Chapter 57: Trey: Number Seven

TREY

"Scotty boy, this your first start?"

Scott lifts his head. He’s sitting beneath his locker with his pants and shoulder pads on, his jersey still hanging up behind him. He’s spent the last minute fighting with one elbow pad. Tight, loose, tight again. If he keeps going, nerves will be the least of his problems when his hand loses circulation.

"Yeah, Cap." He gives the strap another tug. "First one."

He sounds like he’s about to shit his pants, and as the only freshman starting tonight, he doesn’t have anyone to share the misery with. Nobody else seems to notice. Walker is shouting across the room, our two sophomores in charge of music are arguing over whose shitty playlist has been on since we got here, and sticks keep clattering against the floor.

I close the distance between us and squeeze Scott’s shoulder. "Relax. I played like shit my first start."

He looks up properly this time. "You?"

"Hard to believe, I know."

"Don’t listen to him," Michael shouts. "He still plays like shit. We’ve just adjusted."

Scott laughs, but his fingers remain locked around the strap.

To be clear, I did play like shit, but only by my standards. Most guys would’ve called it a great game or be thrilled to perform that well. Unfortunately, not everyone is working with my level of talent.

The lie can live, especially when some of the tension finally leaves Scott’s face. "You know how to play. That’s why you’re dressed tonight. Do exactly what you’ve been doing in practice."

He nods, and when his hand falls away from the strap this time, he leaves it alone.

I turn to the rest of the room and clap my hands. "All right. Listen up."

Walker stops talking, but the two sophomores by the speakers take a few more seconds to notice everyone waiting on them. Once they shut up, the room settles around me, helmets resting on benches or held between knees as every face turns my way.

"We’re up in ten, so I’m not wasting it on a speech." I rest my stick against one shoulder and look around the room. "We’re better than Providence. Everyone here knows it, and by the end of tonight, they should know it too."

Nash answers with a shout, and Dawson starts beating his stick against the floor until the rest of the team joins him. Someone turns it into a chant against Providence, Jordan adds something obscene, and naturally, that’s the version everyone keeps.

The energy carries us through the rest of the wait while the last pieces of gear go on.

By the time we’re called out, everyone is ready. We grab our sticks and file into the tunnel, the scrape of skates against the rubber mixing with the voices behind me. The crowd starts as a low rumble somewhere ahead, growing until it drowns out almost everything else as we gather by the gate.

Nash bumps his shoulder against mine. "Sadie’s here."

I lean away from him. "As opposed to what?"

He laughs. "Then you’d better score a hat trick. Minimum."

"Fuck off."

"I’m trying to help you. You have to look more impressive than your brother. How else are you going to get her to want you?"

The nerve to talk like Ezra and I are evenly matched. Sadie has eyes. I shouldn’t have to score three goals to make her use them.

"More impressive than Ezra?" I look at him. "That’s a low fucking bar."

Nash laughs, drawing a look from Dawson ahead of us.

"Sadie’s into me," I add. "She just needs a little longer to figure out what to do about it."

He puts a gloved hand on my shoulder. "You’re so fucked, my brother. So fucked."

I frown at him. That’s a strange conclusion after I’ve already explained exactly how this will end.

The gate opens before I can respond, and I push onto the ice with the rest of the team behind me. Cold slips through my helmet, but the weight of my gear fades once I get moving. My blades grip the ice, my stick settles into my hands, and everything feels right.

Steep banks of seats surround the rink, every section of Conte Forum crowded up to the highest rows. Light flashes from the video board above center ice as the noise follows us out. Fans pound against the glass, sticks strike the boards, and the music is loud enough to vibrate beneath my skates. By the time the announcer reaches Boreal’s name, nobody can hear him.

Providence has already claimed the far end for warm-ups. Their black jerseys are broken by white numbers and silver around the sleeves as they move through passing drills and take shots at their goalie.

"Ten minutes remaining in warm-ups," the announcer says over the speakers. "Ten minutes."

I follow Scott around the turn and glance toward the seats behind our bench. Quiz Bowl has the front row, which makes Sadie easy to find. She’s sitting near the middle in my jacket, grinning at the ice like she’s been waiting all day to get here.

For someone who acted like wearing it was some huge favor, she looks way too fucking happy in it. Good too. Really fucking good.

Her smile is wide and completely unguarded, with none of the suspicious frowning she usually saves for me. I’ve always known she’s beautiful, but oh, Goddess, she’s breathtaking like this.

Someone must have messed with the arena lights because every one of them seems to be pointed at her. The people on either side of her are still moving and talking, but I barely see them.

The jacket doesn’t help. Seeing her wrapped in something of mine makes me picture taking it off her after the game, followed by the shirt beneath it, her jeans, and anything else standing between me and fucking her properly.

The thought settles low in my body.

Fuck. If I keep staring, warming up is going to become the least comfortable part of tonight.

I skate through the bench gate and turn toward Sadie. She leans forward when she realizes I’m coming over, bringing that darn smile closer.

"You actually wore it," I shout.

"What?"