Orlando

Val’s POV

I grabbed her hand, leading her back out of her room. She was confused at what was going on, which was nice. I had a big surprise in store for her. I knew that she was big into hockey, even if the Stars weren’t her number one team, but I was her fantasy crush. I didn’t care, it felt nice just to be loved.

I had left my bag and stuff in her car, when we’d gotten back. She slipped her hand into mine and I felt the comfort of her soft fingers, as they interlaced with my own. She opened the door and I grabbed my two sticks and a puck from the back. She smiled as I pulled them out.

“You’re going to teach me hockey?”

“Yes,” I replied. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the English language and I was happy about it. Finally I felt like I was accepted and able to take the next step in my culturalization.

“So where should we go to practice?”

“Campus?”

“On UCF’s campus? Oh Val, we can’t do that silly.”

I looked absolutely perplexed. What did she mean by that? Why couldn’t we practice on the campus?

“Oh Val, you silly goose, we can’t play or practice on campus because we don’t have permission to do that. Also we don’t have an arena for hockey.”

No ice hockey arena? Man, what was wrong with Floridians? First they had bipolar weather that couldn’t make up it’s mind. Then they had a crazy dude named Brock. And now she was telling me that they didn’t have a bloody hockey arena. They had too; he’d seen it! The CFE Arena…?

“What about the CFE Arena?”

She shook her head sadly. “No hockey. Basketball, volleyball and concerts, but no hockey.”

We leaned against the side of her white car, thinking. Suddenly an idea popped into her mind. “We can try the park! I’m sure they’d allow us to play around there for a little bit.”

So it was settled we were going to a park in Oviedo, just north of where the campus was located. We drove up and pulled into the parking lot and got out. I was so excited to show her some hockey moves and teach her the sport I cherished a lot. And I could tell she was excited as well.

We had both put on jerseys as it was a rather chilly night out for early October. She had on a newly acquired jersey with my name and number “43” on it. I had one of my own as well. It wasn’t the one I wore for games, but it was an extra one I had. Because didn’t all hockey players have there own jersey to wear in their free time?

We walked into a decent sized grassy area that was about half a football field in length. Trees lined the border of it. It was perfect. I set my stick down on the ground and placed the puck at her feet, where she had chosen to make her spot be. I walked around and wrapped my arms around either side of her, as she dropped into a “golf-like” position. She was about to take a stab at shooting, when I gently grabbed her wrists and halted her forward progression that she was aiming for.

“What’s going on Val?” she asked turning her head to me, flicking her crimson locks to the side out of her eyesight with a toss of her head. “I was going to shoot it!”

“No ready yet. You do it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?” She was amused.

“Val show you,” I said and went through the motions with her. It was similar to the golf swing, but a little different. The difference was that hockey players got down more and stepped into their shots. Golfers swung and followed through with little to no movement in their feet. They only had a slight pivot on their toes as they carried out the motion.

The small disk sailed across the grass, like a rock skipping over water. It sailed between two trees at the far end. I let go of her arms and she spun around in celebration.

“I scored a goal!!”

“Yeah, with my help!”

She playfully punched me in the shoulder, giggling. “Go get the puck, you Russian!” She leaned on the stick, as I raced off to fetch our game object.

We fooled around some more, as she got the motion and stick-handling down pat. she looked like a professional street player, after I was done teaching her and giving her pointers. And she almost took my head off at one point, but luckily I had fast reflexes, diving to the side as the small black puck sailed just passed my shoulder and between the trees once more.

“Alright! Alright you win!” I cried, laughing.

She raced forward, throwing the stick to the grass at the same time I did. She launched herself up into the air at me and I grabbed her, twirling her around like a figure skater. I tripped over the stick and we crashed to the ground in a fit of laughter and enjoyment. She flipped me over and pinned me to the grass. We locked lips, as she drew mine to hers for once.

We made out on the grass in the park, as the crickets began to chirp all around us. They reminded me of what my teammates would probably do when I got back to Dallas. I knew as soon as I told them about my magical time, Tyler Seguin was bound to be the first to chirp me with something.

Soon we pulled apart, gathered the sticks up and the puck and began to walk back toward the car.

Suddenly, I felt a hand firmly grip onto my right wrist and another hand flew out and clamped over my mouth. I screamed in shock, as I was yanked to a rough halt. I fought, instinctive against the hold, but I knew - and so did he - that I was hopelessly out of my tough form for the season. I tried to scream for the woman, who appeared to be ignorant of my vanishment.

Thankfully not for long.

“Nichy?” she questioned, before whirling around and spotting me in the arms of some unknown assailant. “NICHY!!” She froze in place with horror etched on her pale white face.

“Hello there, Dallas Star. We meet again!” I heard the familiar voice of the man who had first attacked me on the campus. The same one who had beat me with his little friends. The guy who for some reason hated hockey players….especially Dallas Stars.

It was Brock Mason.