For twenty minutes before puck drop, we're given our home half of the ice to skate around, warm up, get our bearings. Johnson goes through stretches in the crease while Haart swings all two hundred something pounds of him in lazy circles, skating backward while he dribbles a puck. Fans start to descend from the upper deck and take their seats laden with sodas, beers, pizza and hotdogs.

The puck comes toward me – a pass from Russo. I slap my stick down in position, pluck it out of its trajectory and snap it past Johnson for a goal.

Or I should have.

For the third time since warming up, it arcs wide and ricochets off the pipe with a resounding ping. Bower picks it up, spraying me with ice as he stop-cuts and veers in the opposite direction. I can't pay much attention to his shit-eating grin, though. I'm too focused on Haart's knowing gaze.

I've been playing like shit during scrimmages all week. I'm seriously surprised coach didn't pull me from tonight's first line. Something weird has changed in my equilibrium. And she has big brown eyes and a bewitching, if rare, smile.

All the signs are there. I'm stubborn, but not stupid, for fuck's sake. You don't have to be Nostradamus to figure out I'm falling for Reece Reagan. Texting silly memes, Face-Timing from the bus, beaming at her likes on Instagram aren't enough anymore. Maybe they never were.

Something broke, seeing her under the glow of Christmas lights. Maybe it was getting a lecture on Tim Burton. Maybe it's the way she still looks confused when people stop me and ask for autographs. Maybe it's how she felt like home, fingers laced in mine, my arm around her waist. I'm starting to see my life in hers, seriously consider taking Spencer up on his offer.

That scares the shit out of me.

Kids line up at the other side of the plexi, waving at us where we go through our drills. In our circles, we'll punch the glass for fist-bumps. Some players, myself included, flick the pucks we're handling up and over the barriers to eager little hands.

The Toledo Walleyes represent the biggest threat to our undefeated streak and position for the Kelly Cup. Coach had us watching film all this week to try and get a handle on their styles and players. One of their d-men, Pachyek, is a colossus of a d-man known for delivering tsunami-sized checks.

"So watch yourself out there, Killfeather," had been Burt's warning. "I know how much you love your flashy skating."

I spot a familiar head of blue hair descending the steps toward the player's section. At her side, looking simultaneously excited and terrified, is Reece.

Really, they're great seats. Center ice, just above the team benches. They sit, peering around at the swarm of black and red jerseys on the ice.

I angle a puck on its side where I run my firing drill. A flick of my wrist sends it soaring, pinging off the plexiglass right in front of their faces. The effect makes Reece yelp, then, finding my cheeky grin, she flips me the bird.

"Killfeather, what the hell?" Coach Burt demands as the falling puck narrowly misses plunking him on the head.

"Sorry, Coach." I spin away and go back to the warm-up. "Slipped."

Kaila stands and starts waving enthusiastically. "Bastien! Spencer!"

The buzzer sounds for us to get back into the chute for the Zambonis to clean the ice and start the pre-game show. Haart yanks off his helmet to wink and blow her a kiss before hopping off the ice and heading into the locker room.

Spencer flops down heavily beside me. "Reece made it out."

"Yep." I make a non-committal shrug, return his smirk. "As did Kaila."

He cocks a brow. "Oh, I noticed. Situational awareness, my friend."

"Fuck you very much for the warning," I sneer back.

He still has that stupid smug grin. "You like her."

Liking her in an understatement. The more I learn, the more I need. Just friends seems increasingly ridiculous the more time we spend together. I'm drowning in this girl and I don't even want to be brought up for air.

I take a gulp of water. "We're friends. That's it. That's all it can ever be."

"Mhm," he drawls. "That's why you've been skipping out on parties?"

"Maybe I'm just getting old."

"Dude," Spencer rolls his eyes. "You're twenty-four, and I'm fucking older."

"Killfeather, Haart!" Coach Burt snaps. "If you two are done whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear, we have a fucking game to play."

We both sit up straight. "Yes, Coach."

Coach Burt has changed up the lines for tonight's game against the Toledo Walleye. He does that sometimes, especially with a rivalry as consequential as this one. I'm opposite Haart with Bower and Russo.

The starters come out guns blazing – Haart nearly mows down the other center right after faceoff. The puck begins its crazy dance along the rink and the game is on.

When I swing over the boards for my shift, they coddle the puck like some decrepit old lady pining over her cats. They can't score like that, but they can frustrate the hell out of me.

Then things heat up. Russo gets an opening and sets up for an attack. He passes to me, which I sling back to him the moment I get an opening. I scissor quickly across to get positioned for the return.

I swing in a wide backward loop, lining up for the net. Before I shoot, I glance up to Reece. She's rapt on the game, fascinated brown eyes following me where I move.

A freight train of force catches me in the shoulder. I'm thrown back onto the ice so hard my teeth manage to snap through my mouthguard.

Oh, fuck. Oh...fuck.

Get up. I order myself. Now. Blinking, I stare up at the blinding stadium lights, trying to figure out what in the actual fuck just happened. At least twice a season this happens – like my guts have been shoved into my lungs.

'Ooo' the crowd murmurs as Toledo obtains possession of the puck once more. Even without air, I lurch to a seated position. The game narrows around me, a thin piece of my consciousness left.

Go, asshole. I struggle to my feet.

"Killfeather!" Haart bellows, slapping his stick against the boards. "What the fuck?!"

I manage a searing breath, charge back into the fray, intent on getting the puck back under Cyclones control. All while trying not to puke.

The first period ends with the score 0-0. We trudge down the chute as the intermission entertainment starts. I peel my helmet off and guzzle water while Coach Burt talks strategy with our defensive coordinator.

"Dude," Spencer cuffs me in the shoulder with his helmet. "You were lined up perfectly for that shot!"

I work my tongue piercing. "I know."

"You alright?"

"Fine," I mutter.

He gives me a hard look. Hockey players always say they're fine. They could be skating around with bones sticking out of their leg and still say they're fine. I'm no different.

Because even though my stomach has stopped clenching and I'm able to fully expand my chest, the other parts of my body are starting to growl at me. My ribs are still vibrating and I'll have a bruise the size of Quebec under my pads.

I roll my eyes. "Pachyek just Kronwalled me. I'm good."

"I'll say," Spencer mutters. "The hell? You're usually quicker than that."

I take another gulp of water. "Whatever."

Spencer cocks a half-smirk. "Distracted by someone in the stands?"

I tap him on the back of the head with my stick. "Shut up."

"Ow!"

The game grinds on, scoreless through the second period. Knowing Reece is watching and wanting to make up for getting creamed right in front of her earlier, I get aggressive and take several shots on goal. All are rebuffed, but I pretend not to be worried. If we keep it up, it will work eventually.

Bower wrenches control from an out of line Toledo left wing, slings the puck to Russo. The defense pins him against the boards, but he manages to kick the puck out and pass it to me. I skirt it around the goalie, taking it right up to the crease. A stop-cut and a wrister see the puck saucering into the upper corner of the net.

The lamp lights and the guys on the ice whoop and holler, smacking me on the shoulders and helmet despite the shrieks of protest from my body. Somewhere above us the announcer declares a Cyclones goal, giving Russo the assist.

I look toward the stands, eyes immediately finding Reece and Kaila. The latter is on her feet in the aisle, screaming herself hoarse. Reece, more subdued, is wearing one of the biggest smiles I've seen on her face since we played with puppies.

A big balloon of pride swells in my chest at the sight, one that rivals even scoring our first goal of the game. I'm on Cloud 9 the rest of the second period. Even when Pachyek catches me with a low check to the gut and I yarf back behind the boards, nothing can ruin my good mood.

Well, almost.

"Killfeather," Allen, our PR guy, yanks my elbow as we head down the chute for intermission before third period. "You still single?"

I pause in scrubbing the vomit from my mouth, cock a brow. "Gee, sir. I'm flattered, but you have a P where I'd rather see a V."

"Not me, you idiot!" Allen snap-laughs. "I just need to make sure I'm not going to get you in trouble with a girlfriend by pulling this stunt."

I narrow my eyes. "What stunt?"

"Haart says you double majored in marketing and graphic design in college." Allen prompts.

My friend is suddenly very busy guzzling water. I don't miss the smirk, though. The one that clearly reads – Payback's a bitch.

"Is that so?" I drawl. "Between the concussions and benders, I'm surprised he remembered."

"Get out of your gear. Chop-chop, we have fifteen minutes."

I look between him and Coach. "Are you fucking serious?"

Coach blows his whistle so loudly everyone in the locker room flinches. "Now, Killfeather!"

That's how I end up in low-slung gray sweats and a black t-shirt on the upper deck, still sweaty and gross from the game. Allen hands me off to Kyle Kerrigan, a former Cyclones player, current radio personality and fan advocate. He's the guy who walks around with the mic and a camera cueing fanservice with the mascots, photo-ops, and giveaways.

All I'm given is a handshake and a brief intro before the camera starts rolling and I'm blinking into the halo light around its lens.

"Good evening Cyclones fans!" Kyle greets the camera. "Tonight, we're doing something a little different. We have a special opportunity for you. I'm standing here with Cyclones forward, number forty-nine – Bastien Killfeather."

Cheers erupt across the arena, and a few boos from the Toledo Walleye side. I ham it up, winking at the camera and turning to wave around at the fans surrounding me.

"I've heard you're a bit of an artist, is that right?" Kyle turns to me and sticks the mic in my face.

If you call defacing public property art. "Oh, absolutely," I return.

"Awesome! Gotta love the confidence, folks." Kyle gives a chummy chuckle and the crowd joins in. "Well tonight, Cyclones fans, Bastien Killfeather is going to challenge one of you..." he pauses for dramatic effect, "to a draw-off!"

The arena cheers. I clap and smile like I know what the fuck is going on.

"Now it will be up to you, the audience, to decide on a winner," Kyle continues. "And you have a very important decision to make. If the Cyclones fan wins, they get a one-hundred-dollar Amazon gift card. If Bastien wins," another pause for effect, "he's obligated to take the losing Cyclones fan out for a nice dinner out on the town."

The puck bunnies absolutely lose their shit.

Kyle turns to me again. "Alright, Bastien. Find the person you want to challenge."

I smirk and vault up onto the barrier preventing people from falling down the stairs from the upper deck. It's not strictly allowed but fuck it. They want to make me a spectacle, I'll make a goddamn spectacle.

I spot Reece down toward the ice, peering up at me. She and Kaila laugh at the shrieking women around the pit. It's only a matter of a few literal hops, skips, and jumps down the stairs until I'm standing over the two of them. Kyle and his camera guy follow, albeit slower, in my wake.

"What are you doing?" Reece shout-yelps over the roar of the crowd.

"What does it look like?" I respond and wink. "C'mon. I know you can draw."

Reece pulls against me when I reach for her. "Wait, this is on TV. You don't under—"

"It'll be fine," I promise her. But Reece refuses to budge, and when I glance at Kaila for support, she's pale and uncertain.

"I can go." Kaila offers.

Reece looks relieved.

I scowl perplexedly between the two of them.

Kyle and his camera guy arrive, carrying magnum Sharpies and huge boards. Before Reece can shy away, I loop an arm around her waist and tug her into the aisle. She shrieks in alarm.

"No, Bastien—"

"Who have we here?" Kyle sticks the mic in Reece's face, she shrinks back, eyes wide.

"Reece," she mumbles, swallows, tries again. "Reece."

"Give it up for Reece, everybody!"

I glance at her. She gives me a look that promises Pachyek's checks were love-taps compared to the wrath she can inflict. I force a smile under her ire even as my stomach does a weird uncertain flip. Why does she look so scared?

While the entire arena erupts with cheers, faces on us or our projections on the jumbotron, we set up with our Sharpies and massive drawing pads. Kyle explains that we have thirty seconds to make our best sketch of Cincy pride. The countdown starts, I glance up and catch Reece's eye. She's glowering, panicky gaze skittering around the arena, hands shaking. She takes a deep breath.

I don't have time to ask what's wrong as Kyle says, "Go!"

I wish I could say that speed-sketching was new to me. When you're tagging buildings in a black hoodie and streetlight, you get good at working quickly. The lines under my Sharpie flow. I twist and turn the paper, hastily putting down shapes and making dynamic strokes. It doesn't need to be perfect, just enough.

"Time's up! Markers down!"

I put my hands up, pad in one hand, Sharpie in the other. Reece poses similarly and I catch a glimpse of her work.

While I drew a very urban art version of Cincy's spirit animal—a flying pig—Reece did a miraculous job of capturing the Cincy skyline reflected off the river. For thirty seconds, it's fucking incredible. I grin at the image, then up to her.

Her eyes are fiery where she glances from my drawing and up to me and I know I've been had for my Wall contributions. "You."

Busted.

Rather than deny it, I give a solemn nod. "Guilty as charged."

Kyle moves us to stand and hold our drawings to the camera. "What do you think, Cyclones fans? Show of cheers, who captured the Cincy spirit? Reece?"

There's a wave of applause, she tries to smile, but the sound of her name makes her wince.

"Killfeather?"

I feel the roar of the crowd through the soles of my feet but can't quite manage to internalize their joy. I'm too derailed by the flurry of emotions behind those brown eyes. Hurt, wonder, betrayal, and most of all; fear. Even when I'm teased on camera and ribbed for owing a lady dinner, my eyes linger on hers.

Until I'm shooed off the stairs and back toward the locker rooms. It's a rush to get back into my skates and pads. The first string is already on the ice by the time I flop my ass back on the benches, chewing my mouthguard.

"Welcome back, Casanova," Bower jeers.

I chuckle, ignore him. "Alright, dipshits. The fuck are we all waiting for?"

We hold our lead in the third period. Tensions are high for us to keep them scrambling. Cincinnati is outshooting Toledo, which is good. We'll need to keep it to avoid going into overtime.

Haart barely spins out of another crushing check from Pachyek. The d-man is thrown off sorts and Haart presses his advantage. Blurring with the puck across the blue, he delivers a blistering slapshot that swishes neatly between the Walleye's butterflied knees.

Victory. Cyclones – 2, Walleye – 0.