The Best Kind of Forever (Riverside Reapers)
The Best Kind of Forever: Chapter 25

HAYES

Aeris came by a few minutes before the game to give me a good luck kiss, and she was wearing my jersey. Mine. She looked fucking good with my number on her. I’m definitely going to have fantasies about railing her from behind with my number splayed on her back.

I jog in place in the chute, trying to drown out the announcer’s stentorian voice and the rowdy noise from the audience. My hands have already started sweating in my gloves, and my pulse is probably a jump away from certain death.

Bristol’s voice shreds the muted silence of the tunnel. “You good?”

“I’m good.” I put my mouthguard in, clearing my mind of everything non-hockey.

Here we go.

As soon as I step onto the ice, the glacial chill from the arena has my heart in its cold clutch. Fans scream and cheer upon our arrival, loud enough to quake the earth beneath me.

Honestly, there’s nothing quite like hockey. No sport can hold a candle to it. The adrenaline you get flying across the rink, the cold air hitting you in the face, the way your skates kick up bits of ice—it’s an otherworldly experience in itself.

We’re up against the Atlanta Avocets today. They’re a good team, but their defense lacks, and their goaltending is poor. I know my boys, I know it’s going to be a challenge, but I also know we’re better. Quentin Cadieux is their center, and he’s kind of a wild card. He’s a good player, but he makes stupid mistakes—usually the kind that costs his team points.

After the warm-up, I immediately skate to my position, watching Bristol through my helmet’s cage. He skates up to the center, hockey stick at the ready. Cadieux is across from him, mirroring his defensive position, and as soon as the ref blows his whistle, the game comes to life.

Bristol manages to snag the puck from Cadieux as he maneuvers his way through bodies upon bodies, dodging to the left and swinging his stick backwards to stay out of the offense’s reach. Right as one of the big, burly guys comes zooming toward him, Bristol has the smallest interval of time to reroute the direction of the puck. He passes to me, and the blade of my stick scuttles along the ice against the rubber of the puck. With an expertly timed swing, I send that sucker straight into the net.

The crowd breaks into an uproar, and while everyone returns to their positions, my gaze flips to Aeris. She’s on her feet wearing one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen—an “I’m proud of you” smile. One that I’ve never even gotten from my dad. My heart is racing as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“That was for you!” I shout, pointing at her. When the Jumbotron captures her face, she turns as red as a fire hydrant.

I skate back to our side of the rink, but not before Cadieux shoulders me and blasts me with a glare colder than the current atmosphere. I can’t hear much of anything he’s mumbling, but I pick up on a few choice words, like “idiot” and “asshole.”

If he thinks he’s going to get under my skin with a few playground insults, he’s gonna have to try a lot harder than that. I’m the biggest hothead on the ice. And I’ll remind everyone of that if I have to.

With the trill of a whistle, Cadieux steals the puck from the center. Kit plows through players to chase the puck, but Cadieux abandons it to go out of his way and pummel Kit into the plexiglass. I know Kit can handle himself. He’s taken plenty of beatings, but something about this seems personal now. Judging by the orchestra of boos that peal through the arena, the Atlanta Avocets just scored a goal. It’s 1-1 now.

A groan, a curse, and a sigh all roll into one as I watch Fulton make his way to the center. I know exactly how the rest of the game is going to go: whistle, faceoff—which won’t be much of a faceoff—Cadieux shooting like he’s on steroids, and the rest of the team icing their bruises in the locker room after the game. And sure enough, Cadieux goes careering down the slippery surface, choosing me as his next target. I’m close enough to touch the puck before I’m thrown up against the plexiglass.

Hushed gasps emanate from the many slack-jawed watchers. We have about a minute left in the first period, and the score is still 1-1.

The second period starts, and we need to focus. Bristol keeps the puck in his possession, then passes to Casen, who then passes to me. I’m skating so fast that Cadieux disappears in a blustery of wind, ice shards, and a fuckton of suck it. And when one of the sasquatch-sized defensemen comes hurtling toward me, I pass the puck to Fulton, who manages to shoot it right between the goalie’s legs.