Am I crazy?
Those were the words on repeat in my mind as I loaded up onto the bus with the team. They grew even louder when we arrived at the stadium, the guys much more subdued now than they were on the plane ride or even during the morning skate. Now, they were all quiet and focused like Daddy P had been, whether they were taping their sticks or watching film or stretching in the corner of the locker room.
Meanwhile, I was pretending to focus while my brain turned over what had happened in Vince’s room.
I should report that, I thought. But that notion only lasted for a split second before the more pressing one took its place.
That shouldn’t have turned me on.
I knew it was true, and yet, my body was still tense in the most exhilarating way from the exchange. I could close my eyes on a blink and see the whole scene play out again — him standing over me, his hand gripping my chin tightly, his eyes hard on mine before they fell to my mouth.
I shivered, and then my skin crawled like a cold front had just blown in. I looked across the room at where Vince was taping his stick.
His hands were at work, but his eyes were on me.
He watched me for a long pause before he tore his gaze away, his jaw tight, and continued working on his stick.
That was the last time he looked at me the entire game.
It wasn’t my first time watching an NHL game, but it was my first time watching one live. And, to be honest, it was my first time where I actually paid attention. Hockey was big in Tampa. As a life-long resident, it was impossible to escape the big playoff parties hosted all around the city. I’d gone with friends or even watched with my dad a time or two, but the games were mostly background noise while I talked to my friends or scrolled on my phone.
Tonight, I was standing behind the glass at the mouth of the tunnel, right next to where the players lined the bench. I had chills lining my arms and my phone clamped in shaky hands.
The rush of adrenaline I felt was like riding a rollercoaster without a seatbelt.
From the moment the puck dropped, I was in a trance, taking photos and videos while also frantically writing out notes in my phone — and questions. So many questions I wanted to ask Vince later, like how they were able to change lines so seamlessly, how they were able to skate so hard for minutes at a time, how they were able to catch their breath before being put back on the ice. Also, what were those salts they smelled? And why did they do it? Why was tripping a penalty, but being shoved hard into the boards was seemingly fine?
The energy from the crowd only amped up my buzz more, and this was an away game. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like at home, and I couldn’t wait to find out.
At the end of the first period, no one had scored, but it wasn’t because the teams weren’t playing well. It was the opposite, actually, Boston and Tampa duking it out like they’d sooner get nut tapped than let the other one score.
In the locker room, Coach McCabe gave a few words of encouragement, telling the guys to keep doing what they were doing but to fight harder.
“You want this,” he reminded them. “But so do they. Wanting it isn’t enough. You’ve got to need it. You’ve got to need that win so badly you will fight like it’s win or die.”
Coach let me sit at the edge of the bench the next period after I’d begged him for a glass-free video. I had a helmet strapped to my head, just in case.
As the puck was dropped, I thought about what Coach had said to me yesterday, about how they had a real shot this season. I knew Vince Tanev was a big part of why he believed that, and when Vince scored a goal within the first minute of the second period, I understood why.
He was a beast.
Or, as I heard a couple of guys on the bench call him, a beaut.
That one goal seemed like a match that lit his fuse, and he went off like a bomb after that. He had an assist to the center in his line, bringing them up by two, and then when Boston caught up and the game was tied in the third period with just four minutes left to play, he scored again, rendering the arena completely silent while he and the team celebrated.
It was after that goal that he finally looked at me.
His eyes sparkled behind the shield of his helmet, and he skated over so fluidly to where I sat, it was like he’d been born on those blades. I took my phone out and focused the video camera on him, and a little smirk climbed on his lips.
“Sick celly, Pigeon,” a player yelled from the bench beside me, and Vince lifted his head in a little nod of acknowledgement before hopping over the boards.
But he didn’t sit on the bench.
Instead, he sat right there on the ledge, right in front of me, all padded up and sweaty and hot as hell as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. I had the camera trained on him, but he wasn’t looking at the lens.
He was looking directly at me.
Vince didn’t say a word, just sat there, smirking, his eyes zeroed in on mine with some sort of challenge lying behind them. Slowly, I dropped the camera, meeting his gaze with my own instead of watching him through the screen.
His smile climbed higher.
“Alright, Tanev,” Coach McCabe said from where he stood against the glass. “There’s still a game going on. Ass on the bench.”
Vince kept his eyes on me as he stood, and then he winked, wetting his lips a little as he strode to the end of the bench to take a seat.
My heart was hammering in my chest when the puck was dropped, and my phone buzzed so hard in my hand I jumped. When I checked the text, it was from Livia.
Livia: Ohhhh, girl. You are in trouble.
Me: What? What happened?
Livia: They just showed that whole exchange between you and Vince on TV, that’s what happened.
I swallowed.
Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Livia: Sure. Let’s go with that.
Livia: But be honest… you need to change your underwear, don’t you?
Me: You’re disgusting.
Livia: And YOU are lying to yourself.
Me: This is an assignment, Liv. Nothing more.
Livia: Uh-huh. Looks to me like you might have an extra credit opportunity. 😉
Me: Goodbye.
I couldn’t help the little laugh that left me when I saw the string of emojis my best friend responded with, but I exited the conversation and pulled up my video camera just in time to catch the last ten seconds of play. Our team celebrated on the ice while the home team skated off silently, and only a handful of fans cheered in the crowd while the rest were hanging their heads on the exit.
After a quick celebratory skate around the rink where all the guys hammed it up, I followed them back to the locker room — the very, very smelly locker room — halfway listening to their celebrations while I posted Vince’s goal and the final score.
Just because I was curious, I refreshed the app after thirty seconds.
And the post already had more than ten-thousand likes and hundreds of comments.
I shook my head. It was just… ludicrous, the amount of people who were invested in him, in his life, in his body. I absentmindedly wondered what kind of pressure that would put on a person as I tucked my phone into my purse.
Once it was put away, I kneaded my temples with my fingers. So much screen time was giving me a headache, along with the insanity of the past week and wearing a helmet not made for me. And we still had to pack and fly home.
I understood the appeal of flying after the game, of being able to go to sleep in your own bed back in your own city, especially since we had a home game in a couple days. But I hoped it wouldn’t be too loud on the flight. All I wanted was to catch some Zs.
“Aw, come on, it can’t be that bad.”
I opened my eyes to find Vince standing over me. His hair was soaking wet, sticking to his forehead and neck just like his t-shirt was sticking to his chest. I assumed he wore that under his pads, because it was completely drenched. He also wore a pair of equally wet shorts and still had his shin pads on.
“Oh, are you talking to me again?”
“For now.”
I smiled, my skin still buzzing from our earlier exchange. But that menacing gaze of his was gone, and he was the Vince Tanev I knew again. Playful. Charming. Annoyingly so.
“Congratulations on the win,” I offered.
“Thank you. Still think my pre-game rituals are stupid?”
“I never said they were stupid,” I defended. “But… does this mean we have to fight before every game now? Because we did, and you won, so…”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw with a devilish grin.
“Sounds like fun to me,” he said, his eyes following the line of my necklace where it dipped under my blouse. “But only if we get to kiss and make up afterward.”
He waggled his brows as I flattened my lips.
And then he was tackled from behind by Carter before I got the chance to tell him that was never going to happen.
