The drive to Stormhaven takes nearly an hour with the evening traffic, and it gives me plenty of time to refresh Abigail’s hockey education.
“So remind me again, what’s icing?” she asks, fiddling with the radio.
“When you shoot the puck from behind the center line all the way past the goal line on the other end.”
“And offside?”
“When you enter the offensive zone before the puck does.” I merge onto the highway, careful to leave enough room for this monster. “Think of it like... you can’t cherry-pick in basketball.”
“I don’t know anything about basketball either.”
I laugh. “Abby, what sports DO you know?”
“Does Netflix count?”
“Only if competitive binge-watching becomes an Olympic event.”
By the time we pull into Stormhaven Arena’s parking lot, I’ve managed to explain the basics of hockey again, and why fighting is technically illegal but also totally expected.
“This place is huge,” Abigail says, awe in her voice as we climb down from the truck.
“Division one, baby. These schools take their hockey seriously.” After I lock the truck, we join the line of people heading toward the entrance. “Fair warning, my brothers’ teammates get a little crazy when they play at home.”
“Define crazy.”
“Last time they won against Gravepoint, they threw so much blue-and-white confetti everywhere that the janitors were still finding it weeks later.”
“At least it’s not little dicks.”
“Nah, that’s Gravepoint’s thing.”
Inside the arena, the energy is something else. Students pack the stands wearing blue and white—Stormhaven’s colors—while a smaller section of black and silver represents the visiting Gravepoint fans. It includes several of my classmates, who spot me in my Kane jersey and give me confused looks.
“Oh my god,” Abigail blurts as we find our seats near the glass in the home section. “They’re so big!”
She’s not wrong. Even from here, the players look massive in their gear, gliding around the ice with a grace that seems impossible for guys their size.
I spot my brothers immediately. “There’s Levi,” I point out. “Number 91. And Landon is 19.”
Abigail nods, then her gaze drifts to the Gravepoint players warming up on the other end of the ice.
“Holy shit, Leila. Look at number 1.”
Following her gaze, I take in the Gravepoint goalie. Out of his gear, he is tall, lean, and every girl’s wet dream. My classmate’s wet dream, technically. “That’s the goalie,” I explain. “Riven Kruger. They call him The Iceman.”
“More like the Ice God,” Abigail mutters, then suddenly grins. “Oh, this will be good.”
I look over to where the players have started warming up. It’s almost the best part of the game—except for my brothers.
My friend starts quietly humming under her breath, but I take a second to recognize the tune, and when I do, I nearly choke on my own spit. “Abigail Rose, are you serious?—”
“Daddy’s home,” she starts singing softly, nodding toward the ice. I lose it completely, falling into a fit of laughter that attracts the stares of nearby fans.
“You did not just sing that while they are stretching!”
“What? I’m appreciating the athletic art and”—she points at the team—“that isnotwarming up. That is the start of hockey porn,” she says innocently, while fighting back her laughter.
“You’re the worst!” I say between laughs. “But also not wrong.”
