“Spite, mostly.” He pockets his phone and surveys the growing crowd with the expression of someone who’s seen too much. “Also, Gerard kept doing this thing where he’d turn around and blow me kisses from the bench, which made everyone around me uncomfortable.”
Ryan, who’s been silent since we sat down, suddenly pipes up. “I should probably mention I know absolutely nothing about hockey.”
“We can make up our own commentary then,” Elliot says.
“That sounds reasonable.” Ryan adjusts his glasses to peer at the ice.
Three rows down, a group of sorority girls turns around in unison to stare at me. One of them waves. I pretend to be fascinated by the Jumbotron, which shows ads for campus pizza.
“This is weird,” I say when she finally turns away. “Like, deeply weird. I’m the quarterback of the football team, and I’ve never gotten this much attention.”
Elliot snorts. “That’s because no one’s jealous of you.”
“Thanks for the ego boost.”
“I’m serious. With Gerard and me, half the campus wanted to be the one wearing his jersey. They were furious that some random library gremlin snagged their golden boy.” He gestures at the people still stealing glances at us. “But you and Drew? You’re both hot, popular athletes. It’s like George and Amal Clooney—no one’s mad about it; they’re just fascinated that he’s no longer a bachelor.”
“We’re dating. Normally. Like everyone else does.”
Except, unlike everyone else, we’re a flat-out lie.
Twenty minutes later,the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen! Please put your hands together for the Berkeley Shore Barracudas!”
The Barracudas explode onto the ice in a blur of navy blue and white. They move with a predatory grace that makes the crowd go silent for half a second before erupting.
Gerard bursts onto the ice first, even though he doesn’t wear the captain’s C. He carves his initial lap with the confidence ofsomeone who believes the entire arena belongs to him. A couple of feet behind him glides Oliver, his skates barely whispering against the ice. Kyle follows, skating with the barely contained fury of someone who’s already three fights deep into the game. His eyes are fixed on some invisible target beyond the rink. Nathan floats along in his slipstream, smiling at the crowd, simply happy to be here.
Last on the ice is Drew. He skates to center ice, takes a tight turn, and stops dead in front of our section. The entire arena holds its breath as he stares straight at me, cutting through eight thousand faces as though he’s got a GPS tracker on my dumb soul. He points his gloved hand at me, and my brain shuts off for a second. By the time I reboot, he’s blowing a kiss, complete with a grandiose wrist flourish.
Drew in full battle armor is stupid sexy. The pads make him impossibly broad, and I suddenly want to experience having a hundred and ninety pounds of Larney momentum pinning me in place.
I panic and cross my legs before anyone notices the very real, very inconvenient situation developing in my lap. I place my jacket over my thighs for good measure and clap as the game commences with a face-off. Drew wins it cleanly, sending the puck back to Gerard, who immediately goes on the attack.
Even though half my brain is still processing the kiss-blowing incident, I can’t help but watch Drew work. He moves powerfully but also with grace, setting up plays before the defense even realizes what’s happening.
“So that’s good?” Ryan asks as the Barracudas score within the first two minutes.
“Very good,” I confirm, joining in the crowd’s roar.
The first period is all Barracudas, all the time, skating circles around the competition—literally and figuratively. I planned tokeep tabs on the entire team, but that plan has gone out the window because I physically cannot stop watching Drew.
It’s not that he’s the best player on the ice, in my opinion. It’s the way he plays faster than anyone else and is always three or four moves ahead. He weaves through defenders with an upright, arrogant posture—never hunched, chest always out. And every time he gets near the net, the crowd’s volume triples. Simply put, Drew is putting on a show.
When he shoulder-checks a guy and then smoothly sends the puck over the goalie for a top-shelf goal, the whole bench erupts. Drew glances up at me and winks. My thigh vibrates as my phone blows up with texts from everyone who saw it happen.
Elliot leans over. “You good, Romeo?”
“Shut up,” I whisper, but it’s not even a good comeback.
“I have a question,” Ryan says during a break in play. “Why does that one keep sitting in that box?”
“That’s the penalty box,” I explain. “Nathan slashed someone.”
“Is that bad?”
“Very bad. But also kind of his thing.”
Elliot nods sagely. “Gerard says Nathan’s trying to set a record for penalty minutes. It’s good to have goals.”
