Oliver wins it cleanly, sending the puck to his teammate. But Ryan’s eyes stay glued to the captain.
“He seems very capable,” Ryan says, adjusting his glasses.
“Ryan,” Elliot says slowly, “do you have a crush on Oliver?”
“That’s absurd,” Ryan says immediately. “I’m simply observing that he appears to be skilled at his position.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, recognizing the denial spiral. “So you definitely didn’t stare at him during the Polar Bear Plunge?”
Ryan’s face morphs from pink to crimson. “I was cold. Everyone looks at everyone when they’re cold. It’s a survival instinct.”
“Sure,” Elliot drawls. “And you’re watching him now because…”
“Because he’s the captain, and I’m trying to understand the game better.”
Right on cue, Oliver gets slammed into the boards by a Boston College forward. The hit is clean but vicious, and Oliver’s helmet smacks against the glass with a crack that makes everyone wince.
“Eeek!” Ryan squeals before slapping a hand over his mouth.
Elliot grins like the Cheshire Cat. “You were saying?”
“I was concerned for his safety,” Ryan says with as much dignity as he can muster while being the color of a fire truck. “Head injuries are serious.”
“Oliver’s fine,” I assure him as the captain delivers a retaliatory shove. “He’s tough. Played through a separated shoulder last year.”
“That’s unwise,” Ryan says, still watching Oliver intently. “And medically inadvisable.”
“Welcome to hockey,” Elliot says. “Where the injuries are real, and the teeth are optional.”
The period continues with both teams trading blows. I do my best to explain what’s happening—icing, offsides, power plays—while Ryan pretends he’s not tracking Oliver’s every move. Elliot occasionally shouts encouragement at Gerard, which thankfully doesn’t involve other massive body parts.
Gerard sets up a beautiful play, threading a pass through three defenders to find Drew nearby, who buries it in the net again.
“That’s my boyfriend!” I yell, then immediately want to crawl under my seat.
Drew skates by and points at me again, this time with both hands, framing me in a picture. The butterflies in my stomach do a jig.
“You’re both disgusting,” Elliot informs me. “And I mean that with love.”
“Also,” Ryan adds, having recovered some of his composure, “your boyfriend appears to be bleeding.”
I whip my head up to see Drew skating to the bench, helmet off, with blood trickling from his nose. My stomach drops. “When did that happen?”
“About thirty seconds ago,” Ryan says. “You were too busy covering your face with your gigantic hands to notice.”
I watch anxiously as the trainer examines Drew’s nose. It’s probably nothing—hockey players bleed all the time—but seeing red on his face makes something primitive and protective rear up in my chest.
“He’s fine,” Elliot says. “Gerard comes home bruised and bloody all the time. You get used to it.”
“That’s concerning,” Ryan observes.
“That’s hockey,” Elliot and I say in unison.
Drew’s back on the ice for his next shift, cotton shoved up one nostril but otherwise unaffected. He wins another face-off and starts a rush that has the crowd on its feet. The way he moves, even with a bloody nose and taking hits that wouldhospitalize normal humans, is beautiful and terrifying. I can’t look away.
The period ends with the Barracudas up 3-1, and I slump back in my seat, emotionally exhausted from riding every high and low.
“One more period,” Elliot says. “Think you’ll survive?”
