Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Twelve - Bastien

For twenty minutes before puck drop, we're given our home half of the ice to skate around, warm up, get our bearings. Johnson goes through stretches in the crease while Haart swings all two hundred something pounds of him in lazy circles, skating backward while he dribbles a puck. Fans start to descend from the upper deck and take their seats laden with sodas, beers, pizza and hotdogs.

The puck comes toward me – a pass from Russo. I slap my stick down in position, pluck it out of its trajectory and snap it past Johnson for a goal.

Or I should have.

For the third time since warming up, it arcs wide and ricochets off the pipe with a resounding ping. Bower picks it up, spraying me with ice as he stop-cuts and veers in the opposite direction. I can't pay much attention to his shit-eating grin, though. I'm too focused on Haart's knowing gaze.

I've been playing like shit during scrimmages all week. I'm seriously surprised coach didn't pull me from tonight's first line. Something weird has changed in my equilibrium. And she has big brown eyes and a bewitching, if rare, smile.

All the signs are there. I'm stubborn, but not stupid, for fuck's sake. You don't have to be Nostradamus to figure out I'm falling for Reece Reagan. Texting silly memes, Face-Timing from the bus, beaming at her likes on Instagram aren't enough anymore. Maybe they never were.

Something broke, seeing her under the glow of Christmas lights. Maybe it was getting a lecture on Tim Burton. Maybe it's the way she still looks confused when people stop me and ask for autographs. Maybe it's how she felt like home, fingers laced in mine, my arm around her waist. I'm starting to see my life in hers, seriously consider taking Spencer up on his offer.

That scares the shit out of me.

Kids line up at the other side of the plexi, waving at us where we go through our drills. In our circles, we'll punch the glass for fist-bumps. Some players, myself included, flick the pucks we're handling up and over the barriers to eager little hands.

The Toledo Walleyes represent the biggest threat to our undefeated streak and position for the Kelly Cup. Coach had us watching film all this week to try and get a handle on their styles and players. One of their d-men, Pachyek, is a colossus of a d-man known for delivering tsunami-sized checks.

"So watch yourself out there, Killfeather," had been Burt's warning. "I know how much you love your flashy skating."

I spot a familiar head of blue hair descending the steps toward the player's section. At her side, looking simultaneously excited and terrified, is Reece.

Really, they're great seats. Center ice, just above the team benches. They sit, peering around at the swarm of black and red jerseys on the ice.

I angle a puck on its side where I run my firing drill. A flick of my wrist sends it soaring, pinging off the plexiglass right in front of their faces. The effect makes Reece yelp, then, finding my cheeky grin, she flips me the bird.

"Killfeather, what the hell?" Coach Burt demands as the falling puck narrowly misses plunking him on the head.

"Sorry, Coach." I spin away and go back to the warm-up. "Slipped."

Kaila stands and starts waving enthusiastically. "Bastien! Spencer!"

The buzzer sounds for us to get back into the chute for the Zambonis to clean the ice and start the pre-game show. Haart yanks off his helmet to wink and blow her a kiss before hopping off the ice and heading into the locker room.

Spencer flops down heavily beside me. "Reece made it out."

"Yep." I make a non-committal shrug, return his smirk. "As did Kaila."