Chapter 72 72

Chapter 72 72
Roman's POV

The parking lot outside the UIC arena was already packed when I pulled in, and I could feel the energy before I even stepped out of the car. Students were streaming toward the entrance in clusters, their breath coming out in small white clouds in the cold air, most of them wearing the navy and red of the Flames. I sat in the driver's seat for a moment with the engine still running, watching them through the windshield and telling myself that I was fine. But I was not fine.

I popped the trunk and got out, and the first person to reach me was a guy from my stats class whose name I could never remember, clapping me hard on the shoulder before I had even gotten my duffel bag out of the car.

"Foster, man, this is your game tonight," he said, his face wide open with the kind of confidence that was easy to have when you weren't the one who had to go out on the ice. "The Salukis have the best defensive line in the conference, but you're going to tear them apart. We're all counting on you."

"Thanks," I replied, because there was nothing else to say to that.

He moved on, and before I could close the trunk, two girls stopped to tell me that their entire department had canceled study sessions to come watch the match, and that they were all expecting a hat trick. I forced a smile at them and nodded, and they walked away giggling.

The nerves were unlike anything I had felt before a game. Something violent and unpleasant was happening in my stomach. It was rolling over itself in a way that made me genuinely regret the eggs and toast Nurse Sarah had insisted I eat that morning. All the food was sitting in my gut like wet cement.

A group of guys from the soccer team walked past and one of them called out, "SIU doesn't stand a chance with you running the show, Foster. Your brother would be proud tonight. He knew exactly how to handle the Salukis."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, keeping my eyes fixed on my skates. Why did people think it was okay to talk about my dead brother to my face, let alone compare me to him? They talked about him like he was just a statistic, a legend to be used as a motivational speech, completely blind to the fact that his absence was tearing my family apart.

Aaron would be proud. Aaron would have loved this. Aaron used to beat the Salukis like it was nothing. As if the mention of him was supposed to fill me with inspiration rather than the hollow ache that came with being reminded, before a hockey match I was already terrified about, that the person everyone actually wanted to see on that ice was dead.

I wasn't Aaron. I would never be.

I closed the trunk with a little more force than I intended and turned toward the arena with my duffel bag over one shoulder, trying to keep my anger in my chest.

"Roman! Hey, wait up!"

"What?" I snapped as I turned around fast, already coiled up and at the end of my patience.

Quinn and Harmony stopped a few feet away. Quinn had one eyebrow raised at me, wearing a pair of red Nike pants and an oversized shirt, a shoulder bag hanging off one arm. Harmony was in a black flowy dress that stopped mid-thigh, her hair scraped back in one of those severe ponytails she wore even when she wasn't working at the clinic. She was looking at me with her brows slightly lifted, caught off guard by my tone.

"Well, sorry for breathing your air, Captain Foster," Harmony said, crossing her arms tightly over the black fabric of her dress. "Next time I'll make sure to clear my presence with your royal highness before I say hello."

"Sorry," I said immediately, running a hand through my hair. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Someone who deserved to be barked at?" Harmony asked.

"Several people, actually." I muttered.

Harmony pursed her lips in sympathy. On the other hand, Quinn was looking at me with that measuring expression she had, the one that felt like she was reading a document behind my eyes. I knew exactly what she was thinking about: me giving Benji that money in the alley, and Harmony who had no idea any of it had happened. I held Quinn's gaze for a few seconds, and she looked away first.

"You look terrible," Harmony noted, studying my face. "Are you alright?"

I let out a short, dark laugh. "I've been better. This is the worst pre-match nerves I've ever had in my life, and I've been playing competitive hockey since I was twelve years old."

"Well, to be fair, the Salukis are tough," Harmony said, nodding slowly. "I heard some of the guys in the clinic talking about them."

"Everyone keeps telling me how tough they are," I muttered. "That's not exactly helping."

As I spoke, I stared into Harmony's green eyes. I had noticed her eyes before, but standing this close in the afternoon light, they were very vivid, with small flecks of something darker near the center, and I was aware that I had been staring for slightly too long.

The memory of Thursday night came rushing back into my mind, when I had dropped her off at her apartment after our time at the arcade. She had been so close that I could smell the sweat off her skin. To be honest, I had wanted to go in for a kiss, but I had been so nettled by her sudden stiffness that I'd fumbled it entirely, letting her run into the apartment before I could even try.

I wondered what she thought of me now. Did she think I was a coward? Did she regret going out with me?

So to lighten the mood, I joked. "Hey, do you think you could do me a massive favor today? Can you come stand at the barricade, like you did during my match against Northwestern? Because that was what saved my ass last time. I think it's the only way I'm getting through the first period."

Harmony smiled at my joke—this was one of the rare times she ever smiled at me without any sarcasm holding her back. It was heavenly. I felt my stomach drop, a heavy swoop tumbling through my gut, and I desperately wanted her to give me that smile again. I would play a hundred games against the Salukis just to see it again.

"I don't think the athletic department allows student therapists to act as good luck charms," Harmony replied. "But if you really want to stop feeling like you're going to throw up, there's something you could do. My basketball coach in high school used to make us do it before the state finals."

"I'll try anything at this point," I admitted. "What is it?"

"Before you go into the locker room," she revealed, "go find the coldest water tap you can—or any cold water source at all—run it over your wrists for thirty seconds. Not your face, your wrists. There are pulse points there, and cold water on pulse points drops your heart rate faster than almost anything else. Thirty seconds, cold water on your wrists, and you'll be fine."

I stared at her. "That's it?"

"That's it," she confirmed. "I told you it sounds ridiculous."

"It sounds like something you'd tell a anxious golden retriever."

"And yet," she shrugged, "it works."

I nodded slowly, and despite everything, I felt the weight in my stomach ease up slightly. "Alright. I'll try it. Thank you, Harmony."

"Don't mention it," she replied, and then she reached out and patted my arm twice, a quick and practical gesture. It was something I was sure she did as a student physiotherapist to her patients. But the contact still sent a swoop through my stomach that had nothing to do with pre-match nerves.

"Okay, lovebirds," Quinn said loudly, grabbing Harmony by the arm, "we need to go find some good seats before they're all gone."

Then she stared at me over her shoulder and gave a short wave. "Good luck, Roman. Try not to fall on your face, okay?"

"Quinn!" Harmony yelled, stumbling slightly as she was pulled sideways. "We are not lovebirds, what is wrong with you, why would you say that, we are literally just having a normal conversation..."

Her voice faded as Quinn dragged her toward the arena entrance. She was still talking, her ponytail swinging with the force of being yanked forward. I watched them go, chuckling to myself. Harmony was going to make Quinn's evening very unpleasant, and Quinn deserved it.

My nerves were still there, coiled up somewhere under my ribs, but they were better now, half of what they had been ten minutes ago. Thirty seconds of cold water on my wrists and apparently the world would stop ending. I heaved a long breath, picked up my bag, and walked towards the locker room.