Eli’s gaze tracks Luke as he says, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Luke’s a teddy bear, too, and look at him.” Luke throws his shoulder into the other team’s offense and wins the puck, then skates toward the bench.
“Wait, why is Luke leaving already?” Eli asks.
“His shift is over.”
“He was on the ice for sixty seconds!”
“Less than that. More like forty-five. It doesn’t sound like a long time, but it’s tough. Hockey’s an anaerobic sport—you go as hard as you can the whole time you’re on the ice, switch, catch your breath, hydrate, then go back out there.”
“So he’s not being penalized,” Eli says.
“Nope. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to.”
Eli beams. “Good.”
Answering more of Eli’s questions, I explain icing and offsides and why some hits are deemed fair and others aren’t. As the players switch again, I notice the tallest guy of the bunch swing his long legs over the boards, then shoot across the ice like he was born to be there. A zing of awareness bolts down my spine. Goosebumps dance over my skin.
There’s something familiar about him.
“That guy’s fast,” Eli says. “Number 12.”
I nod dazedly, trying to ignore my pounding heart as I tug back on my headphones. I can feel a goal coming, and soon the horn announcing it will blare at a volume my brain can’t handle.
My eyes track Number 12, riveted, curiosity clawing at me. Who is he?
It’s difficult to get a sense of a player’s body when they’re in their pads and gear, but there’s something so familiar about the breadth of his shoulders, the long line of his legs, a lick of dark hair curling up at the bottom of his helmet.
I stare at him as if simply looking long enough will solve the riddle. I know him. I swear I do.
For the next thirty seconds, Number 12 is all I think about, all I see, lithe and lightning-fast on the ice, leading his side’s offensive momentum, backtracking when his teammate loses the puck and the other team’s defense sends it to their forwards. He’s there in a flash, gaining possession, exploding in a fresh burst of speed across the ice. Bearing down on the goalie, he fakes a slapshot, cuts past the crease, then cheekily backhands it into the net, right over the goalie’s shoulder.
The light blazes red, and my headphones dull the roaring blare of the horn to a faint hum. Eli cheers, smiling as he pats my thigh in his excitement.
Number 12 isn’t a hot-dogger. He simply lifts his chin to acknowledge his teammates who swarm him. I don’t see his smile behind that mouthguard, if he smiles at all. The crush of players block my view, slapping his helmet and hugging him.
But I do see his eyes. Because they drift right up the stands and land on me.
Wintergreen. Arctic cold.
I gasp.
“What?” Eli says, turning toward me. “What is it?”
Holy shit. Number 12 is Jonathan Frost.
Chapter 7
Playlist: “Santa Baby,” Haley Reinhart
“I have to go.” I shoot up from my seat.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I drove you.” Eli clasps my hand and tugs me back down. I land with a flop. “What’s going on?”
“Th-th-that’s—” I gesticulate wildly toward the ice, where Jonathan’s still staring up at me, a familiar frustrated notch in his brow that I can feel even from this distance. “That’s Jonathan.”
“Jonathan who—ohhhhh.” Eli glances back toward the ice and squints. “Wow, it is him! I knew he looked familiar. That must be why. Maybe he’s a friend of Lukey’s.” Eli waves.
I slap his hand down. “Do not wave at him. He’s the enemy. Nemesis. Antagonist. Provocateur.”
“Okay, Thesaurus.com, relax. You’re not at work. Think you can set that aside right now? He’s on Luke’s team, and we want Luke to win!”
I gape at Eli as he wedges his hot tea between his thighs, then sets two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. “Woohoo!”
“This is the worst,” I mutter into my hot chocolate.
“Might as well make the best of it,” he says. “Because you definitely owe me this whole game.”
“Elllliiiii,” I whine.
He glances over at me sharply. “Two hours, Gabriella. I signed books and read stories and held kids with sticky, sugar-cookie fingers on my lap like freaking Santa Claus for two hours today.”
And Jonathan never showed his face, never helped. He stayed holed up in the bookkeeping room, doing whatever covert shit he does on his laptop, and left me to the whim of my own devices, damn him. Thankfully, the parents were on their best behavior.