, so he just keeps chirping, hoping someone will look in his direction. He’s mean, miserable, and too dumb to realize that no one cares what he thinks.

I’m focused on the puck in the ref’s hand. New York’s center is vying for it with his stick, just like I am, so Lukov’s taunts don’t even register.

The sound of the crowd is deafening, but the moment the puck drops and I slice, the dance begins. My skates grind into the ice as I push forward, but Lukov is right on my heels. He slices at my skates, coming after my scraps like he always does, but my vision tunnels as my body takes over. I could play hockey with my eyes closed.

“What? You can’t face me now that I stole your girl?” he jeers behind me.

I just hum my tune, ignoring him.

“Now dip, War, dip,” I holler.

War nods and does just that, dipping behind, luring the defenseman trailing his ass to circle back toward him.

“To the left,” Daniel shouts. The idiots around us think he’s talking to me, rather than singing the lyrics to our next play, and they almost leave enough roomfor me to slide my stick in that direction. But it’s War who appears to the left of me now, jutting out his stick, tearing between Lukov and me as I break away. The plan is that Lukov will either trip or be delayed, but I’m too focused on the net and the man who stands between me and my goal to worry much about it.

A muffled “fuck,” followed by a thud sounds behind me, and I assume he’s gone down. Then my teammates are pressing forward and into position.

“To the right,” I hum, almost coming to a stop in front of the goalie, Matteo Rodego, who is braced for my shot. The rest of his team is almost caught up now.

I fake it right, and then slash the puck over his left shoulder and into the goal.

“Didn’t expect you to dance with us, Rodego,” I yell, laughing, as Daniel and War tackle me in celebratory hugs.