When the coaches call for a line change, I sit on the bench, my leg bouncing erratically.
Something hits me over the back of my helmet, and I turn to find Morgan’s red and angry face.
“Get out of your head,” he yells over the noise of the crowd and loud atmosphere of a hockey game. “Think of something fun, and then go out there and live it.”
The most fun I’ve had since Jet left was with Morgan the other day. Before that it was … shit, any time I’ve been in Jet’s presence.
I picture the way his curls fall into his face and think of his unapologetic attitude.
Just his passion for life makes me feel complete. His joy is contagious, and it’s impossible to be in a bad mood around him.
I must make a face because Morgan smiles.
“That. Right there. Hold on to that.”
I get back on the ice, thinking of Jet, picturing the photo of him and his niece that Matt sent the other day, and I think about how much fun we’ll have next year when I’m no longer doing this.
Make this your best season ever.
Jet’s voice rings through my head so loud and clear I’d swear he’s out here on the ice with me.
Pratt, a D-man on my line, wrestles for the puck. His opponent goes down, and Pratt gets the breakaway.
The rookie, Ivanov, the one I’ve been barely able to keep up with, chases after him.
One of Wayne Gretzky’s famous sayings is: A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.
So, I don’t skate to catch up to Pratt. I skate to put myself in the perfect position.
And it’s like fucking magic.
I’m where he needs me to be the second he needs me to be there.
He passes backward to me, and I take my shot. My slapshot to the top right of the net is always on point, but everyone in the league knows that about me by now. It’s my signature move and has been for years. That won’t do this time. Not if I’m going to make this season my best. That’s why I deke the goalie out of position and let him think I’m taking the slapshot. He prepares to catch it in his glove and blocks the right side, which is why he’s taken off guard when I change direction and send the puck sailing past him.
The lamp lights up for the first time tonight for either team.
Pratt gets to me first with a massive hug and backslap, and then the rest of my line catches up and does the same.
My mojo is back.
After that, there’s no stopping me.
I get an assist for Ivanov’s first-ever NHL goal.
Another assist.
Then a goal.
Assist.
And to top it off, in the last minute of the third period, I pull off the fucking hat trick, and we walk away winners of the game 7–3.
Six of those points belong to me, and I don’t think I’ve had a solo game that great in at least five years.
Nothing can bring down this high. Not even when our head coach says, “So glad you finally caught up from your vacation, Soren.”
“I figured saving it all up for when the proper season starts would be smart,” I say, and the entire team laughs.
After I shower and get dressed in my post-game suit, I take my phone out.
My stomach flips.
Jet: My man scored a hat trick. Congrats, babe. You were on fire tonight.
Me: Wait … are you telling me you saw one of my games? Like MY game. Me. One of my games …
Jet: I told you I would. And hey, I totally streamed your preseason games but there was nothing in them to brag about.
Me: You’re lucky I’m on such a high right now even your snark can’t bring me down. I wish I didn’t have a roommate tonight so we could Skype.
Jet: Ugh. I’d love that, but we can’t anyway. I’m still at the studio. Will be all night at this rate.
Me: Still?
I tell myself not to hate that. He’s working. And it’s not like he’s there with Harley alone … I don’t think.
Me: Are Benji and Freya there?
I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ream me for that one.
Me: Sorry. I do trust you, but I don’t like it.
Jet: Hey, I wouldn’t like it either if I were you, so I understand. Benji and Freya aren’t here, but Marty and Luce are. They’ve been running interference with Harley. It’s fucking entertaining, but it’s getting painful. We still haven’t even begun laying down our track, and it’s been two weeks.
Me: Apart from that, how’s working with him?
Jet: Don’t get me started.
Chapter Thirty-Two
JET
I grit my teeth. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“You can’t,” Luce says.
“Sorry to every teenage girl in the world, but your precious Harley Valentine is a dead man.”