Spiral (Off the Ice, #2) (15)
SEVEN
ELIAS
AFTER OUR LAST game against Dallas, I’ve seen my physical therapist three times. Falling on my ass last night didn’t help the ache in my body from a particularly brutal hit. Neither has it subsided when I wake up an hour before my alarm because the blinding sun pierces through my curtains.
I stare at my clock, only for the skipping stone on the nightstand to grab my attention. I forgot I kept it.
Suddenly, Sage’s laugh sounds fresh in my ears, and the way she bursts with energy is so contagious that it was impossible not to feel it too. Carefree and happy. That’s how I would have described her when I first met her, but after our date, I know that’s not her reality. She’s an open book and acts like nothing bothers her, but I know if I were to peel back the mask, it would show me something else. Something that would tell me her willingness to share the traumatic experiences of her life helps her hide a lot more. Like she’s shielding it with a facade of honesty.
I rarely trust people easily, if at all. But Sage spoke about things differently. Her passion for ballet broke through any whisper of doubt I had about her. She wasn’t on this date to get my number or snoop around my personal life. She was fulfilling her end of a deal she got roped into.
My thoughts scatter when I finally get up to shower and eat breakfast. There’s an anxious flutter that squeezes my stomach before I even reach for my phone and see the notifications. It’s not uncommon for me to receive a barrage of texts and tagged posts before a game, but this time it’s different.
BUNNY PATROL
Kian Ishida: Eli has a girlfriend and I’m finding out from the INTERNET?
Dylan Donovan: We’re coming to visit you soon, so you can’t ignore us anymore.
Kian Ishida: They’re gone for a few weeks and forget about us. Assholes.
In a panic, I click the link Kian sent and find another article from some gossip magazine about me. However, this time it’s not alluding to a one-night stand or the new girl of the week. It labels the girl in the picture as my girlfriend. When I press the image, it’s a picture of Sage and me when she had taken off her heels and handed them to me, jumping on my back as I carried her to my car. My lips almost twitch into a smile before I snap back to reality. This is bad.
It’s only a matter of time before she’s labeled as some gold digger, and people start to harass her on social media. When Brandy, our team photographer, was pictured with me, she had to disable her accounts because the messages were getting hateful. I can’t imagine what Sage’s will look like today. I know I have to warn her.
SAGE
Elias: Can we meet?
Sage: Am I dreaming? Cause I swear you were just a figment of my imagination.
Elias: Sage.
Sage: I can just picture you saying that. All growly like a little bear.
Elias: Little?
My phone instantly buzzes with a call. Sage’s smooth voice comes through when I answer. “Are you flirting with me, Westbrook?”
“Can we meet? I need to talk to you.”
“Miss me already?” She laughs. There’s music in the background and some shuffling like she’s moving things around. “Uh, sure. But not for an hour. Can you meet me at U of T?”
“The university?”
“Yeah, I teach ballet at a studio on Brunswick. I can meet you at the Bliss Café beside it.”
Going to a college campus where we rocked their hockey team a few months back, and then I got drafted to their national team, is never a good option. But I caused this inconvenience in Sage’s life, so I can brave a visit.
When I pull into a parking stall, I realize my hat isn’t doing much to cover my face, so I pull my hoodie over it. Black sunglasses make me look out of place, but it’s better than being recognized as a hockey player who can’t keep his dick out of the media. It’s humiliating when you realize people aren’t talking about how you play but rather how much you play outside the rink. Spending my whole life working toward the league, I feel the burden of carrying a reputation that demeans the sport and its players. Sometimes, there’s no way forward but through. It’s the going through it part I can’t quite stomach.
A flash of a pink fluttery skirt and curly brown hair dances across the large window of Elegance Ballet Studio. I lean against the hood of my car and lower my sunglasses. Sage smiles so brightly that the kids she’s teaching replicate it. Studious faces follow her lead as she moves in cadence with the music. I can almost hear the classical notes through the window as I watch.
With hockey, it’s easy to tell the difference between the players who work hard and those who eat and breathe hockey like it’s a part of their soul. That’s what I see when I watch Sage. Dancing is a part of her soul.
The class ends, and the kids exit to meet their parents outside as Sage turns to her phone to pause the music. When her gaze finds mine through the glass, she squints, pauses for a beat, then bursts into laughter. She doubles over like she’s spotted a clown in the middle of the road.
I stand straighter, looking around to confirm she’s laughing at me. Wiping away nonexistent tears, she places a hand on her stomach to catch her breath before she pulls out her phone and takes a picture of me. Ignoring her impolite greeting, I head inside the secluded café beside the studio and wait by one of the tables in the corner.