She looked nothing like her photos, Fryer complains. And she was at least fifteen years older than she claimed.
Oooh. She must have really been excited to meet a young hottie like you, Gilly coos.
Maybe? I could not get out of there fast enough. I drove four hours round-trip for a fifteen-minute date. Fryer makes a sad face.
You should date someone from Monarch, and then you’ll know what you’re getting, Gilly urges, because that’s what she did. She and her girlfriend, Joy, have been going out for almost two years now.
Dating another student is the way to go, I agree enthusiastically, and someone pitches a tape ball at me. I’m flattered though, since no one has ever been jealous of my love life.
Practice is tough, and I forget about the interview until I see a tall guy filming our scrimmage.
Somebody stealing our drills now? Becks asks while we’re on the bench during scrimmage.
No, Monarch social media is interviewing me after practice, I confess, still feeling guilty that it’s just me.
Shit. Is that who I think it is? She searches the rink. I look around too, but the tall guy is the only one here. Then we’re back on the ice. I hustle out and make a nice tic-tac-toe play with Jinx that ends up in a goal.
Coach whistles us all in for one last huddle and some advice about this weekend’s opponents. I like the way she’s always focused on the future, win or lose.
The tall guy waves at me and motions to the bench. That must be where we’re doing this.
I pull off my helmet and Becks hands me a towel. Then she starts smoothing down my hair, which is sweat-soaked and beyond saving.
What are you doing? I try to push her hand away, but she redoubles her efforts.
Lana Hillier is here, she hisses. Is it a coincidence that our first-ever appearance on Monarch social media is happening now that you’re dating her ex? She’s probably here to check you out.
I open my mouth to argue and Becks silences me by applying lip gloss. Did she have some hidden deep in her hockey pants? If so, gross.
Are we ready here? A poised voice interrupts Becks’s futile makeover attempt. Nobody who just worked her ass off in practice can look good afterwards.
We both turn to see the runway-ready Lana entering the bench. Shit. It’s easy to make fun of her while watching her videos, but real-life Lana is actually perfect—from her porcelain skin to her immaculate white parka to her beach-waved hair. Hers is the approved face of Monarch College.
Becks whispers Good luck as she departs. Part of me wants to haul her back for moral support, but I straighten my shoulders and face my fate.
Hey, I’m Cleo Nelson. I hold out my hand before realizing I still have my hockey gloves on. I yank them off and try again.
Lana Hillier. So nice to meet you. She shakes my hand and smiles in a friendly way. Maybe Becks is delusional. After all, Lana is the one who broke up with Mats. Why would she care about me?
She looks over her shoulder. Tim, where should we put Cleo for this shot? Maybe with the rink in the background?
Yeah, sure. As long as the Zamboni isn’t a distraction. The ice is being flooded before the men’s practice, because God forbid they’d have to skate on chewed-up ice.
Actually, the men’s team will be out here in fifteen minutes, so maybe we shouldn’t be on the bench at all, I explain.
Don’t worry, we’ll be done by then, Lana reassures me. I’m just going to ask a few easy questions about the season and the upcoming playoffs. Is that okay?
I nod as I stare at Lana’s mouth. No haphazard lip gloss there, just perfect pink lips. Lips that Mats has kissed, many times. Fuck.
I put my helmet and gloves on the bench, but hold on to my stick. Feeling it in my hands steadies me.
Okay, let’s roll. Lana faces the camera and switches on a blinding smile and professional demeanour. We’re here with Cleo Nelson, captain of the Monarch women’s hockey team, the Minks. She turns towards me and beams. Cleo, can you tell us about the Minks’ season so far? Where are you in the standings?
We’re number one right now, and we’re hoping to hang on to that ranking right into the playoffs. I try to smile, but my lips stick to my teeth.
Is that an advantage? Lana asks, with a serene blink of her baby blues.
Yes, then we’d get a first-round bye, which is as good as winning a playoff game. Fuck, does everyone know that a bye means advancing automatically? Also, could I sound any stiffer?
