Chapter 10: Cassidy

##Chapter 10: Cassidy

Book One: Stay

"This is going to be so much fun! Thanks again for coming with me tonight." Snuggling into her jacket, Brooklyn bounces excitedly on the bleacher seat as her gaze tracks the hockey players skating by the Plexiglas that surrounds the ice. "That's him, number fifty-five."

A dreamy look fills her large green eyes. As she sighs, her warm breath escapes into the frigid air of the rink. I roll my eyes even though she isn't paying me the slightest bit of attention.

Nope.

Her focus is trained on her brand-new crush.

Number fifty-five.

I shift in my seat and watch the players skate past. Not that I would admit this to Brooklyn, but this is surprisingly more painful than I'd imagined it would be. I haven't skated in more than nine months. At this very moment, my fingers are almost itching to wrap themselves around my old fiberglass hockey stick. As I stare at the ice, my mind tumbles back, trying to recall a time when I've been off skates for more than four or five days in row, let alone almost an entire year. This is the first time since leaving school last year that I've stepped foot inside an ice arena.

Blinking back to the present, my gaze travels around the space. The sights and sounds-even the smells, are the same. My breathing hitches as I fight to suck in air.

Up until last fall, I'd played hockey my entire life. House teams and then travel teams. All of which led me to a scholarship playing at a Division I college. But last year, I'd imploded under the stress and pressure. I'd been forced to leave in disgrace before the first semester ended.

Sitting in the stands and watching Western's men's hockey team has it all rushing back. Old wounds, I'd assumed had scabbed over, have been made surprisingly fresh again. It takes effort to shake off the web of memories trying to tangle themselves around me.

I clear my throat and pick up the thread of our previous conversation. "No problem." Although, at the moment, it does feel like a problem. One that's eating me up alive.

I refocus my attention on the guys as they run through their warm-up routine of stretching and passing drills before taking shots on goal. It's like a well-choreographed dance. One I miss. The ache in my heart flares back to life. It's almost shocking to realize how painful it is to sit here and watch them.

After the bottom fell out last December, I shut down and refused to think about hockey. And for a long time, it worked. Now...

Not so much.

It's pushing in at the edges.

It's a relief when the players take their positions on the ice and the horn is blown. The puck is dropped, and the action starts. The game is so fast-paced that I'm able to forget about the past and focus on watching the players move the puck up and down the ice. The game ends up being an exciting one, with the score tied or separated by just one goal. There are so many times when Brooklyn and I jump to our feet and scream at the top of our lungs. We're certainly not the only ones. Western's fans are rabidly loyal.

And I love it.

I love a fanatic crowd. It ups the energy level in the arena. What I love most is that I'm able to lose myself in the fast-paced action of the game. I don't have to think about the past or how I crumbled under the pressure. Brooklyn doesn't know anything about hockey, but she is, as usual, her exuberant self.

I seriously love that about her.

"Go the other way!" she yells before adding, "Hurry! Faster!"

I almost laugh at how silly she sounds. A couple of people in the seats surrounding us turn their heads as well, but she looks like she's having so much fun that they end up smiling before turning back to the game.

Every time a whistle is blown, Brooklyn looks at me for a quick explanation.

"Offsides," I tell her.

Another whistle.

Her questioning gaze shoots to mine.

"Penalty for high sticking," I mutter with a roll of my eyes. At this point, these players should know better.

Whistle.

Brooklyn quirks a brow, waiting for a reason as to why the action has stopped.

"Icing." Again, should know better than to slap it all the way across the ice. Dumb.

Whistle.

"Penalty for holding." I grumble before bellowing, "That was a crap call, ref. Open your eyes for a change! Here, I think I've got a spare pair of glasses for you!"

Brooklyn bursts out laughing before yelling, "Yeah, crap call, ref! Totally crappy call!"

We grin at each other before dropping onto our seats and reaching for our shared box of popcorn.

Whistle.

That one I don't have to answer because it's obvious.

Fighting.

"Crap call, ref!" Brooklyn yells again.

I shake my head. "No, it was actually a good call. Not in our favor, but it was the right one to make." I sip my diet cola and watch as one of our players skates over to the penalty box. He's still mouthing off to the player he'd been brawling with.

"Exactly whose team are you on?" she asks as if she knows a damn thing about the sport.

What Brooklyn likes about hockey are the hot guys who look even more strapping with all their padding and gear. And...well...she's not wrong about that.

I roll my eyes in answer.

When the game finally ends, the crowd goes wild because the Timber Wolves have managed to pull off a win. From what I can tell, their team looks solid. They have a lightning quick offense and a solid, not to mention huge, defense. This is where the strapping comment comes into play. And the goalie was pretty talented as well. Not much slid past him tonight. Even though it was bittersweet to watch, I can definitely see myself coming back to catch a few more games during the season.

"We're all heading over to a little bar after this to celebrate, are you in?" The unexpected rush of adrenalin from tonight's win has Brooklyn bouncing on the edge of her seat with even more energy than usual.

"You never mentioned going out after the game," I groan.

Brooklyn knows I'm not much of a partier, but she doesn't understand the reasons for it. I haven't wanted to talk about last year.

She smiles brightly before stating the obvious. "If I had told you, you wouldn't have agreed to come with me tonight."

I narrow my eyes because she's right. As painful as the memories are, I'm glad Brooklyn talked me into coming with her. I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Until tonight, I hadn't realized how much I missed hockey.

Interrupting my thoughts, she gives me sad puppy dog eyes and steeples her hands together as if in prayer. "Please, please, please," she begs prettily. Already I can feel myself weakening. "We'll have so much fun!"

Argh...I don't want to go.

I don't want to give in.

I don't...

"All right, fine. I'll go."

Ugh.

I hate when she talks me into these kinds of situations because I usually end up regretting them. "But I'm not staying long." One hour, tops. Then I'm heading back to the dorms.

Brooklyn beams with satisfaction. "Yay! Now you can meet Austin. He's sooo cute and sooo nice. I really like him, Cass." She gives me a meaningful look. "He could totally be the one."

I almost snort.

The one for what?

Today?

Tomorrow?

This week?

Next week?

Yeah, sure. We'll see about that. Brooklyn is well-known for hopping from one guy to another at the speed of light. In the three weeks we've been rooming together, she's been out with four different guys. Number fifty-five is forth in that line up. Needless to say, the other three guys are still texting and calling, but she's already moved on. So, do I really expect this one to last any longer than the others?

Nope.

After most of the fans empty from the stands, Brooklyn and I meander our way to the lobby to wait for Brooklyn's new flavor of the week. All I can say is that the girl definitely has a type-hot, athletic, and likes to have a good time.

Just like she does.

It takes about twenty minutes for the guys to filter out of the locker room. The coach will usually talk to the team (or yell if they lose), discuss what went right (or wrong), and then they shower and change.

Brooklyn squeals as her guy saunters out of the locker room with a smile lighting up his handsome face. Just like I suspected, he's hot and athletic. In true Brooklyn fashion, she runs and jumps into his outstretched arms before wrapping her legs around his waist. A number of his teammates hoot and holler in response. Unaffected by the catcalls, she kisses the hell right out of him.

Unfortunately, watching them is like staring at a horrific traffic accident. You don't necessarily want to watch, but you're helpless to rip your gaze away.

"Guess the tables have turned and you're the one stalking me now."

My heart skips a beat as I spin toward the deep male voice. Before I turn, I know exactly who I'll find.

Cole.

"Well, damn. I guess you caught me." I almost cringe as the words fly out of my mouth. My heart pounds painfully into overdrive. The last thing I want is for him to think I've turned into a fangirl.

It's obvious from his chuckle that he doesn't take me seriously. And right on cue, his gorgeous dimples come out to play.

"You know you kind of suck as a stalker, right?"