Page 165 of Cross Check

“Let’s go Stars!” someone chants, and the crowd answers with enthusiastic agreement.

Hopping off the elevator, I veer to the left. I flash my ticket to another security guard and shuffle into the line that will take me in the direction of my seat.

“Miller is out tonight,” the guy in front of me says to his friend. “A family issue or some other bullshit like that.”

“Why the fuck are they paying him that much money if he doesn’t want to play?” The man next to him groans. “That leaves, who? Everett to score? We’re going to lose by five goals.”

Protectiveness grips me.

I want to argue with them, to give them stats that disprove their assumption, but I bite my tongue. I adjust the brim of my hat even lower, not wanting any sort of recognition while I eavesdrop. Judging by their opinions on a player taking a night off for a personal issue, they’re shitty people who would find a way to argue about anything.

There’s another check of my ticket, and I’m ushered into my suite. I stop in my tracks at the food lining the walls. I find pancakes and meatball subs. An entire key lime pie and freshly popped popcorn. I spy a bottle of Chardonnay next to a pitcher of iced tea.

It’s all of my favorite things, and my grin bursts free while my eyes bounce around the rest of the room. The couches are made with dark leather. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers, roses, and hydrangeas sitting on the marble countertop, and I walk to it.

The small envelope next to the flowers catches my eyes. I open it and read the card inside.

A-

No matter what happens with Baltimore, I’ll always be proud of you. You’re a superstar, and I can’t wait to watch you soar.

-G

There’s a heart after his initial, and my own heart swoops low at the tiny symbol.

I trace the letters on the note before tucking it away for safekeeping. I’ll hang it on my fridge when I get back home.

Grabbing a meatball sub and a glass of wine, I relax in the plush chair that faces the ice. The Stars enter the rink, and Grant comes out of the tunnel last. When his skates hit the ice, he scans the crowd. He lifts his hand in a wave when he spots me, and I wave back. Even from here I can see the smile he’s wearing, and happiness barrels into me.

It’s pure, unadulterated bliss. It’s all-encompassing, something I haven’t felt in…fuck. I’m not sure ever.

Not like this.

Not because of another person who knows me as deeply as he does.

The puck drops, and the game starts. I focus on the sport I love, not the man I can feel staring at me from the bench.

When the lines switch and Grant enters the game, I scoot forward in my chair. I can’t take my eyes off of him, tracking his every move and impressed by how much energy he has.

Every possession, every face-off, every second he’s out there, he’s doing something that will help his team. Rebounding, passing, skating backward to protect Sullivan in the goal. He covers two hundred feet in the blink of an eye, and my cheeks hurt from how hard I’m grinning.

In the third period, he takes a shot that barely misses the net. The puck ricochets off the post and flies toward the corner along the boards.

One of his teammates—Hayes, it looks like—scoops up the rebound and passes it back to Grant, but it’s deflected by the opposing team who takes off toward Sullivan. They move down the ice. The winger kicks the puck back to his defenseman to line up for a shot, but Grant is there.

He dives between the net and the opponent’s stick, sacrificing himself. As he does, the puck hits him right at the base of his neck, in the spot unprotected by his helmet and pads. Grant drops to the ice immediately, sprawled out on his stomach and sliding over the face-off circle where he stays unmoving.

The play stops, and when it does, chaos ensues.

Ethan throws off his gloves and takes a swing at the player who made the pass that hit Grant. The redhead’s fists fly. He punches anywhere he can reach, but Grant is still down. Lexi rushes onto the ice and I stand on instinct, fumbling with my phone so I can watch the replay and find out exactly what happened.

I slow the video down and pause it at the moment of impact. I watch it again, finding that Grant was struck in the back of the neck, right near the top of his spine. It was an accident, a player in the wrong place at the wrong time, but a hush falls over the hometown crowd as they wait for their player to get up.

“Shit,” I whisper.

The spot where Grant got hit is one of the most vulnerable spots of an athlete’s body. Spine injuries are serious, and from the way Lexi motions to the training staff standing in the tunnel, I know they’re getting a spinal board so they can attempt to keep him as stationary as possible.

The fighting has died down. Both teams watch Grant, and when he gets loaded onto the board, he lifts his arm and wiggles his fingers. A sob escapes me, relief swift and sharp as he curls his hand into a fist then releases it.