Page 24 of Cross the Line

She nodded. “Thanks, Lo.”

I heard some shouting in the background, and she rolled her eyes with a laugh. “I should probably get going.”

“Me too. I need to rest up before my game tomorrow.”

“Good luck. I’ll be watching it on the live stream.”

“Thanks, Bryn.”

“Always.”

We ended the call, and I puttered around my apartment, trying to sift through my complicated mix of emotions. Happiness—of course—for Bryn and Frasier. Though I couldn’t help but think of Derek too, and all that he was missing.

And it wasn’t just Derek. I knew I’d been missing out on my friends’ lives by living across the country, but tonight’s conversation had been a wake-up call. Georgia was dating someone—or, at least, she had been. And it seemed serious, which was unusual for her. Bryn was pregnant. Frasier was going to be a dad, and he’d moved in with Bryn. Carson was…well, Carson.

I typed out a new text message to him.

Me: Thank you for the pie. It was delicious. I can’t believe you did that.

Three dots danced and disappeared. Danced and disappeared before, finally, he responded.

Trouble: I’d do anything for you.

I reread his message as if it would provide some insight into his thoughts. Did he really mean that? Or had he, like everyone else at Bryn’s, been drinking and he was feeling sentimental? Either way, I was too afraid to ask. Because deep down, some small part of me hoped that he meant it. And that scared me.

CHAPTER FIVE

December

“Just a friendly reminder that some of the guys from the LA Hawks will be attending our game tonight as part of the NHL’s new Culture Initiative,” Coach said from the front of the locker room. “So let’s put on a good show for them.”

“Fuck that,” my teammate Annika said. “Let’s put on a good show for the fans. They’re the ones filling the seats week after week.”

There were several cheers of agreement. She was right, but also…was it so wrong to want to impress our fellow hockey players? Or maybe one specific fellow athlete?

I groaned. Get your head in the game, Frost. Hockey first. I slapped the side of my helmet as if to drill that mantra into my brain. Always.

Even so, my mind often drifted to Carson, especially the past few weeks. We texted nearly every day and saw each other on the biweekly video conferences we attended for the NHL advisory board on culture. Thanks to those meetings, and a suggestion I’d made, Carson and some of his teammates would be attending the game tonight.

I’d argued that the NHL needed to find ways to show that they were serious about changing the organizational culture. Something that went beyond the mandatory upstander training. Carson had piggybacked on the idea, suggesting that some of the NHL players attend a PWHL game to show support and raise awareness. He’d then pointed out the fact that the Hawks would already be in Minnesota for their own game and could easily stay for the Minnesota Wolves game against the Maine Beacons. My game.

I secretly wondered if he’d done it to give himself an excuse to see me, but then I told myself to stop being ridiculous. We were friends, and that was all this was ever going to be. I knew that, and Carson knew that, and I was foolish to imagine it could be otherwise.

Once the NHL had secured approval from Atlas Rawlins, the owner of the Hawks, as well as Coach Cross, some of the players from the Hawks had started posting about their excitement to attend our game. Tickets had sold out almost immediately.

Coach handed me the roster, and I read out who would be playing first. Each name earned a clap, and then I called, “Let’s go, Wolves,” and everyone started howling.

I was grinning as I lined up at the exit from the locker room to the hall that led to the ice. I lifted my fist, waiting for each of my teammates to bump it as they passed.

“Don’t let them crash the crease, Burg,” I said to our goalie. She nodded.

“Head up out there, Ritz,” I said as she tapped me.

I bumped fists with several more of my teammates, expressions focused, attention on the game. I offered encouragement when I could, last-minute reminders, and support.

“Annie,” I bellowed as Annika passed. “Show us why you’re called Annie Oakley. Get those biscuits in the basket.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She bumped my fist then turned her hand into a gun and pretended to shoot the wall before blowing on it.