Page 117 of Right Man, Right Time
I chuckle and hold my phone up to Ross. “His name is Ian Rivers. And he’s hot.”
Ross brings the phone closer and studies the picture. Slowly, a smile starts to form on his face. “Well now . . . let’s go Agitators.”
I chuckle and steal my phone just as a player comes zooming up to the Plexiglas, causing the crowd to scream. When I look up, I find a familiar frame in front of me. Stick in one hand, Silas lifts his helmet, showing off his beautiful blue eyes. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him in his gear, his smile stretching from ear to ear as he offers me a simple wink before lowering his helmet again.
Butterflies take off in my stomach, and it feels like at this moment, with thousands of people surrounding us, no one else exists besides him and me. My God, he is gorgeous.Awe-inspiring.Especially in his gear. I’m seeing the appeal that this crowd’s already aware of. He taps the glass with his fists, then takes off.
My eyes track him as he skates swiftly away.
I watch him juggle a puck on his stick.
And I don’t tear my eyes away when he loops around the ice offering knuckles to his teammates.
I might not know anything about hockey.
And I might be in a fake relationship with a hockey player.
But I know one thing for sure. Silas Taters just stole a little piece of my heart.
* * *
“Oh my God,”I yell as Silas is slammed against the Plexiglas. I turn into Ross and cover my eyes. “What on earth is this brutality?”
Ross loops his arm around me and says, “I’ve never been more captivated in my entire life.” And then to my horror, he yells, “Get the fucking puck!”
“Ross, don’t yell at them. They’re trying their hardest.”
“No, they’re not when they can’t score a freaking goal. What is this shit?”
Mr. Mustard leans in and says, “This is normal for hockey. There aren’t many high-scoring games.”
“Wait.” Ross turns toward him and asks, “You’re telling me, we sit here for five periods—”
“Three,” I correct, because I did learn something from the Uber driver.
“Ah, that’s right, we sit here through three periods with an expectation of one goal?”
“On average, one to three,” Mr. Mustard says.
“Well, that’s just . . . thrilling,” Ross says with excitement as he screams again. “Slam him, Posey. Slam him against the wall.”
I’m not sure what I’ve created, and I’m not sure I like it.
* * *
Silas is so faston the ice.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.
He’s smooth and quick on his feet. He’s able to turn at a moment’s notice, and then how he handles his stick. Hockey must be one of the hardest sports to master.
The puck is on the other side of the . . . uh . . . rink? Is that what we’re calling it? And a bunch of guys are fighting over it. It reminds me of little kids playing soccer when a small group huddles around the ball, trying to get it.
But this is much more . . . brutal. Elbows fly, bodies are shoved, and there was even a fight between Posey and another player where Posey upper-cutted the guy. I’ve talked to that man. He’s so nice in person, but to see him just go at it with another guy was shocking.
All of a sudden, the crowd erupts, and I glance down the rink to see what’s going on. Out of nowhere, Silas skates down the ice, twisting his stick, handling the puck. He passes it over to Holmes. Silas slides behind the goalie, and then with two flicks of the wrist, one from Holmes and one from Silas, they score.
A siren goes off, a red light flashes, and I swear on my two tits, the crowd cheers so loud that I fear the arena might collapse.
