I stand in front of him, his once black hair is turning gray, and wrinkles have begun to sink in. I tap my chest twice and touch the glass, the same thing I do after every single game. His eyes crinkle, and I watch them glaze over as he beams at me with pride.
"Great game, girls. Nice hit, Aurelia. See what happens when you hit legally?" he says looking at her with a playful scowl.
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and fake pouting. "Yeah yeah, whatever," she mumbles. A smile is on her lips, but I know she is hurting. Her eyes still look around the arena for any sight of her parents even if she says she doesn't care. What kind of parents do that? With that thought in mind, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and jerk her towards me.
"Wait, let me get a picture!" My dad grabs the camera. "Say cheese!" he states, holding the camera up. I am taller by a few inches, but I lean my head down to rest on hers as I close my eyes and grin widely.
"Okay, get off me, you reek," I state, shoving her away.
"I stink? Really? We’re just not going to talk about how your father refuses to have you ride home with him without shoes on after a game because they smell that fucking bad?"
"It's not that bad, he just has a weak stomach," I say looking at her with a laugh threatening to spill out.
"Sully, he played with other grown ass men for years! Years! They are 100% that bad." Before I can reply, the coach is yelling at us from the ice.
"Greeeeat, more pictures." She tilts her head back looking at the ceiling as she whines.
"Come on, killer, I'll buy you a hot dog after," I inform her after grabbing her hand and dragging her towards the rest of the team, listening to her bitch the entire way.
Before I turn completely around my dad yells my name, I turn and hear, "Proud to be your pop, kiddo! Love you to the moon!"
I smile brightly, my heart squeezing in my chest. "Love you all the way back!" I call out waving.
I skate towards my team who all have their heads tucked into their jerseys when I get closer I can smell why.
"Fuck Riggs, did you shit yourself?" I say covering my nose.
She shrugs. "You'd think you all would be used to it by now."
I shake my head.
My best friend, ladies and gentlemen, you’d never guess her mother was a pageant queen. You should've seen Cordelia's face when she came home after chopping all her hair off into a stylish pixie cut with bangs.
Maybe if they cared enough they'd realize she did it so they would pay attention to her. Nonetheless, the hairstyle framed her strong bone structure. If anyone could pull ice blonde hair off in that style, it would be her.
She's the definition of sex on a stick. Thanks to years with braces, she has perfect teeth, even for a hockey player. While my left front tooth has a slight chip from a flying puck. Riggs has curves for days, piercing chocolate eyes, plump red lips, and a natural tan. She's a knockout by anyone's standard. That Megan Fox type of beauty. Then there is me.
I'm long.
That's like the best compliment I can give myself. I have a long torso, long arms, long legs, long red hair. Just long.
And flat.
I'm the human equivalent of North Dakota.
If you need someone to reach the top shelf in your kitchen I am your girl.
See Riggs, she didn't need a boy to tell her she looked pretty because she knew she was. I'd kill to not need that reassurance. Sue me for being the girl who wanted to hear she was pretty every once in a while.
According to Riggs, guys my age did call me pretty. Just not the guy I wanted. High school boys were intimidated by my athletic ability, by me in general. I was taller, could bench press more than I weighed and don't even get me started on my sailor's mouth. I wasn't a porcelain doll, a trophy they could wrap their arm around; they'd need a step stool to do that.
Bishop didn't need a stool. He was all man. He never made me feel like I was too much or too little. He had this way of making me think I was perfect the way I was.
As his image crosses my mind, I reach for the pendant under my jersey and pads, clinging to it. I look around again, knowing I won't see him, but trying to be hopeful. My feelings for Bishop had shifted from innocent to rated R after I hit puberty. I no longer saw him out of my reach, the closer to eighteen I got, the more hopeful I was that we could be together.
After what felt like a thousand pictures, we were finally allowed to head towards the locker room. A shower was just what my aching body needed. The only thing better than winning was taking off your equipment after. I took my time, putting all my things in my bag, before stepping into the steam-filled shower.
I washed the game off my shoulders, letting the warm water beat down on my tired muscles. I could tell my ribs were going to bruise after that hit early in the game, but nothing an ice bath wouldn't help. My fingers find the gold pendant hanging down my neck. I instantly missed him. I wish he would have been there to watch the game.
B had been busy. He'd become the new face of the Chicago Fury, now that my dad wasn't playing anymore, so I didn't see him as much as I used to. I missed him.
With a sigh I turn the faucet off, realizing I'm the last one in the locker room. Quickly drying my body, I slip on a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans, Dad's old Chicago jersey, letting my slightly damp hair fall down my shoulders. I shove my feet into an old pair of Converse not even bothering to tie the laces. I sling my bag over my shoulder and make my way outside the locker room.
I hear squeals of excitement when I get to the arena, my eyes search until I see Riggs.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"The girls are having orgasms because some of the guys from the Fury are here. You know how hormonal girls are around hockey players," she states giving me a knowing look.
My eyes widen, instantly I begin looking for my dad. After a minute I spot him, he's facing me but an even taller body is chatting with him. Goosebumps riddle my skin. They walk up my arms and ride all the way down my spine.
It's like this every single time. This feeling never goes away no matter how many times I have tried to ignore it. Bishop Maverick was my kryptonite, my Achilles heel, my weakness.
His blond hair is a mess of curls, falling right above his shoulders. I know when he turns around the less curly pieces will be pushed out of his face, but a few will have fallen down in his face. His playoff beard will be a light scruff peppering his jaw and chin.
I know him better than I know the back of my hand. Ugh, wait. I hate that saying. Who even knows the back of their hand?
I know him better than hockey and that? That's pretty damn amazing. A smile creeps onto my face, happiness blooms in the pit of my stomach as I cup my hands over my mouth.
"B!" I yell to him loudly, above all the voices, all the noise, the laughter. My voice carries across the arena and taps him on the shoulder making his head turn first, just slightly over his shoulder. Giving me just a peek of his smirk. Once he sees me out of the corner of his eye, his muscular frame shifts completely around and it's like fireworks.
There he is wearing that shit-eating grin I love. Perfectly placed teeth that give the sun a run for her money. That's what he is, the sun. Always leaving me blind. Extremely painful to stare at and hard to ignore for the fear of being frozen.
My stomach erupts in chaos, like butterflies on steroids, Godzilla sized butterflies.