She can’t find out someone cut her tire.Who the hell would do that?I look around the parking lot. We aren’t in a terrible part of town, but there aren’t many cars in the lot. Probably some asshole kid.
I know I wanted to ride with her, but not like this.Thanks for not actually listening again, God.Shaking my head, I take my phone out and text Rhett.
Me:
Hey, Cora’s tire is cut. There’s a spare.Can one of you guys switch it?
Rhett:
The fuck you mean, cut?
Me:
Like someone slashed it.
Rhett:
But why?
Me:
I don’t know. I forgot to ask them when they ran off.
Rhett:
No need to be a smartass. I’ll take care of it.
Me:
Thanks, man.
“Okay, Rhett will take care of it. Come on, we’ll take my car.”
Cora grabs her bag and runs back inside to give Rhett her keys. She smiles at him, and they talk for a minute before she comes back out. It’s obvious he didn’t tell her it was slashed because she’s still smiling.
Walking toward the alley between our building and an art studio, I stay silent.
Rhett was right; I love hockey, but getting to spend the evening with Cora is better. I have to be on my best behavior tonight. I want her to see the real me. I want to show her the Atlas she deserves. Prove I’m not just some walking ape with fists and a temper. That I can be soft for her.
Unlocking my car, I walk around to the passenger side door and open it.
A look of surprise crosses her face. “Thanks, Atlas.” She smiles, and it hits me in the gut. It’s nice to see other expressions besides disdain and irritation when she looks at me.
“No problem. You have everything?”
Nodding, she smiles. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun.”
Not replying, I gently close her door and walk around to the driver’s side. Blowing out a puff of air, I try to school my features. I’ve got my girl in my car—where she belongs—and we’re headed out for the night. Just the two of us. I don’t have to share her with anyoneelse. Grinning like a fool, I climb into the driver’s seat and latch my seat belt. Flashing what I hope isn’t a psychotic smile at Cora, I turn the car on and pull out of the parking lot.
It’ll be fun—famous last words.
The hockey rink is just how I like it. It’s ice cold, and the air smells crisp. There’s just something about it. People yell and cheer while guys on blades skate around and occasionally hit each other, just to get a timeout and do it all over again.
I played hockey briefly as a teen but didn’t stick with it. Once I found drawing, I spent more time doing that than anything else. I have a deep appreciation for the sport and what it takes to play. It’s not easy.
After loading up with some overpriced sodas, pretzels, and popcorn, we head for our seats. Matt’s family must know someone because we’re right behind the glass. There are a few kids waving at the players, hoping to get pucks. Cora takes the inside seat, and I hand her the drinks and food to set down. As I’m standing, a puck falls over the glass, smacking me on the head.
Biting back a curse, I pick it up and see a kid no more than seven standing behind me. “I think this was meant for you, bud.” A huge smile splits his face, and I watch as he runs back, puck in hand, to who I assume is his dad. The guy smiles at me and nods like, ‘thanks for not being an asshole and keeping it,’ then goes back to talking to the kid.
