Make Your Move (Aston Archers Hockey #1)

29. Nova

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

NOVA

I stare at my phone, feeling dread in the pit of my stomach as I see there’s no response from Lincoln, and my last message still wasn’t delivered. After I sent the one to ask if we could talk, I realized how anxiety inducing that may have been. A few minutes later, I sent a second one, assuring him it was nothing bad. It was something I want to talk to him about in person, rather than through a text.

We’re adults here, we can speak in person about our feelings.

Coming to the game tonight was a last-minute decision. I spent the entire day with Lincoln’s words swirling around in my brain. I should have gone after him last night. I should have at least texted or called him instead of letting my brother push him out into the cold alone.

I can’t help but feel like a complete asshole right now, and I need to make it up to him somehow.

Thankfully, my dad was more than willing to babysit Posey for me this evening. I left him at our house with her so he can put her in bed before I get home. I was lucky enough to find an empty seat in the second row, so I’ll be close enough to the glass that maybe he will see me.

I get to the stadium a few minutes after puck drop. Most of the fans are in their seats, so it’s a seamless process getting inside and getting through the concourse. I find the section my seat is in and wait at the top of the steps until the play stops and I’m able to make my way down to where I’ll be sitting.

A penalty was called on the other team for slashing, and when I get down to my seat, they’re reviewing the call. Our team is by the bench, and a few of the guys skate around. I’m in the section next to the bench, but my seat is on the far side near the aisle. I glance up at the Jumbotron, seeing the guy slashed Lincoln.

My stomach rolls as I watch the replay again, seeing Lincoln going down and then it cuts out. I catch Rowan’s gaze first as he mindlessly skates in a circle near the boards. His face lights up, and he lifts his head, nodding to me before winking. I smile, lifting my hand to wave at him as I sit down, although I’m feeling anything but calm at this point.

Rowan skates to the boards, and my eyes trail after him, scanning the area looking for Lincoln. I see my brother before him, and he smirks when we make eye contact. He spins on his skates, his gloved hand knocking into the back of another player’s shoulder. I can’t see his name or number at first, but as he turns around to look over to where I’m at, I see exactly who it is.

Lincoln Matthews.

Relief instantly floods me. A smile crests his lips, the intensity burning in his irises as he stares at me from across the ice. He moves slow and steadily, making his way from the bench over to the glass in front of me. Instinctively, I rise to my feet, stepping out into the aisle as I walk down to the boards. His lips part, and my heart drums away inside my chest. The ref blows the whistle, announcing the determination of the call.

“Fucking loser!! Get off the ice!”

Lincoln’s eyebrows scrunch, his jaw set as he glances right behind me. I look over my shoulder at the man wearing a jersey for the other team giving Lincoln the middle finger. His beer sloshes around in his cup, spilling over the sides as he lets out another string of curses.

I look back at Lincoln, seeing the anger washing over his bourbon-colored irises. His nostrils flare, jaw set as he looks back at me. His gaze doesn’t leave mine until he’s called back to the bench. I head back to my seat, sitting down as they announce their determination. The penalty stands, and the other player heads into the box while our team has a power play. They’re full strength while the other team is down a guy.

The power play ends quickly as I watch Lincoln racing down the ice with the puck on a breakaway and sends it up into the top left corner of the net. The horn sounds throughout the arena, and I jump to my feet, clapping as everyone cheering for the home team starts giving high fives to the people around them.

Something bumps into my back, throwing me off balance, but I quickly recover and stop myself before falling into the fans in front of me. Turning my head, I look behind me, seeing the same belligerent man with his arms in the air, middle fingers up.

“The Archers fucking suck!” His wild eyes move to the Jumbotron where they show who scored and who got the assist. “Fuck you, Matthews!”

Lincoln skates down the line of the guys on the bench, his glove bumping into each other theirs before he skates over past the glass in front of my seat. His gaze meets mine through the transparent divider, and he taps his stick against the glass directly in front of me. He winks at me, blowing me a kiss as he starts to skate backward.

The people in front of me turn around to look at me with shocked looks on their faces. Heat creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks as we all sit back down, and they turn back around to watch the game. I try to ignore the man behind me who continues to rattle on, bitching about the game.

Things calm down in the stands, and the Archers move through the second period and into the third without the other team scoring a single goal. Rowan is on fire; the rest of the guys are buzzing and the energy is palpable inside the arena. The opposing team is feeling their loss, and no one ever likes to lose with a shutout. They’re starting to get chippy and aggressive. Lincoln and his team are all highly capable of taking the hits, but when the tensions are high like this, it’s hard to not feel like your stomach is going to fall out of your body.

I’m on the edge of my seat, watching them volleying the puck back and forth, skating from one side to the other. Our team has spent more time in their offensive zone than anything, and you can see the other team is getting pissed. The exhaustion is evident, and our guys are running them hard right now.

One of their wingers gets possession of the puck and dumps it into our defensive zone. It goes sliding across the goal line and the ref calls an icing, bringing the face off back to our offensive zone. Lincoln comes off the bench and skates to the middle, getting into position in the center of the circle. There’s only three minutes left in the game, and everyone is feeling the win already.

There are others who are also feeling the loss…

The ref drops the puck, and Lincoln battles with the other team’s center for the piece of rubber. Lincoln ends up winning it, sending it back to Caleb Ford, one of the defensive players on the team. Their center takes three strides, charging at Lincoln before shouldering him in the chest. Lincoln’s knocked backward, instantly falling back onto the ice.

My heart stops in my chest, and panic builds in the pit of my stomach as I jump up to my feet. The whistle blows, play stops and Lincoln is still on the ice for a second. My breath is stuck in my throat, and my hands are by my mouth as time stretches on for an eternity.

“Sit the fuck down,” the drunken man behind me calls out as he throws his cup into the row in front of me.

Ignoring him, I keep my eyes on the ice, watching as Lincoln climbs up to his feet. Relief floods me, and I let out the breath I was holding as I watch him slowly start skating over to the bench. He doesn’t look like he’s limping or anything bad, but that hit definitely took it out of him. Since the game is so close to being over, I don’t imagine he’ll be back out.

“Can you not fucking hear me, you stupid bitch?”

I swallow roughly, still standing as I meet Lincoln’s gaze. He looks okay, just exhausted, and I feel even more relieved. He gives me a small smile, and that’s enough to ease my worries. He’s going to be sore from getting hit like that, but it could have been worse. Lincoln gets off the ice, and he looks back over at me once more as he’s about to walk down the tunnel.

A pair of massive hands lands on my shoulders like a ton of bricks as I’m jerked backward and slammed down into my seat. “I said sit the fuck down.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush, my eyes widening as I’m completely caught off guard and in a state of shock. There’s a sudden flurry of commotion around me, and my mind can’t even comprehend what is going on. I think I see a security officer, and the people around me are jumping to my defense, but I can’t move. I can’t think.

Tears spring to my eyes when my brain finally catches up to the chaos that has ensued around me. Someone grabs my arm, dragging me from my seat and pulling me into the aisle. I glance at the older woman who’s saying something to me, but I don’t hear the words falling from her lips as I see Lincoln standing in the stands behind me, fully dressed in his gear, skates and all.

He’s going to ruin those blades on the concrete.

I don’t know why the hell that’s the first thought that crosses my mind, but then I see him pushing the usher before he grabs a fist full of the front of the man’s shirt. Lincoln throws a fist, and it connects with the man’s nose before they’re broken up.

The usher that Lincoln originally pushed starts pulling him away while two others have the drunken man. Lincoln’s gaze meets mine, blood dripping from his mouth as his eyes scan my face. It’s loud and chaotic around us. The officer takes Lincoln over toward the seats by the tunnel, and that’s when I see the door that’s open.

Lincoln must have come through the small, latched door that the team doctors use. They sit in the seats right by it during the game, and I see the three men in suits following Lincoln into the tunnel before the door is closed behind them.

I’m in a state of shock and thankfully my feet move on autopilot as I head up the stairs, out to the concourse. I manage to sneak away before anyone pulls me to the side. I slip out of the building and out to my car in a haste. My body is still shaking as I sit down and stare back at the stadium.

I don’t know what will happen to Lincoln after this, but I don’t imagine it will be good…