Page 82 of What We Knew Then
“Which means absolutely nothing if I play like shit tonight.”
Leo grins. “Confidence. Love to see it.”
I shrug and grab a textbook from my bag, pretending like the idea doesn’t stick somewhere in the back of my head. “Just another game.”
“Sure,” Matty drawls. “Except there are NHL scouts in the stands.”
“Then I guess we should give them something to watch.”
It’s the only way I know how to react before I slip into a spiral. Ever since Coach told me about the scouts, I’ve kept it to myself. It felt like adick move to bring it up to the guys, so I haven’t. Plus, I didn’t want it to feel too real.
But it is.
And I hope I don’t fuck this up.
After telling Cora about Oliver—including the night of the accident—I’ve felt lighter. Like it’s different not being the only person who knows the truth. Well, Oliver doesn’t count, because he’s not here.
Right now, I kind of wish he was. There’s been a few times this season when I look around at my teammates, or at something that’s happening, and there’s a rush of wondering what it’d be like if it was still me and him. Not even just missing him, but wishing we were still playing together.
The guys would love him. He’s just that kind of person. I can almost envision him and Leo going back and forth.
I’ve been keeping up on his season, how he’s playing. It’s not as solid as the Otters but they’re winning enough games to still have a handle on their season. My stomach flips when I think about playing him in a few weeks.
We’re playing at home and it will be the first time we’ve see each other since I left for Michigan. Part of me wonders if I should reach out, clear the air. Maybe answer his call or call him back.
Cora’s asked more questions about what it was like staying with the Knights. How me and Oliver were together. She’s curious and I don’t blame her.
No matter what, I’m grateful for the Knights. They saved me. They know it. I know it. It’s part of the reason why I did what I did that night.
I keep drifting to a time in the future where we’re together and all of this is behind us. Maybe we’re at one of Oliver’s games when he’s in the NHL? Or one of mine? It makes me feel stupidly optimistic.
I should know better.
Because life has never really worked out for me like that.
I do my best to shake off the memories and push those thoughts to the side. Today’s not the day for it.
Thearenaisdeafeningbefore the puck even drops.
Our student section is on their feet, pounding the glass; the music seems louder than I ever remember. I glide a slow circle during warmups, rolling my shoulders loose, forcing myself not to look into the stands where the scouts are supposed to be sitting.
Just another game. That’s what I keep telling myself. Otherwise I might fucking throw up on this ice in front of everyone.
I’m trying to catch my breath when I spot Cora. Tonight, she’s out of the press box and doesn’t have a clipboard or tablet for notes. Coach wanted everyone that wasn’t essential to be in the stands so they could have fun. She’s sitting behind the bench, wearing an Otters jersey with her first name on the back. Anyone who is part of the coaching staff or support team gets their own jersey each season.
When her eyes lock on mine, it lightens the weight I’m skating with. We’ve talked at length about the scouts—she knows how important tonight is. When she wasn’t reciting my stat line, trying to convince me how I could have a mediocre night and it’d still be scout worthy, she kept asking me what I needed, if there was anything she could do to help.
Her. I needed her. Knowing she’s cheering for me in the stands makes me feel even more capable. Like I can for sure fucking do this.
She claps in my direction and kisses the air. The simplest of gestures, but one that makes my heart pick up.
I’m fucking gone for her.
Midwaythroughthesecondperiod, the puck kicks loose along the boards and Troy taps it out to me at the blue line. The lane opens for half a second—just enough.
I pull the puck in, cut inside the defender, and shoot.
The red light flashes before I even fully register the sound of the puck hitting the back of the net.
