Page 67
My spidey senses were tingling. I think I knew that guy. I didn’t recognize the jersey number, but I could swear I knew him.
“Hey, who’s number 63?” I asked Abby.
Abby furrowed her brow as she looked at the player in question. “I don’t know. It might be the freshman who was transferring here this semester. I don’t know anything about him. Foster said Coach told him a new player was supposed to be joining the team, but I think it was supposed to be when the semester started. He must’ve decided to come earlier so he didn’t miss more games.”
A transfer. Who transferred mid-year their freshman year? Actually, that was probably more common than I thought. People changed schools all the time for all kinds of reasons. But something about this particular transfer was making my skin prickle in a way I couldn’t explain.
“Has he been practicing with the team all week?”
If it was who I thought it was, Gordy would’ve told me, right? He wouldn’t keep that kind of secret and let me be blindsided.
“No, I don’t think so. When Foster and I were talking last night, he didn’t mention anything about a new player for today’s game, so it must be his first day. And if that’s the case, then the poor guy hasn’t even gotten to practice with the team yet. Talk about trial by fire.”
“Yeah…” My gaze was now locked on number 63.
He didn’t do anything flashy, and it was clear he wasn’t as in sync with the rest of the team. He took a position along the boards and battled for a loose puck before he made a simple pass to the point. But I watched every second of it with an intensity that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the gnawing feeling in my gut.
The first period settled into a rhythm after the shaky start. Both teams found their footing, and the plays got faster and more physical. Foster won most of his face-offs. Drew and Liam controlled the blue line the way they always did, practically reading each other without even looking, switching coverage seamlessly, and pinching at exactly the right moment. Our forecheck was relentless, hemming the other team in their zone for long stretches.
Harry made another spectacular save midway through the period—a point shot that deflected off a stick in front and changed direction completely. He somehow got a pad on it, kicking it into the corner. Drew cleared it up the boards and we transitioned the other way.
The period ended scoreless, which wasn’t surprising given how tight both teams were playing. During the intermission, I tried to focus on the conversation happening around me, but my mind kept drifting back to the new player.
There was no way.
He couldn’t be here at CFU.
Why the hell would he be here at CFU?
The second period started and the other team came out with more urgency. They scored first, three minutes in, on a deflection that bounced off one of our defensemen’s skates and past Harry before he could react. It was the kind of garbage goal that made everyone groan. Harry slammed his stick against the post and reset. I could see the frustration in his shoulders even from up here, but it was gone in a breath. He was already focused on the next play.
Foster tied it up a few minutes later, burying a rebound that Drew had fired from the point. The puck had landed right on Foster’s tape in the slot. He didn’t hesitate to rip it to the top corner. The guys on the bench went nuts, banging their sticks on the boards. I was on my feet along with the women next to me before I even registered moving.
Midway through the second, number 63 got his longest shift yet. Coach sent him out on a line change, and this time he was more involved. He won a board battle in the corner, digging the puck out with his feet and getting it to the point. On the next play, he set up in front of the net for a screen, taking a cross-check to the back from a defenseman without budging. The kid could hold his ground.
But then he was along the boards in the neutral zone, reaching for a loose puck, when one of the other team’s defensemen lined him up and absolutely leveled him. The hit was clean by hockey standards, but it looked fucking brutal. Number 63 went down hard, his head bouncing on the ice.
I was on my feet before I even processed what I was doing. My hands were in front of my mouth and my heart slammed against my ribs as I watched Foster skate up to him and help him up. Thank God for his helmet or that could’ve been so bad.
“Sam?” It was Abby’s voice, distant and concerned. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ice until he stood up and Foster clapped him on the back. They skated away like nothing had happened, but my heart was still racing like I’d just been chased by a bear.
I sat down and thrust my shaky hands between my knees.
“What was that?” Harper was looking at me with one eyebrow raised in concern. “You looked like you were about to jump over the glass.”
“Nothing. I’m fine. That was just a hard hit.”
“It was a hard hit,” Ava agreed. “But you don’t usually react like that to a player you don’t know.”
“I guess I’m still getting used to how violent hockey can be. I forgot over the break.”
They exchanged a look but turned back to the game without questioning me further. Abby’s hand found mine and squeezed once, and I squeezed back because I didn’t know what else to do.
Because I was almost certain now. Almost. And the almost was killing me.
The rest of the second period blurred past. I registered the action but I was watching it through a fog. Every time number 63 stepped on the ice, my chest constricted. Every time he sat on the bench, I tried and failed to see his face.
