Page 145 of Only Ever You

She lifts a foot a little higher than usual as she takes another step. “Heels. It was stupid of me to wear them, especially after the hours I’ve spent this week on the ice. My feet are dying.”

I chuckle softly and scoop her up. “Come here.”

She yelps, surprised, and cuffs the back of my neck, holding on tightly.

Body relaxing against mine, she circles her arms around my neck. “You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I wanted to.”

She’s light and warm, her familiar scent of peaches and vanilla comforting. With her head resting against my cheek, her soft hair tickles my skin, and for a second, all the negative thoughts in my head go quiet.

But it doesn’t last long.

Despite trying to focus on the way she feels, my mind drifts back to those words: do I have what it takes to be an Olympian’s boyfriend?

“You okay?” She presses her warm palm to my cheek, making me look at her.

I tighten my hold on her a little. “Yeah. Just tired. It’s late, and we have a game tomorrow.”

“You’re being honest with me—true or not true?”

Not true. “True,” I lie.

It’s not that I don’t want to talk about things that bother me, and it’s not because I think she won’t understand. I’m keeping this to myself because I don’t want her to know about the storm inside my chest tonight. Not when she’s working her ass off on the ice, preparing for the Grand Prix in France. She’s got enough on her mind without worrying about me.

I’ll figure out how to deal with this noise and move past it.

With an exhale, I kiss her temple and whisper, “Let’s get you home.”

The arena is packed—GBU students, parents, locals, and a good number of fans from Santa Clara, who are here to root for the Dolphins.

I’m buzzing to be on the ice. The crash and its consequences are my fuel tonight, along with the stress and anxiety that came along with being off the ice while I recovered and the social media circus and mean comments I block on a daily basis. I want to win this game, and I want to win it on my terms.

And with the start we’ve had? The chances are pretty strong.

After a 2-on-1 alongside Ash, I scored the night’s first goal. The Dolphins are good, but their goalie, Kenzo Tanaka, failed to block the puck I sent into the net with a precise flick of my wrist after Ash’s assist.

The first period ended with a score of 1-0.

The Dolphins returned for the second period determined to change the game. Their defense woke up, intercepting and winning at the puck possession.

Their efforts have been valiant, but they aren’t the only ones playing their best.

Not long after a successful penalty kill by the Dolphins, I double our lead. With seven minutes left in the second, Bouchard, our right wing, set me up for a shot close to the net.

“Yeah, baby!” I yell, throwing my fist into the air.

We’re ahead by two, the lead giving me a little relief, but three minutes later, when Braun puts the Dolphins on the board, I’m reminded of why it’s not wise to count one’s chickens before they hatch.

The goal came six seconds into the Dolphins’ second power play of the night. Flores was fuming, and I couldn’t blame him. Our defense failed him with that one.

No matter how GBU student Michael Thompson feels about fellow GBU student Diego Flores, it means nothing during the game. I’ll do anything for the Hawks, for my teammates, and so will he.

As the third period is set to begin and I step onto the ice for face-off, I glance at the stands, quickly finding Isla watching me. At the sight, a smile takes over my lips, and my whole body hums. She’s sitting two rows above our team’s bench, my number drawn on her cheek in dark blue, one of the team’s colors. Practically bouncing in her seat, she blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it, then press my hand to my chest, over my heart. All her kisses belong there. She belongs there.

Breaths evening out, I focus on the game. It’s time to win the face-off for my team.

I keep my eyes on the puck in the referee’s hand, ignoring the commotion around me. He drops the biscuit between Lewis, the Dolphins’ center, and me. I get as much of the blade of my stick on the ice as possible, a trick my dad taught me a long time ago, the secret skill he used to win the playoffs.