When we walk into the arena, my senses are overwhelmed. The noise of the building crowd is already so loud. Teal and black floods my
vision. This is definitely a Nighthawks game.
Every season, they change their jersey colors to represent a certain cause. This year they chose teal for ovarian cancer. One of Alec’s teammates wife passed away last year from ovarian cancer and they didn’t hesitate to choose teal for the season. A percentage of all the tickets sold goes towards cancer research this season.
Next season, they will choose a new cause and their jerseys will don a new color.
I begin looking around, seeking the face of the man I love.
And soon enough, I find him, lost in a crowd, signing autographs. The sight is strange for so many reasons. He will never be the famous hockey star in my mind, only the scrawny sixteen-year-old who taught me how to skate.
When he looks up and locks eyes with me, he quickly finishes his signature and walks straight to me.
Alec in sweatpants is sexy, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing him in his full gear with his helmet in his hand as he walks over to me in his skates.
The Nighthawks logo on his chest is just below my eye-level as he reaches me, picking me up like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he wastes no time in showing me just how much he missed me with kisses.
A couple flashes go off, and I pull away from Alec, knowing our affection needs to end before it goes too far, which it inevitably would.
Alec lowers me to the ground and places a wet kiss on my forehead. “I know I have to get on a flight after this, but I promise I’ll be back at some point next week.”
Feeling a lump form in my throat, knowing that this is the last time I’ll see him before he leaves, I nod my head. “I know. We’ll be okay. Next
week will be here before we know it.”
Alec smiles and then turns his attention to Jack, bending down to his level. “Next week, we will get on the ice and get you started on some real training. I love you, Jack.”
Jack lunges, throwing his arms around Alec’s neck. “I love you too, Dad.”
Alec’s eyes water as he stands up, his knuckles whitening on his helmet. “See you guys soon. Wish me luck.”
I smile. “You’ve never needed luck.”
Alec walks off, immediately being harassed by the paparazzi and fans, and I look down to Jack. His face is in awe as he watches his dad. And I can’t help but laugh at Jack’s team spirit. Cameras flash our way, and I pray that wherever those photos end up, I look relatively presentable. I laugh to myself.
Jack smiles, creasing the paint. He wanted to paint his face, so Char went all out. She admires her work as Josh, Char, Jack and I make our way to our seats. Teal and black face paint, custom Kostelecky jersey, teal-and- black-sprayed hair—the works. Jack was practically squealing when we were getting him ready. I shot a text to Alec with a pic of Jack wearing a jersey with his name on it. He quickly replied.
Perfection. See you after the game. I love you.
Right as we get settled into our seats, the light show begins, and the booming announcer begins listing off the Minnesota Mystics starting lineup.
“This is crazy though, right?” Char shouts to me over the roaring music. “I feel like we were just watching him in his Greyhounds jersey. Now, every person in this place is wearing his last name on their back.”
I quickly scan the crowd around us and am a little shocked to see that hundreds of people are wearing Alec’s jersey, the number sixteen showing on the shoulder of their jerseys.
“It’s insane,” I say back to her, shell-shocked.
She leans into me, whispering, “And that right there is all yours. None of these puck bunnies will ever get what you have.”
I smile to myself. Huh, I really did steal America’s bachelor.
Deep bass rattles the crowd as the announcer screams, “Are you ready for your Nighthawks starters?!”
The crowd erupts with cheers and chants.
“Here’s your goalie—number 33, Matt MacArthur! At wing, number 72, Brett Burnssss!” the announcer shouts. “Your wing, number 19, Cam Cossssstello!”
The girls beside us scream as Cam barrels onto the ice, pumping his stick in the air.
“Number 42, defenseman, Reed Larinskiiiii!” Char goes crazy next to me, shouting and screaming for Reed. “Number 66, defenseman, Jensen Donnelleyyyy!” He drags parts of their names out, adding to the intensity of the already-electric crowd.
“It’s time to put your hands together for the one, the only, the best center in the NHL, the captain of our New York Nighthawks—number 16, Aleeeec Kosteleckyyyyyy!”
The crowd explodes. Hands are flailing; feet are stomping. I slap my hands onto Jack’s ears as he watches his dad shoot onto the ice, stick high in the air. Vibrations rumble through my feet from the intense noise in the arena.
Charlotte and Josh are cheering along with the crowd.
We made up pretty quickly after I yelled at him when I found out he told Jack that Alec is Jack’s dad. We’ve always been so close that we sat down, got our thoughts and emotions out, hugged it out, and moved on. I did also buy him his favorite dove chocolates to help smooth things over too.
Jack pushes my hands away and screams, “Go, Dad!”
My chest warms. Look where we are right now. Look at how far we have come. A wave of prickles assaults the backs of my eyes. I wish my mom was here with us, she would love to see Alec play. She was always one of his biggest supporters.
Alec skates over to where we are seated, places his glove against the glass, and blows me a kiss. I air-catch it and try to ignore the gasps and oohs exploding around us. As well as the glares and scoffs.
But I can’t ignore the announcer when he says, “Looks like Kostelecky has someone special here. Better get at least two goals for her tonight, Number 16.”
My face burns from the attention.
Charlotte nudges me. “Even I’m a little jealous of you.” I scoff at her, “You’re literally dating Reed!”
She laughs lightheartedly. “Yeah, but every girl in here wants to be you.
And my ego could use a little of that right now.”
“Charlotte, if your ego gets any bigger, you’ll explode.” I nudge her back.
After the national anthem, the lights above the ice turn on, illuminating the arena and all the players. Being up against the glass is intense, and the players look huge. Well, I mean, they are huge, but still.
Alec and the center of the other team—number 22, Rit Hamonson— head to the ref, who’s waiting for the puck drop.
Alec and Hamonson lower their sticks slightly in anticipation. The ref blows the whistle, and the puck slaps the ice. Alec’s and Hamonson’s sticks attack the puck, fighting to get possession.
Alec manages to kick it out to Cam, and they take off. The puck slides into the zone not a second before our boys do.
Jack cheers and throws his hands into the air. Suddenly, he falls forward, crashing into the hard plastic back of the seat in front of him.
His cry pierces my heart, and I drop to the cold concrete, scooping him up into my chest as he cries.
“Shh, baby, it’ll be okay,” I tell him, rocking him back and forth. Jack’s cries wither away.
I glance up, instinctively looking to find Alec on the ice.
It’s mid-play. Cam passes it to Reed, who weaves between two Mystics forwards. Reed glides into the right wing, Alec close behind him. Reed digs into the ice, winds his stick up, and swings. But no puck goes flying. On the swing back, Reed passes the puck right to Alec.
And Alec misses it.
Because Alec isn’t watching Reed or the puck. He’s standing straight up, looking right at me. His eyes seem to be locked on to mine. And I can see the worry in how he’s standing—alert, straight up with his chest huffing in and out as he watches Jack in my arms.
The man in a suit on the Nighthawks bench shouts at Alec, “What in the fuck was that?! KOSTELECKY!”
Coach immediately turns, trying to find what has his captain so distracted.
When his gaze passes over me, it continues on to the next person only for a second. Then, it darts back to me. His eyes narrow, and his lips curl.
Another player pulls his attention back to him, and the game continues.
The next few possessions have no effect on the score. And the remainder of the first period is just as eventful. The crowd boos Alec as the Nighthawks head to the locker room.
Jack turns to me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. “I want to be on the ice one day in the NHL, just like dad.”
It’s amazing how oblivious young children can be to their surroundings sometimes. Maybe not exactly like Alec right now. He’s probably just warming up. Although the anxiety creeping into my chest is wondering if his head is off right now, maybe being here is too much of a distraction for him.
“I think you can do anything, but it’s going to take years of work, Jack,” I say to him, running my fingers through his somehow already-messy hair.
He gives me that know-it-all look. “I know, Mom.”
Char bumps my shoulder with her own. “Want to grab a bite?” My stomach grumbles, as if on cue.
I nod back to her and lean to see Josh. “You want anything? I’m going to leave Jack here.”
He just smiles at me. “I’m good, thanks!”
“All right, we’ll be right back,” I shout to him over the noise.
Charlotte and I make our way to the concessions and join the never- ending line. It moves surprisingly fast, and before we know it, we are already in our seats, and the second period is beginning.
The start is slow, no goals on either end. With minutes remaining in the period, one of the Mystics players gets a two-minute penalty for boarding Reed. Charlotte almost loses it. And Alec skates right up to the offender who checked Reed.
The smile stretched on Alec’s face is all menace. I know who just became his target. The refs skate over the second Alec approaches.
It quickly fizzles out, although I’m not so sure the tension between Alec and the Mystics player did.
And with ten seconds left, Hamonson sneaks a goal right past Matt. We leave the second period down by one.
The intermission seems to fly by. Jack and I go up to the merch shop and each pick up a Kostelecky hoodie and four foam fingers.
When we get back to our seats, I chuck one of the foam fingers at Char and then Josh. They giggle and shove their hands into their fingers, proudly waving them in the air. And the third period is underway.
The tension on the ice is palpable. The score remains tied through the first fifteen minutes. Hamonson is thrown in the penalty box for two minutes for high-sticking.
The announcer’s voice blares through the speakers. “The Nighthawks are on a power plaaaay!”
Cam gains possession of the puck, passing it off to Jensen, who slides it over to Brett Burns. Brett dishes it to Alec. Only one player stands between Alec and the goalie. Alec throws it back to Cam and then slaps his stick on the ice.
The quick movement draws the player away from Alec. Cam throws it back to Alec. And as the puck glides toward him, he winds up and shoots.
And misses.
“Kostelecky misses again! We’ve never seen this from him. What is going on tonight?!” the announcer screams into the mic.
The Mystics take off with the puck. They barrel toward our goal. The winger’s shot bounces off the pole. Matt dives out of the crease, aiming to grab the puck.
Number 48 on the Mystics digs into the ice and takes off for Matt. A sonic boom erupts in the air as number 48 attacks Matt, checking him back into the net. Matt bounces off the pole with a deafening thud.
The crowd falls silent. Except for our boys.
All five of them take off after number 48.
But the other team dives in, each matching with a Nighthawk. And Alec makes his choice—number 48.
Alec flicks his wrists, his gloves shooting down and onto the ice. Number 48 reciprocates. And fists fly. Alec lands blow after blow, and blood marks the ice. The second number 48 hits the ground, the refs interfere, pulling Alec off of him. It takes two of the three refs.
The rest of the boys are still lost in their fights. Once Alec is off the guy and escorted to the bench, the refs break up the fights one by one.
Eventually, all the fights are broken up, and the refs kick all twelve boys out of the game.
Matt is able to get up, but he looks very confused and dazed. Coaches and trainers guide him off the ice.
The crowd cheers and chants for Matt, and it continues as the final face- off puck is dropped.
And the Nighthawks lose the game. Because of Alec.
Because of Jack and me. We pulled his attention during the first shot, and I don’t think it’s too far of a leap to know that we are why his head was so out of the game tonight.
The aftermath of the game is just as energetic as the pregame, if not more. Except everyone is booing the Nighthawks and talking about how Alec was the reason they lost tonight. We hastily make our way out of the seating area and are heading out of the arena when I hear my name being called.
I turn, confused. And my heart plummets to my stomach, and chills sweep my arms when the head coach approaches me.
I swivel, checking for Jack. But I see his hand locked in Charlotte’s, and they’re already heading out of the door.
“Can I speak with you for a second?” The coach’s tone is as cold as the rink.
“Of course.”
What am I going to do, say no to Alec’s coach? Nope. “Did you enjoy the game?” he asks me.
My mind races, and my words come out a little too fast. “It could have been better, but I’m sure everyone did their best.”
“Yes, except their best was not enough tonight. And our star player cost us this game. Do you know how embarrassing it is to lose a game to one of the worst teams in the league when you are the best? All because Alec was distracted with you. I’m guessing his absences from practice lately were also because of you.” His voice is short and sharp.
And anxiety begins threading into my chest with each heartbeat.
Absences from practice? Alec didn’t mention anything. I just assumed he’d been hanging out with us in his free time.
Without waiting for my response, he offers me a smile, but it is the furthest thing from friendly. “I am going to tell you this once, so listen. If you refuse to follow my instructions, you will solely be responsible for the absolute destruction of Alec Kostelecky’s career. Am I understood?”
