Page 136 of Scarred

“You,” he grins, throwing on his gloves. “Ready to send their goalie home with a loss?”

A smile plays on my lips as I pick up my mask. “Been looking forward to it for weeks.”

“I bet you have,” he chuckles before walking over to talk to McCormick.

I look at my black mask in my hand, the artwork this year polished and gleaming under the overhead lights. Black, gray, and white designs cover the outside, showcasing my number and the word Bolts in bold capital letters running down both sides.

Palm trees bend and sway as storm waves rise for destruction, with lightning striking in the distance.

I find the small pink star that I had drawn for Scarlett amidst the chaos and run my finger over it for good luck, like I do for every game, before pulling it on top of my head.

Grabbing my gloves and stick, I line up with the rest of the team as we hit the tunnel for our warmup.

The arena is slowly filling up as my blades hit the smooth, cold surface. My eyes go directly to the seat I bought for Luna to see if she’s arrived yet, but I find it empty.

Reaching my net, I focus on some hip stretches and butterflies before I begin some crease movement as I move from post to post, getting my lower body sharp and responsive.

I spot the Vipers’ goalie on the other side of the arena doing the same as the other team begins to do laps and stretches.

Once I’m done with my warm-up routine, the guys start firing pucks my way as I warm up my hands and rebound control.

Glove save.

Blocker.

Kick save.

I go through every motion like I’ve done a thousand times before, letting muscle memory take control.

When Hayes circles the net, my eyes follow him, and I let my gaze wander to the seat again, still finding it empty.

Shaking my head, I skate back into position.

Get it together, Blade.

I’ve played in multiple playoff games. Stood in front of the net with an entire season on my shoulders while twenty thousand fans chanted my name in the background.

But apparently, the one thing that throws me off my game is a five-foot-seven dance teacher who hasn’t shown up yet.

Focusing back on the puck, I dig my blades into the ice and get ready for the rapid-fire one-timers as Kane sends one directly toward my net, followed by Foxx and the rest of the lineup.

When I finally get a breather, I flip my mask up and squirt some water in my mouth.

It’s then that I see her and everything stops.

She came.

And she’s wearing my jersey.

The number forty stretches across both arms, and when she turns slightly to talk to Sophia, I see Blade, written across her back.

My name.

I thought seeing someone wear it again would hurt.

I thought it would feel like losing another piece of my past I’ve been desperately trying to hold onto.

But it doesn’t.