CALISTA
I haven’t seen Gage at all today since he’s been practicing at the rink for the big game. I’ve been trying to keep up with the Reapers this season, but I underestimated how much information I’d actually retain with an eight-year-old teaching me the ropes of a very complicated, very elaborate sport.
I’m nervous for Gage. I know how hard he’s worked to get his strength back, but I can’t stop second-guessing if it’s too soon or if I should’ve pushed him harder. What if something goes wrong? What if he’s not a hundred percent better and hurts himself again? I don’t think I could recover from something like that. I don’t think I could forgive myself for something like that.
The rink is awash with blue-and-black jerseys, and large signs and Styrofoam fingers wave about, converting eager fans into one united mass of rowdy scream-shouts. The cold chill torpedoes through the thickness of Gage’s jersey and settles bone deep, prompting me to burrow even further into my personal polyester safe haven. Unlike Gage’s real jersey, this one smells of fresh pine and lacks that lingering body odor that could make a flower wither upon exposure.
We haven’t really told anyone we’re official. The fans definitely don’t know. I’m not sure if any of his teammates know. But walking around with his name splayed on my back in giant letters, walking around with his mark on me—it armors me with impenetrable pride, the kind unaffected by public insight.
I can’t believe I’m in public right now as Gage’s official number one fan. The last time I wore his jersey was when I was still convincing myself that I hated his guts. This time, the only thing I hate is that he’s not rearranging my guts. That’s some damn good character development if I do say so myself.
I’m headed to wish him luck before the game, and I’m just hoping that I won’t mess up any of his pregame rituals. When I round the corner into the main tunnel, I find Gage in his giant, padded gear, standing next to a decked-out Fulton.
They’re turned half-toward each other and half-toward the rink, mumbling about God knows what, and I awkwardly try to get Gage’s attention without crashing full speed into their conversation.
But thankfully, it doesn’t take long for my boyfriend to notice me and for his whole face to light up brighter than a polar sunrise. He walks over to me and embraces me, which basically feels like the equivalent of hugging a cloud.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says, giving me a slight squeeze before letting go.
My nerves keep backflipping all over the place, and now that Gage has effortlessly captured my heart’s attention, the chaos continues as it swoons and tries to jump into his arms. “You are?”
“Of course I am, Spitfire. You’re my lucky charm.”
“How do you know I’m lucky? I’ve never seen you play before.”
He takes his helmet off and sets it on the ground. “You’re my lucky charm when it comes to life, not just hockey.”
Oh.
Oh.
Judging by the incendiary heat that’s just risen to my head, my cheeks have probably gained a new pink tone to them. I thought all these nerves were supposed to disappear when you become a couple! And these butterflies feel like a swarm of wasps terrorizing my stomach.
I really don’t know what to say. At this point, I’m more anxious than Gage is, and he has a game to play in front of the entire world after being off the ice for three months.
“I—”
Completely oblivious to my miniature freakout—or maybe not—he leans forward and captures my lips in a kiss that seems to silence every nonvital activity in my body, and I mentally thank myself for wearing platform boots today so I can link my arms comfortably around his neck. There’s just the right amount of sparks. Not too little to be overlooked, but not too much to set both of our libidos on fire. It’s a kiss of reassurance and stability. I melt against him, in the safety of his arms, and both of us slowly pull away at the same time.
“And you’re wearing my jersey,” he notes, taking his gloves off so he can rub the material between the pads of his fingers, as if he needs to be convinced that this is all real.
“I thought you might like it,” I offer coyly.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Something dark traipses through his eyes, turning green into gunmetal, and his gaze lowers to my lips, which only exacerbates the second heartbeat in my nether regions that was perfectly content with being out of service.
His voice is low, lecherous, promising things that I can’t in good conscience resist. “Shit, Cali. As much as I love seeing you in my jersey, I can’t wait to see you out of it—”
“Hey, guys! Hey! Still here. Right here. Literally right next to you,” Fulton half-shrieks, waving his arms at us like a frenzied traffic cop.
I cringe. “Sorry, Fulton.”
“It’s okay! No, I’m totally all for you guys getting freaky-deeky. I just don’t want a front row seat. I tend to be forgotten a lot. Not in a bad way, though! I kind of don’t understand social cues and when to leave.”
Laughter furls out of me, shaking my shoulders gently. “Do you also overshare?”
Fulton has to pause and think for a second. “That is what I’ve been told before.”
Oh, Fulton. You sweet, sweet thing.
The truth is, I might’ve come down here with an ulterior motive in mind. And because this is the best thing my twisted little head has ever come up with, I can’t keep hiding this secret any longer.
“You remember when we made that stupid bet over Teague’s goal?” I ask, flirtatiously dragging my finger up and down his arm, getting a sick sense of satisfaction when he still shivers under my innocent little touch.
“Uh-huh,” he drawls, the corner of his lips tugging up into an arrogant half-grin.
“Well, I went to that tattoo session you booked for me and followed through.”
“Oh, really?” Gage brushes his lips over the shell of my ear, his breath warming the stretch of neck located right below. “Where is it, Spitfire?”
I lift the hem of his baggy jersey up just a little and turn around, revealing the inked set of numbers on my lower back, sandwiched right between the crescents of my back dimples. A small, fine-lined tramp stamp.
Gage goes quiet—probably taking in the beauty of it all—before all hell breaks loose and he screams at the top of his lungs. “What the fuck, Cali?”
The rest of his teammates look over at us, half-concerned, and I shoo them back to their own personal conversations.
I look over my shoulder. “What?”
I’ve only seen Gage truly mad three different times. Scary mad. Like, mad to the point where his blood pressure was aneurysm inducing. One, when I teased him about Dilbert before he ended up ripping my clothes off. Two, when I teased him about my secret lap dance…and then he ended up ripping my clothes off. And three, when I just showed him the tattoo I got to honor our agreement.
“Calista,” he growls in a low, demonic-sounding voice, a guttural warning that starts in the pit of his stomach and vibrates outwards.
I feign confusion. “What?”
“That’s not my fucking number.”
My fingers touch the seemingly permanent brand, and I pout, putting to use that one semester of high school when I was obsessed with theater. “Yes, it is,” I argue.
Gage runs his hands through his hair and grips the strands, a lick of lunacy raging in his eyes and highlighting that one forked vein throbbing in his forehead. “No, that’s Fulton’s number,” he tries in what I think is supposed to be a “calm” tone.
Fulton looks at my back to inspect the tattoo for himself, and all I can hear from behind me is a storm of subsequent laughter.
“Oh my God. Cali, that’s awesome!” Fulton enthuses.
I keep the hem scrunched at my navel as I give a half-hearted shrug. “Oops. I must’ve gotten them mixed up.”
Gage’s last-ditch effort to remain calm gets thrown down the goddamn drainage pipe. “Mixed up? MIXED UP?” he shouts, somehow louder than the surround sound of a thousand plus voices in the skyscraper arena. “He wears a twenty-one. I wear an eight. AN EIGHT.”
He’s losing it. He’s all sweaty and red and huffing like he’s just snorted a line of cocaine or blown down a pig’s stick house. If he wasn’t swathed in layers, I’m assuming his muscles would be all hard too. Hard and coiling and maybe even glistening with perspiration.
That shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. I’m a cruel, cruel person.
He drags his hand down his face. “Please…please tell me that it’s fucking fake.”
I stick my finger in my mouth—which he watches very intently despite being furious with me—and then pop it from my lips, wiping the wet pad over the dark numbers, even rubbing a bit to show him that they don’t smear.
“You’re getting it lasered off. I don’t care how much it costs. That shit isn’t staying on you.”
“Come on, Gage. It’s small. You’ll barely even notice it’s there,” I insist, knowing full well that he will know it’s there when he takes me from behind, fucking a girl who’s marked with another man’s jersey number. God, this is giving me such an adrenaline rush. The tattoo’s obviously not real. Henna. Should come off within a few days, but the kill-all expression on Gage’s face right now was worth every penny.
His fingers crumple into a fist. “No. Nope. You’re not saying anything.”
Then he whips around to deal with Fulton, gunning him down with a blood-red haze clouding both his eyes and sensibility. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he mutters under his breath, which is a thousand times more terrifying than if he were to yell it.
All the color drains from Fulton’s face. “I had nothing to do with this!”
“I don’t care. I’m going to shove my fist down your throat, rip your spine out, then wear your bloody jersey number as a prize.”
Both Fulton and I are speechless.
Dear God. I’ve created a monster.
The starting anthem for the Reapers blares over the speakers, and the guys file into a single line, ready to make their grand entrance. This is fine. Everything’s fine, right? Hockey’s an aggressive game. This will make him play better. Right?
Before Gage joins the rest of his teammates, he looks me dead in the eyes and smiles like a sick bastard. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Remember when I thought Gage would be nervous to be back? He’s not. In fact, I think I gave him enough rage to fuel an islandic village. He’s only missed one goal of the entire game, and we’re already on to the second period. His blocking is so precise that the other team is getting antsy and making poorly judged shots. He’s killing it out there. It doesn’t even look like his hip flexor was torn at all with the way he’s moving.
“What did you say to him?” Hadley asks, eyes bolted on me while she stuffs a handful of popcorn and M&M’s into her mouth.
I deviate from the game. “Huh?”
“Did you flash him a titty? Promise to suck him off if he won?”
I gasp and slap my hands over Teague’s ears—who’s thankfully too mesmerized by the grown men on skates to pay much mind to the very inappropriate conversation happening.
“Hadley! There are children present!” I scold, but in the same breath, a mischievous smile materializes on my lips. “I just gave him a little something to motivate him.”
Am I worried about whatever punishment is awaiting me after the game? Yes. There’s really nothing else for me to say. I don’t know how, but Gage will probably find some way to edge me for an hour until I regret ever pulling this prank on him. Or he’ll kill me. Both are equally bad.
I remove my hands from Teague’s ears, and he presses his grubby face against the plexiglass, looking the most focused I think I’ve ever seen him. His eyes follow the puck’s every move, leaping meticulously from player to player. He looks so proud of Gage, admiration emanating off his little body like a second skin.
Hadley nudges my leg with the toe of her boot. “You dirty little slut. I love that for you. Ugh! Going off and having crazy, passionate sex with a hockey star.”
She sniffles and pretends to wipe an invisible tear from her eye. “They grow up so fast.”
The arena comes alive with a collective cheer that rumbles underfoot, and judging by Teague’s springy celebration, Gage must’ve blocked another potential goal. The atmosphere, the people, the fanfare—it’s such a step up from Teague’s minor league games. Hell, the Reapers have a full theme song and a giant Grim Reaper cutout that descends from the ceiling at the start of every game. And they have a Jumbotron for kiss cams and capturing celebrity lookalikes.
I’m dating an NHL player. I’m dating a famous NHL player. Not just that, but Gage worships me. I’m pretty sure he’d lay his body on the ground so I could walk over a puddle and not get my shoes dirty. I don’t know if my life will ever feel real again. Everything’s perfect.
I’ve finally allowed myself to be happy with the man of my dreams, I’ve come to accept my mother’s new living situation, Teague’s admitted that the teasing from his teammates has stopped, and I only sometimes get existential crises during my three a.m. showers. The studio isn’t doing too bad either. With Gage helping finance my mother’s stay at the nursing home, extra money from her would-be medication cost is going toward bills and groceries. And with Teague and me not scraping by every week, I’ll be able to give him a normal childhood.
Of course, if it was up to Gage, he’d take care of everything with his yearly eight-figure salary. He still supports me teaching, but he doesn’t want it to be a source of financial stress. God, he’s just…perfect.
But as perfect as things may seem, life can’t always be stuck on this continuous, upward path. Eventually, the bad weighs it down again, and life has to come back to the middle. A regression to the mean.
And instead of a moderate period following my high one, a low one comes in place of it…in the form of a repeated trauma that I’d never wanted to live through ever again.
Out of my peripheral, an offensive player crashes into a defensive player at an abnormal speed, creating a buildup of bodies that tumble across the ice, heading straight for the Reapers’ goal. Heading straight for Gage.
Everything happens so fast. They’re halfway across the ice, and then there’s a pile of bodies crushed against the boards. The entire crowd goes silent—nothing but the onrush of frantic shouts from refs in the echo chamber of the stadium. I choke on the breath refusing to budge from my throat. My heart…my heart just stops. It doesn’t drop to my stomach or skip a beat. It stops entirely, and time freezes around me like the rest of the world is moving in slow-motion while I’m stuck helplessly in the middle. I can’t feel any part of my body. Everything is numb, cold, a flame of life that’s been stubbed out like the butt of a cigarette.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but he’s not moving. Medics start to roll out with stretchers in tow, and the shrill wail of an ambulance pierces my eardrums, which is the only noise to rip me from my paralyzing bubble. The rest of his teammates stay stranded out on the ice, waist-deep in shared confusion and concern.
It’s like I’m standing in the middle of the rink with a single spotlight shining down on me, blacking out the empty rows and the bloodstained corners of prior mistakes. Everything is crumbling around me, my world falling to chunks of debris and pulverized masses, leaving broken terrain that’s impassable when I know Gage is on the other side counting on me to reach him. But I can’t. I can’t reach him.
I shove through the panicked mob of people, ignoring the shrieks of my name by a little, high-pitched voice, bruising myself on the brunt of bodies that all flood toward the nearest exit. Tears ribbon down my face, blurring my vision in ink blots, and the moment my heart restarts with a barely there hum, it cries out to be reunited with him. Cries out above the screeching sirens and the traumatized screams and the culmination of pain swallowing every inch of my body in white-hot flashes of fire.
His lifeless figure is getting farther away from me. Pleas fire off my tongue in quick succession, begging the world to stop for a single fucking second, begging my legs to move faster when they’re fighting against the hold of quicksand.
I let the tears impair my vision, I let the ache in my thighs burgeon, I let the breath flee from my lungs. I rub every nerve ending raw because being forced to feel is better than being catatonic. I don’t know how, but I traverse the eighty-foot-long rink without stumbling or slowing one bit. My hands clamp down on the side of his stretcher, my waterlogged eyes fixed on the beaten and battered state of his body where padding wasn’t enough to protect him. Where I wasn’t enough to protect him.
“Please don’t leave me,” I cry, holding his gloved hand, letting my body be dragged out of the arena and to the double doors of the ambulance. My fingers don’t slip—they don’t leave him, even if he can’t feel me here.
Hiccups and sobs are slurred beyond comprehension, tear-ravaged eyes burning despite the water that steadily flows down my wind-bitten cheeks. “Please don’t go, Gage. I can’t do this without you. I need you.”
You promised you wouldn’t leave me.
