Secret Obsession: Chapter 63

During warm-ups, I spot Willow sitting in the seats I had reserved for her and her family. She’s right in the corner by my goal, so I’ll be able to see her for two periods. It may or may not be a mistake to have her in my line of sight, but I’d like to think it’s less of a worry than not being able to see her.

Greyson and Steele both had bad things happen when their girls didn’t show up for games. Away games, nonetheless. I’m just glad we’ve avoided any such drama, and we’re well on our way to recovery.

Willow’s forehead is still healing, although the stitches came out just fine. It’s fading into a pink, slightly puckered scar that the doctors say will smooth out in no time. Not that I give a shit, but I catch her examining it in the mirror sometimes.

My gaze ticks over from her to the younger girl, a carbon copy of Willow, sitting beside her. She grins and waves at me, although Willow grabs her hands and pushes them down almost immediately.

Next over are who I can only assume are Willow’s parents. They look… stiff. Maybe uncomfortable? Willow’s mom’s hair is obscured by a navy CPU cap, matching her husband’s. He slides his glasses farther up his nose and frowns at something his wife says.

On Willow’s other side is Violet, but her attention is on the sister. Following whatever she’s saying.

“Whiteshaw,” Steele barks. “Focus.” He taps my leg with his stick as he skates past.

I grimace and head toward the benches and the top of our zone, where I can drop to the ice and stretch. My padding feels heavier today, with more eyes on me than ever.

Willow is graduating this year.

I’ve been staving off signing with a team, against my better judgment, because my parents wanted me to graduate with a degree.

But if I can just jumpstart my career, I can sweep her away. We can do anything we want. I don’t know if she has a preference where we live, but I’m sure she can get a job wherever we end up. Or she can build her own empire.

Or she can just take up hobbies, like singing. Forever and ever.

After I warm up, I head back to the crease. BJ trades places with me, sweat already lining his brow. Good fucking thing he’s not playing tonight—I have a feeling he’d choke on our big playoffs’ night.

I have to be perfect.

Not just for the Crown Point Hawks, but for Willow. Some little part of me wants to impress her family, so they know that I’m going to take care of her forever.

I laser in on Knox, who skates forward with a puck. He’s the easiest and the hardest to read, because his micro-movements are sometimes misleading. A fake there, a true slice here. He’s been known to get some past me—but most of the time, he’s got nothing on me.

He shoots, and I catch it in my glove.

Easy-peasy.

I drop it and focus on the next. Then again. After a few minutes of that, I straighten and get out of the way. It opens the floodgates for shooting, our whole team moving in rows to take shots at the goal.

“You good?” I ask BJ, stopping beside him.

He’s getting greener. “I’m glad you’re playing,” he mumbles.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, me, too, with that fucking attitude.”

I step off the ice and head back to the locker room. He follows, and I pull off my helmet. Greyson and Finch are already in the locker room, and Tony Rodrigues is close behind. There’s a new energy tonight, one that’s been lacking in the last few games. It doesn’t matter that my doctors warned me about continuing to play and further concussions.

An excitement buzzes through us.

I take a seat in front of my cubby and watch Greyson and Finch fake spar. I know by now that Greyson’s just trying to keep Finch’s mind off shit. He, like BJ, is an occasional worrier. He’ll make a great forward on a professional team one day, if he even goes that route.

Hell, maybe he’ll decide that it isn’t for him, and we’ll see him coaching the future stars.

Or not.

Knox emerges, and I avoid his gaze. He always looks at me first now, testing the waters. Waiting for me to break.

Mom wants me to forgive him so fucking badly, and of course they’re here tonight. I just don’t have it in me. Maybe eventually, but definitely not right now. He took care of Freeman’s body for us as an apology. And he’s actually said the words I’m sorry on numerous occasions.

It’s just not enough when my trust in him is so broken.

And then it’s game time. I glance at Willow when the girl singing the national anthem hits a relatively dour note, and she gives me a tiny smile in return.

Did she tell her parents about that? How exhilarating it was to sing in front of thousands of people and have them all cheer and scream for her once she finished?

If she didn’t, I will. I’ll brag about her all fucking day.

The game begins, and I push Willow out of my mind as much as I can. Let’s be real, she’s always there, floating in the back. But I put the weight of my attention on the players in front of me. And they come crashing down into our zone first, my defensemen circling the coal and blocking players. A rogue opponent parks himself right in front of me.

I shove him away. Fucker.

I slam to the side and block a low shot. The puck slams into my left leg’s pad and ricochets off, collected by Steele and shot up the left side of the rink. The player is still in my space, seeming to linger.

“Get the fuck away from me,” I snap, using my stick to propel him backward. “You think we’re dating or something? Stage five clinger?”

He shakes his head.

We have the puck, and he’s got to follow, or the whistle will be blown. Would hate to be caught offside.

Asshole.

I bend forward, elbows on my thighs, and wait. I scan each player from across the ice. How they move.

One catches the puck and comes charging toward me. The Hawks on the ice won’t be able to catch him in time, and suddenly it becomes a one-on-one play. I ready myself, everything in me dropping into the zone.

The way he shifts his weight. The angle of his blade against the puck, guiding it out ahead of him. I drift forward the slightest bit in the crease, ready for the shot. And when he takes it, it whips high and to the right. I push off and catch the puck in my shoulder. The padding saves me from a world of hurt—I’ve been hit there without padding, and my whole arm has gone numb.

The puck falls, and I dive on it at the same time that the player tries to take another swing. I land over the puck, still mostly in the crease, and cover it with my catcher.

I also catch his stick with my fucking face.

The impact rattles my bones. My head snaps back, and pain zings down my back. The hit pulls my helmet clean off my head. My body has no choice but to follow the momentum.

I vaguely hear a whistle blow, but my vision goes white and then black.