The clomp of boots and a crescendo of laughter followed me and Graham as we trudged back into the B&B, each of us sporting an air of mock defeat. Snow clung to our jackets and hair, the undeniable evidence of our spectacular loss. I tried to stifle a giggle, but it burst out anyway, echoing in the warm, wood-paneled kitchen.
“You’re just lucky we ran out of ammo!” Graham called over his shoulder, shaking a fist at Noah, who had claimed the kitchen counter like a victorious warlord, hot chocolate in hand.
“That kid has an arm like a slingshot,” I muttered, pulling off my gloves and flexing my frozen fingers. “Pretty sure he put ice in one of those snowballs. Is that even legal?”
“Not when you’re playing against us,” Graham replied, brushing snow from his jacket. He shot me a crooked grin that had my heart doing its annoying little somersault again. “Pretty sure he bribed the snow gods.”
“You’re just bitter because you face-planted on that last dive for cover.”
“That was a tactical fall,” he shot back, a little too quickly. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else beneath it, a flicker of nerves. Lately, I’d started noticing little things about Graham, things I probably shouldn’t.
I narrowed my eyes at him, but before I could tease him further, he cleared his throat and gestured toward the stairs. “I should grab a shower. Got the tournament tonight.”
There it was—the thing he was avoiding. I shifted my weight, brushing snow off my sleeve. “Nervous?”
“Me? Nah.” He shrugged, but the tight line of his jaw gave him away. “Just another game.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, drawing out the syllables. His lips twitched into a half-smile. “You’re allowed to be nervous, you know. It’s a big deal.”
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand gripping the banister, the other rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh, coming tonight?” The casual tone didn’t quite hide the weight of the question.
“I don’t know.” I bit my lip, pretending to consider, even though the idea of sitting in a freezing rink for a game I didn’t understand wasn’t my dream Saturday night. “Crowds, yelling, rubber discs flying at people’s faces…not really my thing.”
“Fair.” He tried for indifferent, but I caught the faint flicker of disappointment in his expression. It tugged at something deep in my chest, sharper than I expected. “No pressure.”
He disappeared upstairs, leaving me by the fireplace, chewing the inside of my cheek. The warmth of the room couldn’t quite thaw the sudden chill creeping over me.
An hour later, I was perched in the freezing stands, surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd chanting for the home team. My sketchbook rested on my lap, the pencil moving on its own, capturing the sharp, determined set of Graham’s face as he took his place in goal. I didn’t understand the rules, but I could see the focus in his every move, the way he commanded the net like a captain steering a ship through a storm.
The raw energy begged to be captured in lines and shadows. My usual landscapes paled in comparison. The scrape of my pencil mirrored the skates on the ice.
The game was electric, Graham saving goal after goal, twisting and diving in ways that seemed to defy physics. The crowd roared, and I felt a surge of pride. But my heart climbed into my throat with each close call.
Then it happened.
The puck shot toward him like a bullet. He dove, an impossible save. The crowd erupted, but as his skate hit the ice, his leg buckled awkwardly. He stumbled, catching himself against the goalpost as the final buzzer blared.
Cheers thundered around me, but I barely heard them. My pencil froze mid-sketch, my eyes locked on Graham as he leaned heavily on the post, wincing as he straightened. He waved off the trainer, but I caught the limp as he skated off.
I abandoned my sketch, zipping my pad into my bag and weaving through the crowd toward the exit.