Others believe that at the beginning of the universe we were all stars, nothing but particles and gas. After a time, we evolved and became human. This theory details how we as humans are created from the same particles as the stars we once were. Meaning pieces of us and pieces of another human come from the same star. They believe it is why when we meet particular people, it feels almost magnetic, irresistible, out of this world. They call them our "Stardusts."
Another speculation is the "Twin Flame." It's basically soulmates on fucking crack. When we were created in the heavens, one single soul was split into two bodies. Soulmates are just that, mates who complement or join your soul. A twin flame? They are your soul. The other half of you. The left brain to your right brain. Without them, you are only half of what you could be. So, while you may have five to a hundred soulmates, you only have one Twin Flame.
Hindus believe in something called Lehnu, while Buddhists believe in Pratītyasamutpāda. Soulmates, fate, destiny. There are a million different religions, stories, and theories about how we are connected to others.
I'm not religious, spiritual, or astrological…
Wait, back up, that's a lie.
I'm a Cancer, born on July 18th. I hate to admit that I secretly read my horoscope every once in a while.
So, besides that, and a fortune cookie from my favorite Chinese restaurant down the street, that was as close as I had come to spiritual awakening.
Until him.
I'm not sure what, how, when, or who the fuck decided it would be a good idea to merge our paths. Whatever it was that picked him up and dropped his frustrating ass into my life could go fall in a hole.
They just had to pick the one human who could push all of my red buttons. The only person on planet earth who liked picking fights as much as I do. Someone older, more stubborn, and more hard-headed than I ever thought about being.
Why couldn't I fall in love with someone unproblematic?
I'd like to sucker punch the fuck outta fate if that's who it was. Because they enjoyed watching me hurt, hearing me cry, and feeling my pain. They thrived on it, fed on it like vultures. Sadistic fuckers.
See, even though I never followed a religion. I knew.
I knew when I met Bishop. The same way you know the smell of your home, the way the stars knew. B walked into my life thinking he was just another person, but he walked out of it being the other piece of my soul. B and I─proof that something other than us brought people together.
I knew that something had burst into our lives, something like fate. It messed with our strings, the ones that tie human beings. Fate twisted, looped, and knotted ours. Until it was so messy, so dirty, they weren't strings anymore.
"No slap-shots from the slot, Sully."
I roll my small green eyes, I'm fully aware of that…
"It's just practice, Pops." I sigh, blowing a piece of dark red hair away from my face. Damn this braid is already falling out. Granted my father had fixed my hair and let's just say, he's much more elegant on the ice than with hair.
He skates towards me, his six-three frame overlooking mine. I was tall for my age, just not THAT tall. He crosses his arms, giving me a comical eye raise.
"Just practice, huh?"
I nod, shrugging my shoulders casually.
"What happens when there are ten seconds left in the game, and because you 'just practiced' a slap-shot in the slot, you miss the goal?" he declares giving me a smirk and I sigh.
He's right, as per usual. On the ice you never do anything halfway, you give everything you have. Give your all, or don't do it at all. The amount of times I'd heard that should make me nauseous.
"No slaps in the slot. Got it," I say flicking my wrist gently with my stick in my hand demonstrating a wrist shot.
He nods in approval with a smile on his features, "That's my girl." He ruffles my hair and I lean into his touch.
I know a lot of kids would hate the idea of playing the same sport as their parents who do it professionally, but not me. The pressure made me better. The constant need to prove myself pushed me to play better. I wanted to be the best.
So that meant no slap-shots in the slot.
Try saying that ten times fast, slap-shots in the slot, slap-shots in the slot, slap-shots in the…
"Do you ever leave this place, JR?" The voice drifts towards me. It was a vocal paradox. Soft, coarse, shallow, deep. It made my stomach flutter in anticipation.
I turn my head to the sound catching my very first real-life glimpse of Bishop Maverick. He is skating towards us wearing practice gear, his helmet tucked under his arm, and his stick in his other hand.
Eighteen-year-old, first-round draft pick. Bishop was born about four and a half hours away in Alton, Illinois. He was an only child and was raised by his father. I want to say I knew all of this because my pops talked about him, but no. I knew because I had Googled him.
You'd be amazed at what you could find on Wikipedia about people. I had ogled his pictures on the internet for hours, watching game highlights, obsessing over his every move as if he were some raging pop star. The only reason I stopped is because Riggs had come over and told me I was too cool to be drooling over boys.
I knew Bishop was eight years older than I was, but it didn't matter. I just knew my heart fluttered when I looked at his pictures.
Right now my hands were sweating underneath the thick gloves, and my stomach was flipping upside down like I’d been on a rollercoaster too many times.
The only way I could describe him was bright. Bright hair, bright eyes, bright smile. He was blinding. It reminded me of when you stare at the sun for too long.
My small eyes climbed up his body, tired once they reached the top. I let them rest on his own that were the clearest blue I’d ever seen.
My dad always said, "Eyes tell more than words ever will."
I'd never really understood that statement until I looked at Bishop. It was as if the color and the emotions behind them didn't add up. It made me upset as I noticed it. He had these vivid eyes but a sadness sat behind them, like a shadow.
His hair is long, brushing the tops of his shoulders. It doesn't part to either side, it's just pushed back out of his face. It looks like strands of gold curls, woven through pieces of blond hair. Even though it looked messy, I would bet my favorite pair of skates that it was soft, smooth like silk.
I liked the messy, liked that he wasn't afraid to be completely himself. It was the prettiest hair I'd ever seen. I remember reading a story about a man who turned straw to gold, I wonder if that's how his hair turned out so shiny?
"Earth to Valor?" I am snapped away from starring by my dad's hand in my face moving up and down. Jesus, I'm an idiot.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek as my face flames to the color of my hair. Speaking of my hair… I frantically try to smooth the frizz away but even I know it's no use. Riggs once said I looked like a cotton ball dipped in cherry cough syrup. Not to mention I have on thick hockey gloves that don't help.
"Yeah, what's up?" I say trying to play off the fact I just got caught full-on gaping at him.
I move my teeth to my bottom lip, chewing it, as I swipe my stick back and forth on the ice restlessly. Hoping I can disappear into the water below the ice and never resurface.
"Valor, this is Bishop Maverick. I'm trying to show him how to play hockey too, which if I'm honest, you're much better." He bumps me with his hip and I laugh softly.