Page 80 of Lovefool

The Frozen Four never takes place in the same location, and it just so happens to be held in Saint Paul, Minnesota, this year. It’s only a three-hour drive compared to what could’ve been a days’ worth of travel.

I’m glad a few students from the school newspaper are tagging along to cover the game, one of which includes my new girlfriend, whom I, selfishly, cannot get enough of. Knowing she’ll be there in the stands, watching and supporting me, dislodges the worry that had calcified in my bones.

Lake has been knocked out for about thirty minutes now, snoring softly, using my hoodie-clad shoulder as a makeshift napkin for the adorable bit of drool leaking from her mouth.

I truly had no idea if she wanted to make things official with me, but it was a risk I was willing to take. This girl is in a league of her fucking own, and I’m still shocked that she gives me the time of day.

In the past, I’ve never been a relationship guy. I’ve never connected strongly enough with anybody to give them a warrant into the old, long-vacant safe house inside of me—the one with creaky floorboards and rusted doors that have been shut for the better half of my adolescence.

Lake, however, knows how to pick locks.

None of it scares me, though. It feels like I’ve been waiting a long time to call her my girlfriend, and whatever shit the world decides to throw at us is handled better with two hearts instead of one. My stomach practically plunged through the earth’s crust when she said yes to my ill-planned proposal.

The volume level of the bus is diabolical. I have no idea how Lake is getting any adequate sleep right now. I feel the excitement vibrate underneath my skin, pride catching in the netting of my chest at the image of Crew and Harlan and Axel smushing together for a shameless selfie.

The smiles on everyone’s faces tattoo to the inside of my brain—the kind of memory that lasts despite the neighborhood of anxiety and self-pity I circle a handful of times each day. I don’t remember a time when all of us were so happy. Sure, winning games is incredible, but the high usually doesn’t last that long. This, though—this feeling of family—will be embedded in me long after we exit the Xcel Energy Center, whether we leave with a trophy or not.

Lake looks up at me through heavy-lidded eyes, joining me back in the land of the living with bloodshot scleras that tell me the rambunctious noise must’ve undermined her nap.

“How long was I out?” she asks.

My voice is rough from disuse, or maybe it’s the pesky nerves that have packed an unsanctioned carry-on so they can torment me for the remainder of the trip. “Forty minutes, give or take.”

“So we’re probably not there yet, huh?”

“Nope, but I don’t mind the trip. Gives me more time to take in the view,” I say, feeling a smile bloom on my mouth as I trace the high rise of her cheekbone with my thumb.

Admiration shoots through my core, riling up the butterflies in my belly that have left far too many blushes unfolding over the planes of my face.

Lake playfully shoves me in the shoulder. “You’re so cheesy.”

“Maybe, but I’m not wrong.”

“Take a picture, Whittaker. It will last longer.”

“Trust me, I’ve been mentally committing you to memory since the day we met.”

Peruvian-blue eyes that harbor little flecks of brown like silt against a seafloor, hair the same shade as early-morning sunshine, natural lashes so long they flirt with her browbone, a button nose that turns red every time I give her a compliment or kiss her in just the right spot, luscious lips that look exceptionally beautiful whenever they form my name. I couldn’t forget Lake’s face even if I tried. There would be no timeline where I’d want to, either.

Whatever quip she had locked and loaded shatters in her throat, and she ducks her head shyly while altering herself into a more upright position. “Are you nervous about the semifinals? MU hasn’t gotten this close to the championship game in years.”

Right. That fun little factoid hasn’t evaded me. I’ve thought about this moment since I joined the team, and being this close to the championship trophy feels like a dream. I also haven’t forgotten that stunt I pulled during the first regional finals game where everyone and their mother saw me lose my shit.

Coach was pissed after the game—said he’d have to contemplate letting me play in the Frozen Four because he couldn’t afford an unpredictable liability on the ice. I should’ve received a harsher punishment. Even though I don’t regret what I did, I could’ve gone about it in a different way. I nearly cost my team this opportunity.

The honeymoon phase I’ve been suspended in for the past forty-eight hours evaporates into recycled air, and the pressure to not let my teammates down rushes me like a basement flooding with water. Fast-rising, unforgiveable.

“I was, uh, trying not to think about it,” I admit awkwardly, guilt curling around the syllables—a quiet killer if one chooses to indulge it. “I’m not sure if Coach will even let me play after our last game.”

Lake shouts loud enough to reroute everyone’s current attention. “He has to! You’re”—she reconsiders her volume, then quiets down to a hush—“one of the strongest players on the team. You’re indispensable. Nobody can hold up the defense like you can.”

As much as I appreciate Lake’s support, I’d be lying if I said this what-if of disappointing my friends isn’t more painful than resetting a broken bone.

I brush her off, feeling like an ant bursting into flames under her unintentional magnifying glass. “Trust me, I want to play more than anything, but Coach has the final say.”

Judging by the Medusa glare Lake throws my way, I’m about to endure one hell of a tirade about immoral law and censorship before Foster peeks his head over the back of his seat, slithering into our conversation without a care in the world—or an invitation.

“You’re playing in the semifinals. Coach can punish you after we win that fucking trophy.”