Wicked Restless

I hear him before I see him, his voice carrying across the ice, his laughter—his laughter. I pause and take a seat in the front row on the opposite end, just so I can watch as he slides back and forth effortlessly, his stick working against his teammates, the ease with which he steals the puck away, the speed he shows when he chases—when he leads.

That vision right there, the man I’m looking at out there on this ice—that’s my Andrew. He rushes once more, the puck loose and coming toward me, and he stops hard right in front of me, his face looks up, his eyes finding mine at the last second. He’s breathing hard, and at first, it’s because he’s out of breath. But then he stops and stares at me a while longer, still breathing rapidly. That…that’s because of us.

“Hey, Trent! Give me a sec, ‘kay?” he yells to his friend still skating on the other end with a few of the guys. Trent nods and begins lining up pucks on the ice to take shots over and over again.

I follow Andrew along the other side of the glass toward the opening. He’s wearing a dark beanie and his team jersey with a dark knit shirt underneath. Even the way he’s dressed reminds me of the boy he was, the man he should be.

“Hey,” I say. All this time, the walk here, the time thinking about coming here this morning, the hours awake last night, and the best I can come up with is hey.

“Hey,” he says back, making me laugh. He grins, dimples denting both cheeks as he lowers his head and looks down at his skates. He’s a solid foot taller than me right now.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” he asks, looking at me sideways, his lip curled on one side of his mouth. I like him better like this—happy. Or at least not angry. He isn’t being mean.

“You used to go to the rink at home…you know…when you were stressed, or whatever,” I say, my bottom lip tucked in my teeth, my face flushing from his closeness. I’m assuming he’s stressed. I’m stressed. Last night, what he told me—that was a hell of a lot of stress-inducing crap, surely.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning against the opening from the ice. “Some things don’t change, I guess.”

His gaze lingers on me after he says this, his smile subtle…special. Different. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

“I was hoping…maybe…we could talk a little? I…I don’t know. I just…last night? I have so many questions. And I thought…” I’m stammering, my stomach all twisted and my confidence suddenly nonexistent. I’m afraid he thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being a child. That I got all the answers I deserve and that’s where it all ends.

“I’d like that,” he breaks into my thoughts, dipping his head lower to force my gaze back up to his. “I would really like that,” he repeats, and this time he’s wearing a real smile, a full one.

“It doesn’t have to be now. You have practice, and your friend is here…”

“Nonsense,” he laughs, cutting me off. “Yo, Trent! You know Emma, right?”

His friend holds a hand up to wave. I wave back, still blushing.

“I’m gonna take off so we can go talk. You okay with that?” he yells over the ice.

“I think that’s the first smart thing you’ve done in a week,” his friend yells back.

“Real nice, Trent. Real nice,” Andrew laughs, his hand finding the back of his neck as he shakes his head, but peers up at me. This is his version of embarrassed. I remember it, too.

“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll meet you by the front doors,” he says. His eyes stay on me, and his mouth is in this forever-quirked smile, small enough to erase, but there.

I nod and walk to the front lobby where I came in and spend a few minutes looking over the plaques and trophies and clippings in the case along the wall. There’s only two photos of Andrew in the bunch—one the team photo, and another a clip of him from the school paper, the picture of his face looking busted and bruised, just like last night. The headline reads HARPER THE BRUIN’S BRUISER. It makes me smile.

“That was after the opener, against Southern. I spent a lot of time in the box,” he shrugs.

“I bet it makes the other team think twice about being aggressive,” I say, giving him an excuse for being rough on the ice. He seems embarrassed by it, but smiles sheepishly when I say that.

“Yeah, that’s sort of my job. I’m like the guy they put in the basketball game just to foul out,” he chuckles.

I don’t look at him, but I catch his eyes in the reflection in the glass in front of us. It feels easier to look at him this way, even when he’s looking back.