Page 120 of A Little Secret
As we head down the tunnel toward the ice, I trail behind the team, playing out every potential outcome of today’s game and if I’ll be able to get through it without fucking up things with Everett or Finley or Uncle Henry. My attention slides to Ev. I wonder if he knows the Lions’ GM is here. Probably. If Reeves knows, there’s no way Everett doesn’t, right? But even then, does he know the guy is here forbothof us? Does he know we’re pitted against each other? That I pitted usagainst each other, even if it’s the last thing I would’ve wanted?
Shit, I don’t even know what to do anymore. What’s right. What isn’t. If I’m being selfish or deceptive or loyal.
He would want me to look after Finley. Especially with a baby on the way. I know he would. If I could only explain myself. The situation. Make him understand.
“Ev, wait up!” I call.
Looking over his shoulder, he eyes me warily and sighs. “Not now, man.”
“Listen—”
“I need my head in the game, Griff. Especially this one. Just…leave it alone, all right?”
“I need to talk to you?—”
“Yeah, and I need to play well tonight,” he interrupts. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t be a dick on the ice. Let’s just play. We’ll talk about you and my sister later.”
Leaving me behind, he quickens his pace down the tunnel, and I stand dumbfounded.
This isn’t only about me and Fin. It’s about the game, too. It’s about the Lions’ GM Everett thinks is here for him when that isn’t necessarily the case. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But either way, I’m fucked, and so is Ev. He just doesn’t know it yet.
The familiar roar of the crowd rumbles through the arena, and the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers. When he calls my jersey number, I glide onto the ice and tighten my grip on my stick, feeling the familiar grooves under my gloved fingers. Searching the stands, my attention lands on the Lions’ GM for the briefest of seconds until a poster with red glitter and the words, “My boyfriend is hotter than yours,” steals my attention a few rows below. Finley raises the poster a little higher into the air, her smile growing as soon as our gazes connect.
“You. Got. This,” she mouths, and I swear I can hear her fucking words.
I got this.
The bright lights pound down on me. I head to the bench with the rest of the team until Coach gives me the green light to hit the ice. As I skate into position, the crowd's roar surrounds me, a cacophony of excitement and anticipation.
I got this, I remind myself.
My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins as Everett lines up for the face-off.
The puck drops, and I’m off, my skates cutting sharp lines into the glassy ice. I weave through the opposing team's defense, stickhandling with precision when my eyes lock onto the net. Almost there. I approach the goal and stop short, waiting for the inevitable pass I know is coming.
Come on, Ev. Come on.
Ice sprays, and I twist around in time to catch Everett winding up and chipping the puck off the boards. I catch it, and with a quick flick of my wrist, the puck sails past the goalie’s glove, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud.
“Yes!” I yell.
The crowd erupts, and I raise my stick in triumph.
One down. Who the hell knows how many to go.
I’ve got this.
Chest heaving, I skate around the edge of the rink, refusing to look at the crowded stands and who I know is watching.
When I almost reach Everett, he slows, letting me catch up to him.
“That was quick,” he says.
His hand hits my padded shoulder, and I grin back at him. “Play like it’s our last game, right?”
Reeves skates between us, whooping. “Fuck, yeah! And look at you, leading by example and shit.” He presses the handle of his stick to his chest. “O Captain! My Captain!”
“Stop celebrating!” Coach yells from the bench. “The game’s only getting started. Get back in position!”