Emyln

By the time I get to the arena, the game has already started. I know they're just for fun and that there are no standings in the league Hains is playing for, but there's something about it that makes me think of it as an actual NHL game. Maybe it's because my boyfriend is playing and I'm extra excited to be able to watch him. Or maybe it's because I haven't set foot in an arena since the day I left Whistler. I just couldn't bear the thought of playing hockey without my linemate with me. Watching hockey on TV without him was already hard enough.

All in all, it feels good to be back in the arena, with the familiar scents of stale popcorn, sweat, and spilt drinks. And watching Hains tear up the ice with his worn skates.

The jerseys the boys are wearing are simple: black versus white. Hains is wearing one of the black jerseys and it has a "C" on it that was constructed from what looks to be masking tape. Other guys have the "A" for alternate, but all I can see is the "C" on his jersey. He was always the captain. Every single year I played with Hains, he was the captain and he was better than better at the job. Though he's one of the humblest guys I've ever met, he's full of grit and determination when it comes to the game. There was nobody that put in as much effort as he did – does. Even watching him right now is an amazing example. There's a certain lazy vibe to the way the other players are playing – their passes aren't sharp and precise, they're not using their speed to their advantage, and lots of shots are taken for no reason. But with Hains, everything is perfect. He's playing as if he's in a camp, trying to prove that he's NHL quality.

I watch in awe as he intercepts a pass and breaks through the defensemen of the white team to gain a breakaway. I slide to the edge of my seat, watching in anticipation. For some reason, I reach up and touch the bridge of my nose.

"C'mon," I whisper. "Do your signature slap shot."

Hains has got the ice to himself – nobody on both teams can possibly keep up to him, obviously, because they've all given up, watching and waiting to see what he does – and when he slows down in front of the net, he begins to do a bunch of fancy work with his stick and the puck. My anticipation grows as I watch it go from his forehand to his backhand, back to his forehand. With a couple fancy moves that I was never able to master, Hains skids to a stop, sending out a spray of snow, and winds up for the slap shot.

When I see the puck hit the netting past the goalie, I can't stop myself from standing up and cheering. The few people that are watching the game along with me look at me like I'm some type of psychopath. Yeah, I get this game is just for fun, but it's so much more for me.

Rosa was right – this is a big night. Hockey is what tied Hains and I together in more ways than I can count. I smile to myself. I shouldn't take what my big sister says for granted – she seems to know what she's talking about.

For the remaining five minutes of the first period, I watch and cheer and have fun. I never realized how much I missed hockey. The urge to get back on the ice begins to intrude my brain, and I silently pray that Hains will consider staying for a bit so I can have some time on the ice after. I never realized how much my life revolved around the sport until now. It's like I've been missing a key piece of me for the past five years.

The second period is a mix of hard hits, goals being traded, penalties being called, and shots ringing off the iron, and I love every second of it.

By the third period, I still can't get over how much Hains has improved. It's like writing a novel: once you've created a rough draft, you critique it, editing out all the small, pointless details, and end up with a perfect end product. That's what he's done – practiced and gotten rid of the skills that are useless during a hockey game. Every stride is timed perfectly, every shot is calculated, every pass is crisp and effortless.

He shouldn't be playing here, I realize. The thought brings a small frown to my face. Damn it. If he's this good, why is he basically playing for a beer league? He should be with a university team or a team in the WHL. Anywhere but here.

A picture of him wearing a blue, yellow, and white jersey comes to mind, and my heart swells a little. If someone at the university were to see his skill level there's the chance he could get a scholarship and be able to leave Whistler like he's always wanted to. He could come to the same university as me, and we wouldn't have to separate when the summer ends.

Without another thought, I pull out my iPhone and find the camera app, switching it from photo to video. If I could somehow put together a portfolio of his hockey life, along with his high school grades, I think I could manage to snag their attention.

I don't exactly know how Hains would feel about this, but what's the harm in trying? If he gets in, he gets in. If he doesn't, I'll be upset for sure, but that's just the way things go sometimes. Besides, it's not like I'm going to tell him if he gets declined. I'll only tell him if the results are positive.

So I start recording.

* * *

When the game is over, I head down to ice-level and wait for Hains to exit the locker room, my old skates in hand and my iPhone tucked safely into the pocket of my new sweater. While I'm very excited for what's to come (skating with Hains, hopefully), I also can't wait until I get home so I can start on my project.

Ten minutes pass before he's out of the locker room – he's the last one out, actually – and he greets me with a kiss after dropping his hockey bag and sticks to the floor.

"You were amazing!" I squeal after I've caught my breath. "I mean, you were amazing when we played on the same team, but that was like...like...magic!"

Hains grins at me, and then plants a quick kiss on my cheek. "You're so cute, Ems."

My cheeks flush – he just has that effect on me.

"Oh my God," he says, looking down at the skates in my hand. He reaches down and takes them. "You still have these?"

"Yeah," I smile. "My feet haven't grown for years – they still fit." Well, I hope they do.

He eyes me carefully. "Let me guess. You want to play some hockey?"

I make a cute pouty face. "Please," I beg. "I've missed playing."

Hains presses his lips into a flat line and looks at the ceiling. For a second, I'm scared he's going to tell me he's too tired to skate anymore. I'm also scared that maybe I'm overstepped my boundaries – am I going too fast with our relationship? But I breathe a silent sigh of relief when he looks at me and says, "Well, I guess we could."

It takes everything in me to not jump up and down.

"C'mon," he says, collecting his bag and sticks, and then grabbing my hand.

Hains leads me into the men's locker room. I would normally object doing something like this, but I know we're the only ones in the building now, so I'm okay with it.

We make it to the home bench, and Hains drops his bag, which has a ripe smell coming from it. I don't mind it too much, though – the smell is still familiar even though it's been years since I've played hockey. My bag didn't smell much better.

The next five minutes are spent lacing up our skates. We decide to go with helmets even though mine is a size too small and it feels like it's squishing my skull. But better safe than sorry, right? The last thing either of us needs is a concussion.

As soon as we're on the ice, Hains sturdy and looking better than ever, me a little wobbly due to how long I've been off the ice, I drop my borrowed stick and take his face in my hands. I go slow, taking my sweet time.

When we pull apart after several seconds he asks me why I kissed him.

I scoop up the hockey stick and shrug. "Old times' sake."

With that, I skate off to the far end. The ice is still rough and scratched from the earlier game, but it doesn't take long to get the feel of it. God, I've missed hockey. I've missed the coldness that bites my cheeks, the subtle chemical smell, the sound of skates on ice, the feel of a hockey stick in my hands. It's a rush I never knew I was addicted to.

For the next few minutes, we skate the perimeter of the ice, Hains holding my hand as if he's waiting for me to stumble and fall. By the fifth loop, he lets go and starts skating backwards in front of me. I'm still a little wobbly when it comes to gaining a faster speed, but the good thing is that I haven't forgotten how to skate.

"Show-off," I mutter.

Hains grins. "You're holding back, Ems – I know you can do better than that. If I do recall correctly, you are the only one that was capable of outskating me."

I roll my eyes. "That was years ago – I haven't played hockey or been on ice since I left Whistler."

He frowns and comes to a sudden stop. I quickly dig the blades of my skates into the ice, showering Hains's shins in a thin layer of snow. "What?" he asks, looking horrified. "Why?"

I look up at the stands, letting memories of our parents cheering us on at games flood my mind. I shrug. "The game reminded me too much of you. I couldn't bear the thought of playing it without you on the same line. It also reminded me of what I did to you."

"Ems..." he trails off.

I know what he's going to get into – something about how I should never have let his memory get in the way of one of my passions; that I should have kept playing no matter what. But I cut him off before he can speak again. "Hains," I whisper. "I couldn't do it without you, okay? I could barely even watch hockey on TV. I'm always going to feel terrible for what I did."

He shakes his head and looks at the ice. "You shouldn't anymore. We've been through this already – I understand why you left. I...I just wish you would have at least kept in touch with me."

I squeeze my eyes shut and bite back the pain that's building up inside me. "I know. If I could go back in time..."

Hains skates over to my side and bumps me in the shoulder with his own. "You came back, Ems, to make things right and you did just that. The past doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is the here and now." He looks around the arena. "We have our skates on, sticks in hand, and an arena all to ourselves. Let's see what we can do."

I make eye contact with Hains. There's a light in his eyes – one I recognize from when he was younger – he comes alive on the ice. It's the same joyful, electrified, victorious look that he gets when he's daring me to do something or when he's living in the moment and soaking everything up.

And that's exactly what I should be doing – not thinking about what happened in the past or what I should've done or the way I got by the hard points. Here and now is all that matters.

So, with a cocky smirk directed at him, I say, "Race you to the end."

Hains grins at me, and before I know it, we're both racing to the end.

I'm within range of winning when I feel large arms wrap around my waist and spin me around a couple times. Hains digs his blades into the ice, braking, showering us both in snow, and then catches me against his chest as we slam to a complete stop.

Looking up at him and feeling breathless and dizzy, I smile. "Again."