The guys are starting to see my value now that my shoulder checks and slapshots aren't aimed at them like they are during our scrimmages. I'm not a puck hog, just aggressive in my approach. I earned more assists than I did points scored. The Cyclones achieve victory over the Florida Everblades 3-1, putting us one step closer to the Kelly Cup.

We grab showers, and Coach Burt debriefs us. Really, I'm only half-listening. My mind is consumed with thoughts of brown eyes and pale, inked skin.

Which is unheard of for me. We're talking hockey, and I'm thinking of a girl?

It's been three days since I changed her depressing message. Since she reacted so violently to my touch. There's so much pain, so much hurt. I find myself needing to know why.

She kept her word—texted me after her shift. A simple "Hello." No emoji, no follow-up, just a direct response.

I get the signal loud and clear: leave me the fuck alone.

Too bad, because I don't want to.

So, me being me, I've spammed her every day—memes of puppies, kittens, and whatever adorable fuzzy thing I can find. I don't even care about the lack of responses. I hope at least one makes her smile, even just a little bit.

"Killfeather!"

I sit up. "Yes, Coach."

He leers at me. "Try and stay out of the sin bin next time around."

Anyone else would nod and shut up. I, however, feel justified in my actions. "That prick elbowed me in the mouth. The ref didn't call it."

Coach Burt glowers more fiercely. "You're damn lucky he fought back so that the Everblades didn't get a fucking power play."

"It's my face, Coach," I toss him a cocksure grin. "Something about it just says 'punch me.'"

"I second that," Johnson agrees with a sneer.

"I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite," sasses Russo, another forward.

Bower, our d-man, pipes up, "Not the French."

"Hey, now!" I protest. "I'll apologize after I break your nose, not before."

That earns a round of guffaws, which Coach quickly quiets. We get back into the meat of everything, offense, defense, and line changes to come the next game on Saturday. Coach is putting me as an alternate for Russo, rotating me to the second line opposite Haart.

I can't say I'm too upset about it. The Everblades had a hell of a defense. I'm big, but not the biggest guy on the team. I was thrown against the boards nearly as often as I had the puck. When I wasn't, the number of cheap shots and underhanded plays made me see red.

That's the real reason I threw off my gloves, tore the jersey over the Everblades' d-man's head, and started wailing on him.

With the adrenaline gone, I'm deliciously sore. I gave more of a beating than I took, but my jaw and ribs will bruise. At least they didn't rip out my eyebrow piercing. Again.

Effectively congratulated for our victory, we're dismissed from the vault of the arena. We filter up the stairs to the middle deck, where die-hard fans linger for autographs, and puck bunnies swoon for hockey players. Haart, of course, gets stopped by a slew of people. A few are parents holding kids, looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

Meeting your hero.

I pose for pictures, laugh, and wink when more than a few puck bunnies cop a feel. The energy and thrill of the people elate me. It's not just the rush and exertion of the game that makes me play hockey—it's this, right here. The fans. The ones screaming at us when we score goals or booing the refs for a lousy call. It's their vigor I live for, their praise. I don't need to be the center of attention, just part of it.

"What do you say, Bas?" Spencer asks, a girl under each arm. "Club Kiss?"

Club Kiss is the hottest night club in Cincinnati. I know this because Mandy took me there as part of my city tour. We danced for hours. There were drink specials, go-go dancers, and a little bit of weed if you knew who to talk to.

The entire evening ended in her bedroom, sated and exhausted.

A brunette twines her arm around my waist, and I know that I could have a similar ending tonight. Hockey, dancing, sex. What could be better?

"Sorry, cher." I slide out of her grasp, wink at Spencer. "I have a prior obligation."

Bower takes the puck bunny off my hands. "Killfeather, you sly dog."

The team and I part ways, them trundling with their adoring fans toward the club and me heading into the dark streets of downtown.

I check my phone. A few Instagram Story notifications from where I was tagged by Alan, the Cyclones PR person. Same for Twitter. A message in my family's private group chat asking how I like Cincy, reminding me to visit soon. A few texts.

Mandy: Hey. Congrats on the win!

Me: Thanks. It was a team effort.

Her response is almost immediate.

Mandy: So humble.

Me: Hah! You don't know me very well.

Mandy: I'd love to know you better.

I grimace. This is the one part I can't stand. I'm honest when I go into these things, reinforce that 'friends with benefits' means friends and nothing more.

Even though they say 'just hooking up is cool,' they always want more. That's not really something I can give. Not when I'm at risk of being traded or switching cities. Plus, there's the constant travel associated with the job.

"Flight risk" is putting it mildly.

Me: Not really into relationships.

Mandy: I get it. But I wouldn't mind seeing more of you.

Me: I'll keep that in mind.

Mandy: HMU if you're ever bored or just want to chat.

Me: Of course.

Before I put my phone back into my pocket, I pull up the conglomerate of fuzzy memes I have stored. One is of a small bird dancing one-legged across the water and, along the picturesque waterfront at its back, the caption "Naw, fuck this."

I send it to Reece. This time, I add a text to the message.

Me: See you in a bit.

I head toward the Anarchy Café, just a few city blocks from the downtown party hub. Through the doors, a cursory glance at the counter reveals only Kaila. And she's absolutely swamped with the UC student rush.

Grinning, I head toward the Wall of Expression at the back, keeping my hood drawn low over my eyes and toque. Reece's calligraphy wording is immediately apparent, written in glaring black to contradict my colors. Hope breeds heartbreak.

Oh. This will be a challenge.

I'm having too much fun toying with the script to give her a hint. Maybe one day. Right now, she finds me annoying. And that gets my attention.

Peering around surreptitiously, I make sure I'm in the clear before I take up Sharpies. This time it's not a matter of changing a few letters in the same font. This time, I have to create extensive lines to blur old text into new. I block them with colors, sweep them with movement. I wish I had spray paint to make things bigger, bolder, brighter. For now, I'll work with this.

Much as I enjoy the rigor of hockey, it doesn't leave much time to think. Everything on the ice is intuition and instinct, particularly as a forward. I see, predict, react. Visceral and animalistic. When the body is busy, the mind quiets for a time.

Art allows me an outlet for my thoughts and emotions, ones I'm too damn juvenile to process. I've had—have—a good life. I want for nothing. My family loves me, and I have friends I chat with regularly all over the US and Canada. There are even some from Iceland and Russia that I connected with during my time at Elites training camp. I make good money and have no college debt despite playing in the minors. There's also my supplement marketing income. I have a stable career for at least another three years—ten if I don't suffer any major injuries. After that, there's coaching. Or becoming an agent.

Capping the final Sharpie, I take a step back, grin at my work.

I've taken her calligraphy, made it into the jagged, rough edges of graffiti. The words melt into a simple phrase, surrounded with bright colors, tangential lines, and culminating in a heart-eyed emoji.

You're so beautiful.

Satisfied, I duck into the bathroom and wash my hands free from any and all evidence of dabbling in the graphic arts. My reflection meets me in the grungy glass mirror. My dad's hazel eyes, my mom's Haitian dark hair, and caramel tan skin. Familiar. The same reflection I've been staring at for the past five years and wondering the same question.

What else is there?

I remove my toque and hood. Unzipping my hoodie, I pull it off and knot it around my waist. Then I splash some of the cold water on my face, shiver in delight as I touch the bruises on my jaw and knuckles.

Masochism at it's finest.

Effectively dried, I head back out into the café, intent to order a drink and not just loiter. Except I spot the familiar head of blue hair bent over a table, posture tense and guarded. She's serving a man—drunk, if I had to guess—who has a presuming hand on her waist, pulling her closer to him.

"C'mon, babe," he slurs. "You are so fucking hot. How about you stick'round? Talk fer a minute?"

"Really," Kaila declines, removing his hand and putting her drink carrying tray between them. "I have work to do."

"Aw, c'mon." The man wrenches her wrist and twists her so that she falls into his lap. "Jus' a little bit."

"No," Kaila tries to sit up, but he holds her fast around the waist. "Really, I—"

The man sucks on her earlobe.

Kaila jerks up, shoving him away. "I said 'no,' you fucking prick!"

The man stands up, jostling the coffee he clearly needs to sober up. "What is wrong with you, you fucking bitch?"

"Hey!" I bark, loud enough that Kaila squeaks in alarm, and the man's attention is entirely on me. "The lady said 'no.'"

I'm striding forward before I can really think about it. It's like a play in hockey. I see an opening, see my opponent's potential move. I know better than to let this dude anywhere near her right now. Or ever, if this is any indication of his less than stellar intentions. So I lightly pull the string of her apron, coax her to stand behind me while dickhead and I size each other up.

"The hell are you?" The man demands.

"The guy who's about to kick your ass if you don't knock it off." I retort.

The man shoves me, clearly thinking himself five times larger than he really is. I have him by a head, at least, and don't budge under the assault.

"You wanna fight?"

My fists furl at my sides. "Let's take this outside."

"The hell is going on here?" Lukas demands, striding forward and looking murderous.

I smile, eyes not deviating from dickhead. "Just explaining to my friend here the proper way to treat a lady. One that doesn't involve grabbing ass or harassment."

Lukas looks at Kaila. At her nod, he jerks his chin toward the door. "Frank, get the fuck out. Go sober up somewhere else."

"But—"

"Out!" Lukas repeats on a bellow.

Both he and I stand shoulder to shoulder, Kaila at our backs, watching Frank leave the premises with a collective of low grumbles and growls.

Lukas nudges me after a moment. "Thanks for that."

I raise my hands. "I didn't do anything."

"No!" Kaila cries, green eyes alight with gratitude. "He's been handsy all night. I just didn't want Reece to—" she stops in the middle of the sentence, glancing guiltily at Lukas. Something passes between them. I want to push, but Lukas's stiff demeanor cautions me to back off. "Really, just thanks. Let me get you a drink."

"I'm fine—"

But Kaila isn't taking 'no' for an answer. Steering me by the elbow, she plants me in a chaise-type seat. It's comfortable on my sore muscles and allows a perfect appreciation of the Cincinnati skyline over the river. Before she can leave, I grip the corner of her apron.

She turns, and I force her to meet my eyes. "You're sure you're okay?"

She almost seems to swoon a bit but rights herself. With a defiant nod, she declares, "I am. Frank's a regular. Dad's around most often." She shrugs; I don't miss the admission.

"Reece is your sister?" I lean forward slightly, await her response.

"No, but I practically grew up in Reece's house. Plus, my dad's in prison," Kaila casts an affectionate glance at Lukas. "Mr. Reagan's all I've ever had. And he calls me his daughter, so..." Kaila shrugs, smiles, and pats my shoulder. "He'd never let Frank hurt us."

I bristle, thoughts returning to the drunkard and his attentive hands. Then I'm thinking of Reece and her hoodies. "If he hurt one of you..."

Kaila raises her hands. "No need for all that. Just relax, okay?"

Slowly, I do, still eying her to ensure she really is as unshaken as she appears. When she sashays away, I attempt to ease back a bit on the chaise.

The graffiti has taken the coil from my muscles, made them limp and lax. I could have done the same with alcohol or women, but tonight art seemed more appropriate. Good thing, too. Couldn't have that letch getting frisky with Kaila when she clearly wasn't interested.

I take a deep breath in through my nose. Focus on the exhalation, the feel of plush fabric under my aching body, and the majestic view of the city over the river. Groaning, I stretch, run a hand through my hair, vaguely wonder how Spencer and the team are faring at Club Kiss, smug in the knowledge that I found a high better than they could ever have.

When my drink arrives, the reflection in the glass isn't of Kaila. Instead of vibrant blues and greens, there are dark lines and long blonde hair. I smile despite myself, suck on my tongue ring to keep myself from speaking first, wait for her.

"Here." She says, monosyllabically.

Only then do I turn, meet those gorgeous brown eyes haloed by dark bruises of sleeplessness. I give her the smile I reserve for my family—the genuine one, without the mask of snark or pretense.

"Merci beacoup."